Virginia Woolf: A Writer's Diary. Вирджиния Вулф
it’s a question of work. I am already a good deal pulled together by sticking at my books: my 250 words at fiction first, and then a systematic beginning, I daresay the 80th, upon The Common Reader, who might be finished in a flash I think, did I see the chance to flash and have done with it. But there’s a lot of work in these things. It strikes me, I must now read Pilgrim’s Progress: Mrs Hutchinson. And should I demolish Richardson? whom I’ve never read. Yes, I’ll run through the rain into the house and see if Clarissa is there. But that’s a block out of my day and a long long novel. Then I must read the Medea. I must read a little translated Plato.
Friday, August 15th.
Into all these calculations, broke the death of Conrad, followed by a wire from the Lit. Sup. earnestly asking me kindly to do a leader on him, which flattered and loyal, but grudgingly, I did; and it’s out; and that number of the Lit. Sup. corrupted for me (for I can’t, and never shall be able to, read my own writings. Moreover, now little Walkley’s on the war path again I expect a bite next Wednesday). Yet I have never never worked so hard. For, having to do a leader in five days, I made hay after tea—and couldn’t distinguish tea hay from morning hay either. So doesn’t this give me two extra hours for critical works anyhow (as Logan calls them)? So I’m trying it—my fiction before lunch and then essays after tea. For I see that Mrs Dalloway is going to stretch beyond October. In my forecasts I always forget some most important intervening scenes: I think I can go straight at the grand party and so end; forgetting Septimus, which is a very intense and ticklish business, and jumping Peter Walsh eating his dinner, which may be some obstacle too. But I like going from one lighted room to another, such is my brain to me; lighted rooms; and the walks in the fields are corridors; and now today I’m lying thinking. By the way, why is poetry wholly an elderly taste? When I was 20, in spite of Thoby who used to be so pressing and exacting, I could not for the life of me read Shakespeare for pleasure; now it lights me as I walk to think I have two acts of King John tonight, and shall next read Richard II. It is poetry that I want now—long poems. Indeed I’m thinking of reading the Seasons. I want the concentration and the romance, and the words all glued together, fused, glowing; have no time to waste any more on prose. Yet this must be the very opposite to what people say. When I was 20 I liked 18th Century prose; I liked Hakluyt, Merimée. I read masses of Carlyle, Scott’s life and letters, Gibbon, all sorts of two volume biographies, and Shelley. Now it’s poetry I want, so I repent like a tipsy sailor in front of a public house … I don’t often trouble now to describe cornfields and groups of harvesting women in loose blues and reds, and little staring yellow frocked girls. But that’s not my eyes’ fault: coming back the other evening from Charleston, again all my nerves stood upright, flushed, electrified (what’s the word?) with the sheer beauty—beauty astounding and superabounding. So that one almost resents it, not being capable of catching it all and holding it all at the moment. One’s progress through life is made immensely interesting by trying to grasp all these developments as one passes. I feel as if I were putting out my fingers tentatively on (here is Leonard, who has ordered me a trap in which to drive Dadie to Tilton tomorrow) either side as I grope down a tunnel, rough with odds and ends. And I don’t describe encounters with herds of Alderneys any more—though this would have been necessary some years ago—how they barked and belled like stags round Grizzle; and how I waved my stick and stood at bay; and thought of Homer as they came flourishing and trampling towards me; some mimic battle. Grizzle grew more and more insolent and excited and skirmished about yapping. Ajax? That Greek, for all my ignorance, has worked its way into me.
Sunday, September 7th.
