On Sunday evening was a party given by Nikita L-R, but [V] and I didn't stay there for very long. To tell the truth, I feel awkward having [V] see me mingling with Nikita and his friends - which is positively ridiculous of course. But it links to the fact that she heard [H] asking him for a bedtime kiss, when he was having a bath at Folly Bridge. And I know instinctively how she must be wondering if I myself have any tendencies in that direction. I know how tolerant she would be if I were to proclaim such inclination. But it would be utterly false of me to take such a line. Yet I cannot now see how the opportunity for me to state my innocence might arise. I should have spoken out on the subject right at the start, so now find myself inhibited on bringing up the issue. And there is such an intense embarrassment in my heart, in case she is supposing for a single second that I might be queer, that I am blushing crimson just as soon as anyone mentions a single reference to homosexual behaviour of any kind.

This represents the most terrible vulnerability in me. The merest mention of either [H]'s or Nikita's name in [V]'s presence is often quite enough to trigger the mechanism of my blushing. This was activated on quite a few occasions whilst we were out in Paris, but it is becoming far worse now that I am liable to encounter them here in Oxford. It is impossible that [V] should not have noticed this for herself. But while dreading that she might mention it, I find it even worse that she doesn't - because it neglects to bring the subject out into the open so that we might then discuss it quite openly.

It isn't just in [V]'s company that I suffer in this fashion. So it might be useful for me to cite an additional example of how my sensitivity on the subject gets triggered. I'll cite one that is taken from the tuition classes in Philosophy which are being given to a group of us by Oscar Wood. (He has put me in with the group that he initially describes as `the cream' - before qualifying the degree of eminence that he is attributing to us by saying that we might be more accurately portrayed as `the top of the milk'.) But during the process of explaining what he meant by there being different types of statement, he was mentioning a few examples. For something nonsensical and yet grammatically correct, he offered us the words: "Saturday is in bed". Well in my absurd state of current sensitivity over these matters, the chain of thought which flashed through my mind was: "Bed - Sex - Homosex". And there I was blushing scarlet in front of all this group, observed by all, and with no possibility of explaining to them what my embarrassment was all about.

On Tuesday I went up to London for the Royal Wiltshire Yeomanry dinner. I sat next to Christopher Gladstone and John Sykes, and to try and liven them all up, I announced that I'd been converted to Communism. As a ploy to get them all talking, it turned out to be a miserable failure. They were all looking at me quite blankly - as if I'd just announced that I had scarlet fever. I had been expecting at the very least that someone might wish to hear the reasons for such a conversion, or how it effected my current view of world affairs. But they just looked at me with that slight embarrassment which would exist if a child had been sick all over his plate at mealtime. There was also a general air of disbelief - even a guffaw or two. Then other subjects for conversation prevailed, and I was obliged to accept that the evening was (after all) going to remain upon an even keel.

When [F] came to see me, I learnt that she had just been to a party in Lincoln College given by Robert Oakshott. To tell the truth I felt much offended that I hadn't myself been invited to it. It shows how much I am perceived to be someone merely on the fringes nowadays, of their most intimate social groups. It is my own fault in that I am apt to get on with my own life, to the exclusion of all else - which is another way of withdrawing myself from their company. I suppose that this tendency towards becoming a recluse may be gaining ground within my personality. And I do notice how I am receiving many fewer party invitations nowadays. For the most part I am quite glad to be omitted. The only instances that I mind are when I discover that my name has been omitted from the guest list of undergraduates whom I would regard as being personal friends - as on this occasion, when the culprit was Robert O. I find it curious, since I would not regard myself as being unpopular. In fact I still suppose that I am well liked. But it's just that they view me as standing outside their particular circle of close friends.

[F] asked me for one of the paintings which I did in Italy, incidentally, offering me £5 for it. But if I had accepted the price she offered, then it would mean that my paintings can then be said to selling for that price, which would be a grave distortion of what I regard my real worth to be. And I do regard my work as having a much greater value than that. But it would have been impossible for me to tell her so. So what I did was to select a painting that I liked less, and then presented it to her as a belated Christmas present.

I do feel that my years at Oxford have done an enormous amount to improve the quality of my mind. And I say that quite regardless of the degree that they award me after these recent exams. In some ways it's quite irrelevant to concern myself about that. What is important is that I have acquired a fair amount of knowledge, which I am now ready (I hope) to put to good use. My thought processes have been disciplined (at any rate to some extent) in a manner that they are now liable to furnish a more interesting contribution towards any subject, than I might formerly have hoped to achieve. These have been years when ideas have flooded through my mind, and I have certainly grasped hold of a few which may prove inspirational to me in time yet to come. Or I might put it that a whole clutch of eggs have been fertilized within my brain - even if the period for their incubation lies ahead of me.

I do still believe that I have genius. It's going to show up sometime, somehow - although I might have to await a greater maturity before I can expect to prove this point. I realize just how absurd this comment would appear to others, if they read it. But there's something about the intensity with which I think about anything - even when the thoughts are unintelligent. With such frenetic activity going on inside my brain, it has got to amount to something. It can't just go spuriously to waste. But it's no good for me to talk about my genius without coming up with its resultant product. You can't be acclaimed as one, without the achievement - which is what I still have to attain. And I must admit to feeling thoroughly unsure of myself when I assess the likelihood of me doing this in the near future.