Liverish

Wednesday, February 3rd., Hotel d'Italie, Menton.

The ideas of the average decently-informed person are so warped, and out of perspective, and ignorant, and entirely perverse and wrong and crude, on nearly every mortal subject, that the task of discussing anything with him seriously and fully and to the end, is simply appalling. This has struck me several times recently in this hotel, and I have recoiled from a discussion. The state of that average person's mind can scarcely be contemplated by me, in certain moods. All of which probably says more about me than it does about the average person! Why indeed should I expect that people would be interested to listen to my ideas, and be persuaded by me? The fact is, and I know this very well, most people who want to 'discuss' something actually just want to give you the benefit of their own thoughts. And if I am honest, so do I!

Most of the time this doesn't bother me, but now and then it does. I have probably been working too hard on this damned play. Why am I doing all the hard work, when Phillpotts will get equal credit for the end product, if there is in fact any credit to be had? It is a footling thing, but marketable. Today for example I wrote 2,000 words of Act III. No wonder I am out of sorts. Also my mother is reportedly very ill in London and I shall have to get back there by the end of next week at the latest. And I am keeping up my correspondence and my regular articles. 

I have found time to read (re-read) some of "Crime and Punishment". The funeral feast given by Catherine Ivanovna is a magnificent piece of work, both as serious accurate observation and as brutal humour. My sense is that the translation isn't very good, but still the power of the novel shines through.