Therapeutic fiction

Sunday, December 3rd., Lusitania, at sea.

Still rough sea and following gale, and creaking noises all night. Not yet one good night's rest on this steamer.

Mr. and Mrs. Compton Mackenzie had tea with me. She is a beautiful young woman. Both lively and interesting characters. Inevitably we talked about writing. She said, memorably, that in an increasingly secular age fiction is one of the few remaining paths to transcendence. Wants some thinking about. Also we got on to talking about different 'sorts' of fiction and how it may be that some readers seek out books which have a therapeutic impact - a sort of literary self-medication. I think that the setting of this discussion, taking place on a wild sea, made us freer in out thinking than would otherwise have been the case.

Concert in aid of Seamen's Charities last night. Half of it done by Harry Lauder.

I read most of Artzybacheff's "Sanine", skipping. Mostly clever, naif, and dull. Some of the salacious parts are pretty good. I am in the mood for all things salacious at the moment - too long away from home. But how infantile those Russians!