A Writer's Diary

By Virginia Woolf

An worthy advisor to the paintings and brain of Virginia Woolf, drawn by way of her husband from the non-public checklist she saved over a interval of twenty-seven years. integrated are entries that discuss with her personal writing, others which are truly writing routines; debts of individuals and scenes proper to the uncooked fabric of her paintings; and reviews on books she was once examining. Edited and with a Preface via Leonard Woolf; Indices.

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To pay attention. there has been the days evaluation on Thursday—long, a bit tepid, I think—saying that one cannot make characters during this method; flattering sufficient. in fact, I had a letter from Morgan within the contrary sense—the letter i have cherished better of all. we have now bought 650, i believe; and feature ordered a moment variation. My sensations? as usual—mixed. I shall by no means write a e-book that's a complete good fortune. This time the studies are opposed to me and the personal humans enthusiastic. both i'm an exceptional author or a nincompoop.

Lytton sitting or mendacity inert, together with his eyes close, or exasperated with them open. girl Strachey slowly fading, however it may well take years. Over all this broods for me a few uneasy experience of swap and mortality and the way partings are deaths; after which a feeling of my very own fame—why should still this come over me? after which of its remoteness; after which the strain of writing articles on Meredith and furbishing up the Hardy. And Leonard sitting at domestic studying. And Max's letter; and a feeling of the futility of all of it. Saturday, February eleventh i'm so chilly i will not often carry the pen.

Walked within the cloisters: this is often real Italy, with the previous dusty odor; humans swarming within the streets; less than the—what is the note for—I imagine the note for a road that has pillars is Arcade. Shelley's condo ready by way of the ocean, and Shelley now not coming, and Mary and Mrs. Williams gazing from the balcony after which Trelawney coming from Pisa and burning the physique at the shore—that's in my brain. all of the colors listed here are white bluish marble opposed to a truly mild saturated sky. The tower leaning prodigiously.

The 1st half got here fluid—how I wrote and wrote! Shall I now payment and consolidate, extra within the Dalloway and Jacob's Room variety? I fairly imagine the upshot can be books that relieve different books: quite a few kinds and matters: for in the end, that's my temperament, i believe, to be little or no persuaded of the reality of anything—what I say, what humans say—always to stick to, blindly, instinctively with a feeling of jumping over a precipice—the name of—the name of—now, if I write The Moths i need to come to phrases with those mystical emotions.

Yet then there have been reasons in her lifestyles: prayer; precept. None in mine. nice excitability and seek after anything. nice content—almost constantly having fun with what i am at, yet with consistent swap of temper. i don't believe i am ever bored. occasionally a bit stale; yet i've got an influence of recovery—which i've got established; and am now trying out for the fiftieth time. i must husband my head nonetheless very conscientiously: yet then, as I stated to Leonard at the present time, I take pleasure in epicurean methods of society; sipping after which shutting my eyes to flavor.

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