It has been awhile and frankly I saw no point in continuing in that mode. While in Montauk over the weekend I read Michael Holroyd's Autobiography Part II and Eureka it came to me that, like returning home, I should resume my intellectual interest in Bloomsburyish matters. I remember how we scorned Lytton Strachey but now MH's endeavors seem admirable. Will see where this emerges at the end of the tunnel.

I was too restless to be an author or an academic. In 1964 I started my Roger Fry pursuit, taking me from the Bibliotheque Nationale where I read all the old Burlingtons to Cambridge where I met Quentin Bell and then wrote the thesis at Leeds. For some reason I did not want to spend my life talking about the lives of others, but now I see it as a form of art, second tier art but art nonetheless.