Monday 20th March 1939

For the first time, I have beautiful memories that must remain unwritten. (I’ve pondered about it for two or three days.) Oh, they must be narrated, march out in orderly fashion on white paper! No! They should remain, still, “wanderers in the middle mist”, “shadows”, until they gently merge into a gold-tinged greyness of memory.

I’ll write just one word now, that will bring memory swift, of starshine, wheeling searchlights, a silver plane in the beam, rough wind, strange fragrance, laughter, myself driving alone along sweet roads to a sweet village, - strange roads and half-remembered roads – deserted.

One word – April!