An ongoing collection of relevant quotes from VW as I read my way through her oeuvre. Updated daily.
I never felt anything like the general insecurity.
Aug 12, 1914; Letter to Ka Cox
Well—I wonder what we shall do. I’d give a lot to turn over 30 pages or so, & find written down what happens to us…. At this moment, I feel as if the human race had no character at all—sought for nothing, believed in nothing, & fought only from a dreary sense of duty.
Jan 15, 1915; Diary
The future is dark, which is on the whole, the best thing the future can be.
Jan 18, 1915; Diary
I saw a beautiful woman in the Bus; who could hardly contain her laughter because a great military gentleman was thrown on to her lap, like a sack of coals, which seemed to tickle her greatly, & the more she laughed, the nicer I thought her. About one person in a fortnight seems to me nice—most are nothing at all.
Jan 28, 1915; Diary
keep well, and dont think that life is a thing to be thrown up into the air like a ball, which I’m sure is your present frame of mind.
Feb 12, 1916; Letter to Ka Cox
It is wonderful how entirely detached from sanity the aristocracy are; one feels like a fly on the ceiling when one talks to them.
March 26, 1916; letter to Duncan Grant.
we want to do so many things. Why can’t one be turned back and live everything over again, perhaps rather more slowly?
March 27, 1916; letter to Margaret Llewelyn Davies
I saw Lytton yesterday, who told me he had heard that you and Duncan and possibly others had all got influenza at Wissett. I should be very grateful if anyone who hasn’t go it would send a line to say how you are. I hear Clive had it, and Adrian too, and Nellie went for a holiday and was in bed with it all the time; and Ott’s got it… I saw Ka, who seems rather feeble still. I do hope you are all right. Please dont start a move with the germs still in you.
Oct 9, 1916; letter to Vanessa
If Shakespeare were to awake now! The thought of what he would see in the sky and on the earth is at once appalling and fascinating.
December 21, 1916; review in the TLS
The spring season is full of disease; and a small break in your life might keep you healthy for a year.
March 23, 1917 letter to Vanessa
But oh dear, how little one believes what anyone says now. I feel we’ve sunk lower than ever before this summer.
September 9, 1917 letter to Margaret Llewelyn Davis
The K. Shuttleworths advertise the birth of a [posthumous son] with the statement “His Perfect Gift” a good title for an Academy picture, or a Mrs Ward novel, & rather a terrible testimony to the limelight now desired by the rich upon their sacrifices.
October 9, 1917; Diary
The moon grows full, & the evening trains are packed with people leaving London. We saw the hole in Piccadilly this afternoon. Traffic has been stopped, & the public slowly tramps past the place, which workmen are mending, though they look small in comparison with it… “business goes on as usual” so they say.
October 22, 1917; diary
I suppose to Philip [Leonard’s war-wounded brother] these days pass in a dream from which he finds himself detached. I can imagine that he is puzzled why he doesn’t feel more.
December 12, 1917; diary
The streets remind me of Cambridge streets. People walk down the middle. This is partly because of the queues waiting to buy at Liptons. One has some difficulty in keeping on the pavement, & the motor buses are always grazing people’s sides.
December 15, 1917; diary
“A very interesting state of things—”
“And what’s going to happen?”
“No human being can foretell that.”
January 3, 1918; diary noting Leonard’s response to reading the latest news from Russia
Everything is skimped now. Most of the butchers shops are shut; the only open shop was besieged. You can’t buy chocolates, or toffee; flowers cost so much that I have to pick leaves, instead. We have cards for most foods… Suddenly one has come to notice the war everywhere.
January 5, 1918; diary
There are food riots & strikes at Woolwich, & the guards have notice to march there at any moment, & fire on the people, which their own Woolwich regiments would refuse to do.
January 21, 1918; diary
How are you? Influenza, [Dr] Craig told me, poisons the nervous system, and nourishment is the only way to get rid of it. Do take milk and ovaltine. I have 2 glasses a day.
January 29, 1918; letter to Vanessa
But when a crisis happens, scarcely anyone meets it naturally; either they’re too composed & prosaic, or the other extreme.
April 6, 1918; Diary
Influenza, which rages all over the place, has come next door.
July 2, 1918; Diary
Rain for the first time for weeks today, & a funeral next door; dead of influenza.
July 10, 1918; Diary
… the extra-ordinary number of coffins one sees about. Coffins at luncheon, coffins as I come back from London; and the gentleman next door is dead of the influenza.
July 15, 1918; Letter to Vanessa
The time passes, with proper nights and days, I suppose, but one seems to float through them in a disembodied kind of way here. For one thing we’ve been practically alone, which has a very spiritual effect upon the mind. No gossip, no malevolence, no support from one’s fellow creatures. I can’t think why one doesn’t spend the whole year in this way.
August 18, 1918; Letter to Ottoline
… avoiding London, because of the influenza—(we are, by the way, in the midst of a plague unmatched since the Black Death, according to the Times…)
October 28, 1918; Diary
The general state perhaps is one of dazed surfeit; here we’ve had one great relief after another; you hear the paper boys calling out that Turkey has surrendered, or Austria given up, & the mind doesn’t do very much with it; was the whole thing too remote & meaningless to come home to one, either in action or in ceasing to act?
November 9, 1918; Diary
Taxicabs were crowded with whole families, grandmothers & babies, showing off; & yet there was no centre, no form for all this wandering emotion to take. The crowds had nowhere to go, nothing to do; they were in the state of children with too long a holiday. … in everyone’s mind the same restlessness & inability to settle down, & yet discontent with whatever it was possible to do.
November 12, 1918; Diary
Ray [Stratchey], who is standing for Parliament as a Coalition candidate, says that if ever she were tempted to hoard food, now would be the time. The Lower classes are bitter, impatient, powerful, & of course, lacking in reason.
November 21, 1918; Diary
Not Woolf, but related. From society hostess Lady Aberconway who decamped from London to North Wales at the outbreak of WW2: “… all my past life – everything that has happened before last September , seems to me these days like a tiny picture seen through the wrong end of a telescope …”