Tuesday, December 21st., Victoria Grove, London.
The constant unsleeping watchfulness for verbal mistakes and slips and clumsiness in composition, necessitated by my post as editor of women's journalism, has sharpened and exasperated my susceptibilities to such a point that only by a great effort can I read anything now without noting such slips, however trifling. In spite of myself, my mind registers them as they occur, in no matter what writer's work. Such preposterous attention to the superficialities of style seriously interferes with the enjoyment of literature. There is scarcely an author, unless it be Henry James, whom I find flawless, and whom, therefore, I can read in perfect comfort.
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