After buying papers and tea yesterday I lunched at the little creamery in the Place de la Trinite. Then I came home and read various papers and periodicals and "Casanova", and fell asleep, sleeping uncomfortably. Then I tried seriously to find ideas for Chapter II of my new novel; I had been more or less asking for them all morning; no success. Then I went out for a walk and felt tired even in starting.
I walked through the St. Lazare quarter to the Madeleine and turned along the Grand Boulevard to the Grand Cafe. I like the interior of this cafe. It is as much like the respectable ugliness of an English club as anything in Paris. I must be a little homesick I think. I ordered a cup of chocolate because I felt empty.I thought steadily for an hour over this chocolate and I seemed to leave the cafe with one or two germs of ideas. I walked home cogitating. When I arrived there was a telegram from Whitten requiring my weekly article two days earlier than usual. This upset my plans somewhat. I felt so tired - I had taken a chill - that I lay down under the eiderdown on the bed and went to sleep again, reading "Casanova".
When I awoke it was dark though only late afternoon. I made tea and felt better. A leading notion for the chapter had now formed itself. I went out to the Comedie Mondaine to book a seat for Brieux's "Berceau" and then to the Duval to dine, where I read Le Temps all the way through. Then I bought a cigar and had coffee in the Place Clichy. I cogitated at the cafe for an hour, and then I had the whole chapter clearly outlined in my head. This is a fair specimen of one of my cogitating days.
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