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 spiritâgreat 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., everythingâmore 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 point, for what I must do is to experiment next week; how much revision is needed, and how much time it takes. I am very set on getting my essays out before my novel. Yesterday I had tea in Mary's room and saw the red lighted tugs go past and heard the swish of the river: Mary in black with lotus leaves round her neck. If one could be friendly with women, what a pleasureâthe relationship so secret and private compared with relations with men. Why not write about it? Truthfully? As I think, the diary writing has greatly helped my style; loosened the ligatures.
Tuesday, November 18th
What I was going to say was that I think writing must be formal. The art must be respected. This struck me reading some of my notes here, for if one lets the mind run loose it becomes egotistic; personal, which I detest. At the same time the irregular fire must be there; and perhaps to loose it one must begin by being chaotic, but not appear in public like that. I am driving my way through the mad chapters of
Mrs. D.
My wonder is whether the book would have been better without them. But this is an afterthought, consequent upon learning how to deal with her. Always I think at the end, I see how the whole ought to have been written.
Saturday, December 13th
I am now galloping over
Mrs. Dalloway,
re-typing it entirely from the start, which is more or less what I did with the
V.O.:
a good method, I believe, as thus one works with a wet brush over the whole, and joins parts separately composed and gone dry. Really and honestly I think it the most satisfactory of my novels (but have not read it cold-bloodedly yet). The reviewers will say that it is disjointed because of the mad scenes not connecting with the Dalloway scenes. And I suppose there is some superficial glittery writing. But is it "unreal"? Is it mere accomplishment? I think not. And as I think I said before, it seems to leave me plunged deep in the richest strata of my mind. I can write and write and write now: the happiest feeling in the world.
Monday, December 21st
Really it is a disgraceâthe number of blank pages in this book. The effect of London on diaries is decidedly bad. This is I fancy the leanest of them all, and I doubt that I can take it to Rodmell, or if I did, whether I could add much. Indeed it has been an eventful year, as I prophesied; and the dreamer of January 3rd has dreamt much of her dream true; here we are in London, with Nelly alone, Dadie gone it is true, but Angus to replace him. What emerges is that changing houses is not so cataclysmic as I thought; after all, one doesn't change body or brain. Still I am absorbed in "my writing," putting on a spurt to have
Mrs. D.
copied for L. to read at Rodmell; and then in I dart to deliver the final blows to
The Common Reader,
and thenâand then I shall be free. Free at least to write out one or two more stories which have accumulated. I am less and less sure that they
are
stories, or what they are. Only I do feel fairly sure that I am grazing as near as I can to my own ideas, and getting a tolerable shape for them. I think there is less and less wastage. But I have my ups and downs.
1925
Wednesday, January 6th
Rodmell was all gale and flood; these words are exact.
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 spiritâgreat 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., everythingâmore 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 point, for what I must do is to experiment next week; how much revision is needed, and how much time it takes. I am very set on getting my essays out before my novel. Yesterday I had tea in Mary's room and saw the red lighted tugs go past and heard the swish of the river: Mary in black with lotus leaves round her neck. If one could be friendly with women, what a pleasureâthe relationship so secret and private compared with relations with men. Why not write about it? Truthfully? As I think, the diary writing has greatly helped my style; loosened the ligatures.
Tuesday, November 18th
What I was going to say was that I think writing must be formal. The art must be respected. This struck me reading some of my notes here, for if one lets the mind run loose it becomes egotistic; personal, which I detest. At the same time the irregular fire must be there; and perhaps to loose it one must begin by being chaotic, but not appear in public like that. I am driving my way through the mad chapters of
Mrs. D.
My wonder is whether the book would have been better without them. But this is an afterthought, consequent upon learning how to deal with her. Always I think at the end, I see how the whole ought to have been written.
Saturday, December 13th
I am now galloping over
Mrs. Dalloway,
re-typing it entirely from the start, which is more or less what I did with the
V.O.:
a good method, I believe, as thus one works with a wet brush over the whole, and joins parts separately composed and gone dry. Really and honestly I think it the most satisfactory of my novels (but have not read it cold-bloodedly yet). The reviewers will say that it is disjointed because of the mad scenes not connecting with the Dalloway scenes. And I suppose there is some superficial glittery writing. But is it "unreal"? Is it mere accomplishment? I think not. And as I think I said before, it seems to leave me plunged deep in the richest strata of my mind. I can write and write and write now: the happiest feeling in the world.
Monday, December 21st
Really it is a disgraceâthe number of blank pages in this book. The effect of London on diaries is decidedly bad. This is I fancy the leanest of them all, and I doubt that I can take it to Rodmell, or if I did, whether I could add much. Indeed it has been an eventful year, as I prophesied; and the dreamer of January 3rd has dreamt much of her dream true; here we are in London, with Nelly alone, Dadie gone it is true, but Angus to replace him. What emerges is that changing houses is not so cataclysmic as I thought; after all, one doesn't change body or brain. Still I am absorbed in "my writing," putting on a spurt to have
Mrs. D.
copied for L. to read at Rodmell; and then in I dart to deliver the final blows to
The Common Reader,
and thenâand then I shall be free. Free at least to write out one or two more stories which have accumulated. I am less and less sure that they
are
stories, or what they are. Only I do feel fairly sure that I am grazing as near as I can to my own ideas, and getting a tolerable shape for them. I think there is less and less wastage. But I have my ups and downs.
1925
Wednesday, January 6th
Rodmell was all gale and flood; these words are exact.
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