A man of immense technical experience in writing suggested to me the other day that authors frequently get flat because, in the desire to be industrious, they go on with their work after the divine (or devilish) afflatus has weakened through inspirational fatigue. I think this is true. A good rule for novelists is forcibly to stop the day's work while the impulse to proceed is still powerful. If this rule were observed we should have shorter and more concentrated books, and better books.

I have on my desk as I write a copy of Mrs. Virginia Woolf's "Orlando". You cannot keep your end up at a London dinner-party in these weeks unless you have read it; my end has decidedly not been kept up. I have succeeded for nearly a fortnight in not reading it - partly from obstinacy, partly from a sense of foreboding, and mainly from a natural desire for altercation at table about what ought to be read. However I undertake to read it this week and shall report thereon in my next column.
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