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Authors: Virginia Woolf
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Horner on BoardsâLy. R. was an Astorârefused to let a penny of hers be invested. Your friend Miss Schreiner has gone to Bankok. Don't you remember all her boots and shoes in Eaton Square? To tell the truth I remembered neither Schreiner, her boots, or Eaton Square. Then Herman Norman is back and says things are in an awful mess at Teheran.
"He's my cousin," I said.
"How's that?" Off we went on to Normans. Leonard and Ralph were having tea meanwhile and sometimes intercepted a whiff of grapeshot. Now all this, properly strung together, would make a very amusing sketch in the style of Jane Austen. But old Jane, if she had been in the mood, would have given all the other thingsâno, I don't think she would; for Jane was not given to general reflections; one can't put in the shadows that appear curving round her, and giving her a sort of beauty. She quiets downâthough believing the old doctrine that talk must be incessantâand becomes humane, generous; shows that humorous sympathy which brings everything into her scopeânaturally; with a touch of salt and reality; she has the range of a good novelist, bathing things in their own atmosphere too, only all so fragmentary and jerky. She told me she had no wish to live. "I'm very happy," she said. "Oh yes, very happyâBut why should I want to go on living? What is there to live for?" "Your friends?" "My friends are all dead." "Ozzie?" "Oh, he'd do just as well without me. I should like to tidy things up and disappear." "But you believe in immortality?" "No. I don't know that I do. Dust, ashes, I say." She laughed of course; and yet, as I say, has somehow the all round imaginative view which makes one believe her. Certainty I likeâis love the word for these strange deep ancient affections, which began in youth and have got mixed up with so many important things? I kept looking at her large pleasant blue eyes, so candid and generous and hearty and going back to Fritham and Hyde Park Gate. But this doesn't make a picture, all the same. I feel her somehow to be the sketch for a woman of genius. All the fluid gifts have gone in; but not the bony ones.
Friday, February 17th
I've just had my dose of phenacetinâthat is to say a mildly unfavourable review of
Monday or Tuesday
reported by Leonard from the
Dial,
the more depressing as I had vaguely hoped for approval in that august quarter. It seems as if I succeed nowhere. Yet, I'm glad to find, I have acquired a little philosophy. It amounts to a sense of freedom. I write what I like writing and there's an end on it. Moreover, heaven knows I get consideration enough.
Saturday, February 18th
Once more my mind is distracted from the thought of death. There was something about fame I had it in mind to say yesterday. Oh, I think it was that I have made up my mind that I'm not going to be popular, and so genuinely that I look upon disregard or abuse as part of my bargain. I'm to write what I like; and they're to say what they like. My only interest as a writer lies, I begin to see, in some queer individuality; not in strength, or passion, or anything startling, but then I say to myself, is not "some queer individuality" precisely the quality I respect? Peacock for example: Barrow; Donne; Douglas, in
A lone,
has a touch of it. Who else comes to mind immediately? Fitzgerald's Letters. People with this gift go on sounding long after the melodious vigorous music is banal. In proof of this, I read that a small boy, given a book by Marie Corelli for a Sunday school prize, at once killed himself; and the coroner remarked that one of her books was not what he himself would call "at all a nice book." So perhaps the
Mighty Atom
is dwindling away and
Night and Day
arising; though
The Voyage Out
seems at the moment most in esteem. That encourages me. After 7 years next April the
Dial
speaks of its superb artistry. If they say the same of
N. and D.
in 7 years I shall be content; but I must wait 14 for anyone to
"He's my cousin," I said.
"How's that?" Off we went on to Normans. Leonard and Ralph were having tea meanwhile and sometimes intercepted a whiff of grapeshot. Now all this, properly strung together, would make a very amusing sketch in the style of Jane Austen. But old Jane, if she had been in the mood, would have given all the other thingsâno, I don't think she would; for Jane was not given to general reflections; one can't put in the shadows that appear curving round her, and giving her a sort of beauty. She quiets downâthough believing the old doctrine that talk must be incessantâand becomes humane, generous; shows that humorous sympathy which brings everything into her scopeânaturally; with a touch of salt and reality; she has the range of a good novelist, bathing things in their own atmosphere too, only all so fragmentary and jerky. She told me she had no wish to live. "I'm very happy," she said. "Oh yes, very happyâBut why should I want to go on living? What is there to live for?" "Your friends?" "My friends are all dead." "Ozzie?" "Oh, he'd do just as well without me. I should like to tidy things up and disappear." "But you believe in immortality?" "No. I don't know that I do. Dust, ashes, I say." She laughed of course; and yet, as I say, has somehow the all round imaginative view which makes one believe her. Certainty I likeâis love the word for these strange deep ancient affections, which began in youth and have got mixed up with so many important things? I kept looking at her large pleasant blue eyes, so candid and generous and hearty and going back to Fritham and Hyde Park Gate. But this doesn't make a picture, all the same. I feel her somehow to be the sketch for a woman of genius. All the fluid gifts have gone in; but not the bony ones.
Friday, February 17th
I've just had my dose of phenacetinâthat is to say a mildly unfavourable review of
Monday or Tuesday
reported by Leonard from the
Dial,
the more depressing as I had vaguely hoped for approval in that august quarter. It seems as if I succeed nowhere. Yet, I'm glad to find, I have acquired a little philosophy. It amounts to a sense of freedom. I write what I like writing and there's an end on it. Moreover, heaven knows I get consideration enough.
Saturday, February 18th
Once more my mind is distracted from the thought of death. There was something about fame I had it in mind to say yesterday. Oh, I think it was that I have made up my mind that I'm not going to be popular, and so genuinely that I look upon disregard or abuse as part of my bargain. I'm to write what I like; and they're to say what they like. My only interest as a writer lies, I begin to see, in some queer individuality; not in strength, or passion, or anything startling, but then I say to myself, is not "some queer individuality" precisely the quality I respect? Peacock for example: Barrow; Donne; Douglas, in
A lone,
has a touch of it. Who else comes to mind immediately? Fitzgerald's Letters. People with this gift go on sounding long after the melodious vigorous music is banal. In proof of this, I read that a small boy, given a book by Marie Corelli for a Sunday school prize, at once killed himself; and the coroner remarked that one of her books was not what he himself would call "at all a nice book." So perhaps the
Mighty Atom
is dwindling away and
Night and Day
arising; though
The Voyage Out
seems at the moment most in esteem. That encourages me. After 7 years next April the
Dial
speaks of its superb artistry. If they say the same of
N. and D.
in 7 years I shall be content; but I must wait 14 for anyone to
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