A Writer's Diary

A Writer's Diary

Virginia Woolf

Language: English

Pages: 372

ISBN: 0156027917

Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub

An invaluable guide to the art and mind of Virginia Woolf, drawn by her husband from the personal record she kept over a period of twenty-seven years. Included are entries that refer to her own writing, others that are clearly writing exercises; accounts of people and scenes relevant to the raw material of her work; and comments on books she was reading. Edited and with a Preface by Leonard Woolf; Indices.

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was about 6:30 last night, reading over the last part of The Years. Such feeble twaddle—such twilight gossip it seemed; such a show up of my own decrepitude, and at such huge length. I could only plump it down on the table and rush upstairs with burning cheeks to L. He said: "This always happens." But I felt, No, it has never been so bad as this. I make this note should I be in the same state after another book. Now this morning, dipping in, it seems to me, on the contrary, a full, bustling live

review. The proofs will cost I suppose between �200 and �300 which I will pay out of my hoard. As I have �700 this will leave �400. I was not unhappy. And L. said he thought I might be wrong about the book. Then ever so many strange men arrived: Mr. Mumford, mahogany coloured, lean, with a very hard bowler and a cane; whom I put in the drawing room with a cigarette: Mr.——very heavy and large, who said Pardon me and knocked at the door. And Lord and Lady Cecil rang up to ask us to lunch to meet

to write; and the horrid little pellet screwed my brain; leaves it giddy. Yet in spite of that here am I sketching out a new book; only don't please impose that huge burden on me again, I implore. Let it be random and tentative: something I can blow of a morning, to relieve myself of Roger: don't, I implore, lay down a scheme; call in all the cosmic immensities; and force my tired and diffident brain to embrace another whole—all parts contributing—not yet awhile. But to amuse myself, let me note:

sympathy. One draws the others. Wind rocks the car. Too windy to climb up and look at the lake. Reason why the hills are still Roman—the landscape immortal ... what they saw I see. The wind, the June wind, the water, and snow. Sheep bedded in the long turf like pearls. No shade, no shelter. Romans looking over the border. Now nothing comes. Tuesday. Now in Midlothian. Stopping for petrol. On the way to Stirling. Scotch mist driven across the trees. Normal Scots weather. Great hills. Ugly

would be enough if he wrote his name (then was vaguely uncomfortable). Then there was de la Mare. His last book of stories seemed to them such a pity. Hardy had liked some of his poems very much. People said he must be a sinister man to write such stories. But he is a very nice man—a very nice man indeed. He said to a friend who begged him not to give up poetry, "I'm afraid poetry is giving up me." The truth is he is a very kind man and sees anyone who wants to see him. He has 16 people for the

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