June 8th 1940. I have just found this sheaf of notes, thrown away into my waste-paper basket. I had been tidying up (...). Shall I ever finish these notes – let alone make a book from them? The battle is at its crisis; every night the Germans fly over England; it comes closer to this house daily. If we are beaten then – however we solve that problem, and one solution is apparently suicide (so it was decided three nights ago in London among us) – book writing becomes doubtful. But I wish to go on, not to settle down in that dismal puddle.
Sketch of the Past