Fresh air

Tuesday, January 3rd., Royal York Hotel, Brighton.

I have read about a third of Edith Wharton's "The House of Mirth". Not fine, but capable. No connection with literature; a ceratin fairly agreeable bitterness of satire now and then. It can just be read. Probably a somewhat superior Mrs. Humphry Ward. I stopped reading it in favour of Marcus Clarke's "For the Term of his Natural Life", which I picked up here at Brighton in a sixpenny edition. I am enjoying this though in form and plot it is very naif. I could drop it without tears  Mood and context matter a great deal as far as pleasure in books goes. Here for example I don't expect to read with enjoyment anything 'heavy'. It's a place for crime stories, science fiction and humorous novels.

Today I wrote a New Age article, arranged the outline of an article for The Nation, and schemed out the first nine chapters of "Clayhanger" which I hope to begin to write on Wednesday. This afternoon we moved into our new room on the fourth floor, and I arranged everything for my work. We walked on the pier, and I saw subjects for water-colours and pastels. The weather was bright and bustery this afternoon. Excellently fresh air off the sea. I feel that I can get more air into my lungs here. Tremendous sensation of the chest expanding as one breaths in, and in, and in ... 

The one advance which I made last year in worldliness was having a play put on at a West End theatre for a run. That it failed is a detail. I bet it won't fail ultimately.

I wrote last year: "The Card", novel; "The Glimpse", novel; "The Honeymoon", three act comedy; scenario for "Don Juan", play; seven short stories; seventy odd articles; my journal. Total 312,000 words. Much less than the year before.