ABSTRACT
In January of the year [1916] I had scarlet fever and was in Fairfield Hospital for six weeks. In spite of the misery of the illness and imprisonment it turned out to be my salvation, because my mind had reached such a pitch, through brooding over the war and my own loss, that I could not read or write with any concentration or take any interest in people or events ... I felt when I was better that I was going to start afresh. And also, as is the case after every grave illness, the past was just a little blurred: it seemed to have become more definitely the past ...
