I finished "A Great Man" at 11.30 this morning having written about 10,000 words in the last five days. I am exhausted, but more satisfied with it than I thought I should be. I began it with an intention merely humorous, but the thing has developed into a rather profound satire. At least that is how I perceive it now, though it may not appear so to my readers (if there are any). I began the book about the 10th. of December; during two weeks of the time between then and now (Xmas) I put it aside, and during three other weeks I put it aside to write the play with Eden. So that I have been engaged on it nine weeks altogether. It is 60,000 words in length, and my eighth novel of one sort or another.
On Friday and Saturday I had an extremely severe cold in the head, but nothing could prevent me finishing that novel. I was in the exact mood for writing, and had all the ideas arranged in my head. On completion I felt that I had been thoroughly drained and could focus my attention on nothing, but by evening I felt better and was hungry not only for food but for humanity.
I wanted to dine, and there were a thousand restaurants within a mile; but they had all somehow ceased to invite me. I was beaten down by the overwhelming sadness of one who for the time being has no definite arranged claim to any friendly attention in a huge city - crowded with preoccupied human beings. I might have been George Gissing. I rewrote all his novels for him in an instant. I persisted southwards. The tiny walled river, reflecting with industrious precision all its lights, had no attraction. The quays, where all the bookshops were closed and all the bookstalls locked down, and where there was never a cafe were as inhospitable and chill as Riga. Mist seemed to heave over the river, and the pavements were oozing damp. I went up a familiar entry and rang a bell, thinking to myself: "If she isn't in, I am done for!" But at the same moment I caught the sound of feminine laughter, and knew I was saved, and by a miracle Paris was herself again.
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