"But reading classics is generally hard going".
"But after 6 weeks influenza my mind throws up no matutinal fountains. My note book lies by my bed unopened. At first I could hardly read for the swarm of ideas that rose involuntarily. I had to write them out at once. And this is great fun. A little air, seeing the buses go by, lounging by the river, will, please God, send the sparks flying again. I am suspended between life & death in an unfamiliar way. Where is my paper knife? I must cut Lord Byron".What is speaking here a fever, her creative spirit or a touch of hypomania?