Saturday 11 December

I have never been able to afford 2/ for a good piece of washleather, yet I buy a dozen boxes of matches 
for 1/6.

I am giving up the hope of being well dressed.

Violet Dickinson has just had a third serious operation & I went to an old Curiosity shop instead of 
going to see her.

Leonard is lunching with Maynard & a great registered parcel has just been delivered containing Dadie's 

It is now close on 3.30.
Some superstition prevents me from reading Yeats' autobiography as I should like.
I am very happy at the moment: having arranged my week on the whole well.
But I have been rather unscupulous. I have put off the Stephens, at Thorpe: & shall probably stay at 

A few thoughts to fill up time waiting for dinner.
An article all about London:
How Vita's inkpot flowered on her table.
Logan's vanity: I write everything 8 times—

(So thats how its done I thought: he thought thats the only way to produce writing like mine)

But all my thoughts perish instantly. I make them up so vast. How to blunt the sting of an unpleasant 
remark: to say it over & over & over again. Walked to Violet's; took her a red carnation & a white one. My 
feelings quickened as I drew near. I visualised the operation as I stood on the doorstep.

I also have made up a passage for The Lighthouse: on people going away & the effect on one's feeling 
for them.

But reading Yeats turns my sentences one way: reading Sterne turns them another.