Thursday 19th September 1935

I find it difficult to write prose of the vividly descriptive type nowadays.(“Purple Spots”.) Perhaps the ability to think like that is the monopoly of idealistic youths?

This the second anniversary of my coming to Egham. Still without money. When do I actually begin to live? Money. Money. A small word which represents the hell of a lot of fulfilled desires.

A page of vicious and impious scrawling has been removed from here. Dated September 20. Only one sentence is worthy of perpetuating herein – “I guess this waiting is the price I pay for having wasted years before getting down to a job of work.” Confession of the justice of it.