It is a disgrace that I write nothing, or if I write, write sloppily, using nothing but present participles. I find them very useful in my last lap of Mrs D. There I am now—at last at the party, which is to begin in the kitchen, and climb slowly upstairs. It is to be a most complicated, spirited, solid piece, knitting together everything and ending on three notes, at different stages of the staircase, each saying something to sum up Clarissa. Who shall say these things? Peter, Richard, and Sally Seton perhaps: but I don’t want to tie myself down to that yet. Now I do think this might be the best of my endings and come off, perhaps. But I have still to read the first chapters, and confess to dreading the madness rather; and being clever. However, I’m sure I’ve now got to work with my pick at my seam, if only because my metaphors come free, as they do here. Suppose one can keep the quality of a sketch in a finished and composed work? That is my endeavour. Anyhow, none can help and none can hinder me any more. I’ve been in for a shower of compliments too from The Times, Richmond rather touching me by saying that he gives way to my novel with all the will in the world. I should like him to read my fiction, and always suppose he doesn’t.
There I was swimming in the highest ether known to me and thinking I’d finish by Thursday; Lottie suggests to Karin we’d like to have Ann; Karin interprets my polite refusal to her own advantage and comes down herself on Saturday, blowing everything to smithereens. More and more am I solitary; the pain of these upheavals is incalculable; and I can’t explain it either … Here I am with my wrecked week—for how serene and lovely like a Lapland night was our last week together—feeling that I ought to go in and be a good aunt—which I’m not by nature; ought to ask Daisy what she wants; and by rights I fill these moments full of Mrs Dalloway’s party for tomorrow’s writing. The only solution is to stay on alone over Thursday and try my luck. A bad night (K.’s doing again) may partly account. But how entirely I live in my imagination; how completely depend upon spurts of thought, coming as I walk, as I sit; things churning up in my mind and so making a perpetual pageant, which is to be my happiness. This brew can’t sort with nondescript people. These wails must now have ending, partly because I cannot see, and my hand shakes, having carried my bag from Lewes, where I sat on the Castle top, where an old man was brushing leaves, and told me how to cure lumbago; you tie a skein of silk round you; the silk costs threepence. I saw British canoes, and the oldest plough in Sussex 1750 found at Rodmell, and a suit of armour said to have been worn at Seringapatam. All this I should like to write about, I think. And of course children are wonderful and charming creatures. I’ve had Ann in talking about the white seal and wanting me to read to her. And how Karin manages to be so aloof I can’t think. There’s a quality in their minds to me very adorable; to be alone with them, and see them day to day would be an extraordinary experience. They have what no grown up has—that directness—chatter, chatter, chatter, on Ann goes, in a kind of world of her own, with its seals and dogs; happy because she’s going to have cocoa tonight, and go black-il berrying tomorrow. The walls of her mind all hung round with l| such bright vivid things, and she doesn’t see what we see.
Friday, October 17th.
It is disgraceful. I did run upstairs thinking I’d make time to enter that astounding fact—the last words of the last page of Mrs Dalloway, but was interrupted. Anyhow, I did them a week ago yesterday. ‘For there she was,’ and I felt glad to be quit of it, for it has been a strain the last weeks, yet fresher in the head; with less I mean of the usual feeling that I’ve shaved through and just kept my feet on the tight rope. I feel indeed rather more fully relieved of my meaning than usual—whether this will stand when I re-read is doubtful. But in some ways this book is a feat; finished without break from illness, which is an exception; and written really in one year; and finally, written from the end of March to the 8th October without more than a few days’ break for writing journalism. So it may differ from the others. Anyhow, I feel that I have exorcized the spell which Murry and others said I had laid myself under after Jacob’s Room. The only difficulty is to hold myself back from writing others. My cul de sac, as they called it, stretches so far and shows such vistas. I see already the Old Man.
It strikes me that in this book I practise writing; do my scales; yes and work at certain effects. I daresay I practised Jacob here; and Mrs D. and shall invent my next book here; for here I write merely in the spirit—great fun it is too, and Old V. of 1940 will see something in it too. She will be a woman who can see, old V., everything—more than I can, I think. But I’m tired now.
Saturday, November 1st.
I must make some notes of work; for now I must buckle to. The question is how to get the two books done. I am going to skate rapidly over Mrs D„ but it will take time. No: I cannot say anything much to the