[The second notebook, the red one, had been begun without any hesitations at all. The British Communist Party was written across the first page, underlined twice, and the date, Jan. 3rd, 1950, set underneath:]

Last week, Molly came up at midnight to say that the Party members had been circulated with a form, asking for their history as members, and there was a section asking them to detail their ‘doubts and confusions’. Molly said she had begun to write this, expecting to write a few sentences, had found herself writing ‘a whole thesis — dozens of bloody pages’. She seemed upset with herself. ‘What is it I want — a confessional? Anyway, since I’ve written it, I’m going to send it in.’ I told her she was mad. I said: ‘Supposing the British Communist Party ever gets into power, that document will be in the files, and if they want evidence to hang you, they’ve got it — thousands of times over.’ She gave me her small, almost sour smile — the smile she uses when I say things like this. Molly is not an innocent communist. She said: ‘You’re very cynical.’ I said: ‘You know it’s the truth. Or could be.’ She said: ‘If you think in that way, why are you talking of joining the Party?’ I said: ‘Why do you stay in it, when you think in that way too?’ She smiled again, the sourness gone, ironically, and nodded. Sat a while, thinking and smoking. ‘It’s all very odd, Anna, isn’t it?’ And in the morning she said: ‘I took your advice, I tore it up.’

On the same day I had a telephone call from Comrade John saying that he had heard I was joining the Party, and that ‘Comrade Bill’ — responsible for culture — would like to interview me. ‘You don’t have to see him of course, if you don’t feel like it,’ said John hastily, ‘but he said he would be interested to meet the first intellectual prepared to join the Party since the cold war started.’ The sardonic quality of this appealed to me and I said I’d see Comrade Bill. This although I had not, in fact, finally decided to join. One reason not to, that I hate joining anything, which seems to me contemptible. The second reason, that my attitudes towards communism are such that I won’t be able to say anything I believe to be true to any comrade I know, is surely decisive? It seems not, however, for in spite of the fact that I’ve been telling myself for months I couldn’t possibly join an organization that seems to me dishonest, I’ve caught myself over and over again on the verge of the decision to join. And always at the same moments — there are two of them. The first, whenever I meet, for some reason, writers, publishers, etc. — the literary world. It is a world so prissy, maiden-auntish; so class-bound; or, if it’s the commercial side, so blatant, that any contact with it sets me thinking of joining the Party. The other moment is when I see Molly, just rushing off to organize something, full of life and enthusiasm, or when I come up the stairs, and I hear voices from the kitchen — I go in. The atmosphere of friendliness, of people working for a common end. But that’s not enough. I’ll see their Comrade Bill tomorrow and tell him that I’m by temperament, ‘A fellow-traveller,’ and I’ll stay outside.