Dissatisfied

Tuesday, January 12th., Hotel Russie, Rome.

I began to revise recently written bits of "Raingo" at 7 a.m. 

We went to the Doria Gallery this morning. Badly hung pictures. Badly lighted. The galleries narrow and terribly over-decorated. The collectors seemed to have had a sure taste for the second rate. But there were several very fine Breughels, some small second rate Claudes and Titians, and a lot of filthy stuff. The Velasquez portrait of Pope Innocent X 'hung in lone spendour' was pretty good. Hard to understand some of these galleries. They seem to have the idea that if a painting is well known, or by a famous artist, then it presents itself. Quite the opposite is true.

Home at 4.10, had tea, and had written 1,000 words of "Raingo" before 6.30, although I was rather depressed about the general 'feel' of the end of the book. I fear people (discerning persons) may ask: "What is the book about?" and I mayn't be able to answer them. I don't know, articulately, what the 'idea' of the book is. It doesn't matter, I am just a bit dissatisfied with life. If asked I shall say: "It's about human nature; what else?"

I picked up a volume of Hardy's "Wessex Tales" last evening and ended up reading two stories: "The Three Strangers" and "The Withered Arm". They held me. Strange thing about Hardy's story-telling, sign of his genius I suppose, that the contrivances and coincidences of his plots are obvious when thought over later, but do not detract from the actual reading. At least not for me. I would have enjoyed a talk with him about his work, and could have had one I expect had I made an effort pre-war. I know he has read and enjoyed my novels. Too late now though.