The Diary of Virginia Woolf, Vol. 3: 1925-1930

I stumbled across my own manic underlining in this volume, decades-old notes from my past self to my current, proclaiming what was important to me then. For this read I adopted the much saner light pencil markings and dogeared pages.

Again there is too much to mention from this fertile period (To the Lighthouse, Orlando, Room of One’s Own, The Waves). She exposes the day-to-day struggle she has with both writing and managing servants. (Surely someone has written something interesting about Woolf & the servants? Ah, yes.)

The idea of writing something about Woolf’s more mindful comments constantly pricked me: “But I dont think of the future, or the past, I feast on the moment. This is the secret of happiness; but only reached now in middle age.”

More on middle age: “At 46 one must be a miser; only have time for essentials.”

She grapples with her increasing fame and continues to hate Americans: “Also the ‘fame’ is becoming vulgar & a nuisance. It means nothing; & yet takes one’s time. Americans perpetually.”

Continued love of walking around London: “Also London itself perpetually attracts, stimulates, gives me a play & a story & a poem, without any trouble, save that of moving my legs through the streets.” and “To walk alone in London is the greatest rest.”

Some exquisite phrases:

  • “… something of a gorged look, which connoisseurs have; as if he had always just swallowed a bargain.”
  • “Quiet brings me cool clear quick mornings, in which I dispose of a good deal of work, & toss my brain into the air when I take a walk.”
  • “… I have such a razor edge to my palette that seeing people often disgusts me of seeing them.”
  • “Time flaps on the mast—my own phrase I think.” (she’s quoting herself from Mrs Dalloway)

An occasional peek at her relationship with Leonard: “I like to have space to spread my mind out in. Whatever I think, I can rap out, suddenly to L. We are somehow very detached, free, harmonious.” and “Had I married Lytton I should never have written anything. So I thought at dinner the other night. He checks & inhibits in the most curious way. L. may be severe; but he stimulates. Anything is possible with him.”

On Shakespeare: “I read Shakespeare directly I have finished writing, when my mind is agape & red & hot. Then it is astonishing. I never yet knew how amazing his stretch & speed & word coining power is, until I felt it utterly outpace & outrace my own, seeming to start equal & then I see him draw ahead & do things I could not in my wildest tumult & utmost press of mind imagine. Even the less known & worser plays are written at a speed that is quicker than anybody else’s quickest; & the words drop so fast one can’t pick them up.”

Reading: “I am reading Dante; & my present view of reading is to elongate immensely. I take a week over one canto. No hurry.”

Men’s confidence: “And the egotism of men surprises & shocks me even now. Is there a woman of my acquaintance who could sit in my arm chair from 3 to 6.30 without the semblance of a suspicion that I may be busy, or tired, or bored; & so sitting could talk, grumbling & grudging, of her difficulties, worries; then eat chocolates, then read a book, & go at last, apparently self-complacent & wrapped in a kind of blubber of misty self satisfaction? Not the girls at Newnham or Girton. They are far too spry; far too disciplined. None of that self-confidence is their lot.”

Her comments about the General Strike of 1926 are of interest as we live through the pandemic: “(one of the curious effects of the Strike is that it is difficult to remember the day of the week). Everything is the same, but unreasonably, or because of the weather, or habit, we are more cheerful, take less notice, & occasionally think of other things… There are various skeleton papers being sold. One believes nothing… So we go on, turning in our cage. I notice how frequently we break of⁠[f] with ‘Well I don’t know.’… The shops are open but empty. Over it all is some odd pale unnatural atmosphere—great activity but no normal life. I think we shall become more independent & stoical as the days go on.”

On not wanting children anymore: “And yet oddly enough I scarcely want children of my own now. This insatiable desire to write something before I die, this ravaging sense of the shortness & feverishness of life, make me cling, like a man on a rock, to my one anchor. I don’t like the physicalness of having children of one’s own.”