Virginia Woolf - Virginia Woolf - A Writer's Diary

Never be unseated by the shying of that undependable brute, life, hag-ridden as she is by my own queer, difficult, nervous system. Even at 43 I don’t know its workings, for I was saying to myself, all the summer, ‘I’m quite adamant now. I can go through a tussle of emotions peaceably that two years ago, even, would have raked me raw.’

I have made a very quick and flourishing attack on To the Lighthouse, all the same—22 pages straight off in less than a fortnight. I am still crawling and easily enfeebled, but if I could once get up steam again, I believe I could spin it off with infinite relish. Think what a labour the first pages of Dalloway were! Each word distilled by a relentless clutch on my brain.

Monday, September 13th, perhaps

A disgraceful fact—I am writing this at 10 in the morning in bed in the little room looking into the garden, the sun beaming steady, the vine leaves transparent green, and the leaves of the apple tree so brilliant that, as I had my breakfast, I invented a little story about a man who wrote a poem, I think, comparing them with diamonds, and the spiders’ webs, (which glance and disappear astonishingly) with something or other else; which led me to think of Marvell on a country life, so to Herrick and the reflection that much of it was dependent upon the town and gaiety—a reaction. However, I have forgotten the facts. I am writing this partly to test my poor bunch of nerves at the back of my neck—will they hold or give again, as they have done so often?—for I’m amphibious still, in bed and out of it; partly to glut my itch (‘glut’ an ‘itch’!) for writing. It is the great solace and scourge.

Tuesday, September 22nd.

How my handwriting goes down hill! Another sacrifice to The Hogarth Press. Yet what I owe The Hogarth Press is barely paid by the whole of my handwriting. Haven’t I just written to Herbert Fisher refusing to do a book for the Home University Series on Post-Victorian?—knowing that I can write a book, a better book, a book off my own bat, for the Press if I wish! To think of being battened down in the hold of those University Dons fairly makes my blood run cold. Yet I’m the only woman in England free to write what I like. The others must be thinking of series and editors. Yesterday I heard from Harcourt Brace that Mrs D. and C.R. are selling 148 and 73 weekly—isn’t that a surprising rate for the fourth month? Doesn’t it portend a bathroom and a w.c., either here or Southease? I am writing in the watery blue sunset, the repentance of an ill tempered morose day, which vanished, the clouds, I have no doubt, showing gold over the downs, and leaving a soft gold fringe on the top there.

Tuesday, December 7th.

I am reading the Passage to India, but will not expatiate here, as I must elsewhere. This book for the H.P. I think I will find some theory about fiction; I shall read six novels and start some hares. The one I have in view is about perspective. But I do not know. My brain may not last me out. I cannot think closely enough. But I can—if the C.R. is a test—beat up ideas and express them now without too much confusion. (By the way, Robert Bridges likes Mrs Dalloway; says no one will read it; but it is beautifully written, and some more, which L„ who was told by Morgan, cannot remember.)

I don’t think it is a matter of ‘development’ but something to do with prose and poetry, in novels; for instance Defoe at one end; E. Brontë at the other. Reality something they put at different distances. One would have to go into conventions; real life; and so on. It might last me—this theory—but I should have to support it with other things. And death—as I always feel—hurrying near. 43: how many more books? Katie came here; a sort of framework of discarded beauty hung on a battered shape now. With the firmness of the flesh and the blue; of the eye, the formidable manner has gone. I can see her as she was at 22 H.P.G. 25 years ago; in a little coat and skirt; very splendid; eyes half shut; lovely mocking voice; upright; tremendous; shy. Now she babbles along.

‘But no duke ever asked me, my dear Virginia. They called me the Ice Queen. And why did I marry Cromer? I loathed Egypt; I loathed invalids. I’ve had two very happy times in my life—childhood—not when I grew up, but later, with my boys’ club, my cottage and my chow—and now. Now I have all I want. My garden—my dog.’

I don’t think her son enters in very largely. She is one of these cold eccentric great Englishwomen, enormously enjoying her rank and the eminence it lends her in St John’s Wood, and now free to poke into all the dusty holes and corners, dressed like a charwoman, with hands like apes’ and fingernails clotted with dirt. She never stops talking. She lacks much body to her. She has almost effused in mist. But I enjoyed it, though I think she has few affections and no very passionate interests. Now, having cried my cry, and the sun coming out, to write a list of Christmas presents.

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