Jan. 7, 1931
To think what experiences have been lost to posterity -- and especially to myself -- because I didn't write them down. However, there's much to be said on both sides. Perhaps I wouldn't enjoy reliving all of it. I'm not sure.
Wooster is completely a thing of the past. His name mentioned so frequently looks ridiculous, and so does he when I think about him now, and there's no good judging a past ideal by my present standards. He was nice enough as I imagined him -- quite a credit to my mind.
Stuart says to write with ample provision for future laughs, and I'll be guided by him in the future. He is so nice and thoughtful and has the most delightful sense of humour, and perfect taste. (Space for laugh in case I ever want to -- it seems incredible, but it's highly probable I suppose.)
To think that I was interested in him because he knew Wooster, when he is so infinitely more interesting in every way than Wooster ever was!
I can't possibly put him into words.
I got back to college last night and spent the night off campus. Mother and grandmother's objections have ceased by now, I hope.
January 10, 1931.
Tried to work to-day, but accomplished so little. I don't know why I can't do things, when I want to desperately. It must be lack of confidence that I can finish them. What a funny thing this will be in a year or two -- like "Gertrude the Governess" in Nonsense Novels. Oh well, one must pour out these girlish introspections somewhere.