Virginia Woolf’s diary, 1940

An obituary: Humbert Wolfe. Once I shared a packet of choc, creams with him, at Eileen Powers. An admirer sent them. This was a fitting tribute. A theatrical…

These moments of despair—I mean glacial suspense—a painted fly in a glass case—have given way as they so often do to ecstasy. Is it that I have thrown off those two…

Only the fire sets me dreaming—of all the things I mean to write. The break in our lives from London to country is a far more complete one than any change of house.…

For some reason hope has revived. Now what served as bait? A letter from Joe Ackerly approving my Corelli? Not much. Tom dining with us? No. I think it was largely…

I may as well make a note I say to myself: thinking sometimes who’s going to read all this scribble? I think one day I may brew a tiny ingot out of it—in my…

Yes, another attack,* in fact two other attacks: one Sunday week—101 with Angelica there to put me to bed; t’other last Friday, 102 after lunch. So to bed up here…

Here is the Good Friday festival beginning. How one can sense that in a garden, with flowers and birds only, I can’t say. Now for me begins the twilight hour, the…

What shall I think of that liberating and freshening? I’m in the mood when I open my window at night and look at the stars. Unfortunately it’s 12:15 on a grey dull…

I would like to tell myself a nice little wild improbable story to spread my wings after this cramped ant-like morning—which I will not detail—for details are the…

I spent one afternoon at the L.L.,* looking up quotes. Another buying silk for vests. And we did not dine with the Hutchinsons to meet Tom and Desmond. And how glad…

I admit to some content, some closing of a chapter and peace that comes with it, from posting my proofs today. I admit—because we’re in the third day of “the…

This idea was meant to be more impressive. It bobbed up I suppose in one of the sentient moments. The war is like a desperate illness. For a day it entirely…

Walking today (Nessa’s birthday) by Kingfisher pool saw my first hospital train—laden, not funereal but weighty, as if not to shake bones: something— what is the…

Scraps, orts and fragments, as I said in P.H., which is now bubbling. I’m playing with words: and think I owe some dexterity to finger exercises here—but the…

Just back* this roasting hot evening. The great battle which decides our life or death goes on. Last night an air raid here. Today battle sparks. Up till 2:30 this…

I will continue—but can I? The pressure of this battle wipes out London pretty quick. A gritting day. As sample of my present mood, I reflect: capitulation will…

A day off. I mean one of those odd lapses of anxiety which may be false. Anyhow they said this morning that the line is unbroken—save at certain points. And our…

Waterloo I suppose. And the fighting goes on in France; and the terms aren’t yet public; and it’s a heavy grey day, and I’ve been beaten at bowls, feel depressed…

Yes, there are things to write about: but I want at the moment, the eve of publication moment, to discover my emotions. They are fitful: thus not very…

I think I have taken, say a good second, judging from the Lit. Sup. review. No Morgan. Times say it takes a very high place indeed among biographies. Times say I…

Complete silence surrounds that book. It might have sailed into the blue and been lost. “One of our books did not return” as the B.B.C. puts it. No review by…

Just time, while Judith and Leslie* finish their game, to record on a great relief —Desmond’s review really says all I wanted said. The book delights friends and…

Yes, I was very happy again when I saw Clive’s blue envelope at breakfast (with John) this morning. It’s Clive almost—what?—devout: no, quiet, serious, completely…

And then Morgan slightly damped me: but I was damp already from Leslie hum haw the night before and the day before and again tomorrow. So Morgan and Vita slightly…

Third edition ordered. L. said, at 37 on Wednesday “It’s booming.” The boom is dulled by our distance. And why does a word of tepidity depress more than a word of…

Yesterday, 18th, Sunday, there was a roar. Right on top of us they came. I looked at the plane, like a minnow at a roaring shark. Over they flashed—three I think.…

Book flopped. Sales down to 15 a day since air raid on London. Is that the reason? Will it pick up?

How I should like to write poetry all day long—that’s the gift to me of poor X, who never reads poetry because she hated it at school. She stayed from Tuesday to…

Now we are in the war. England is being attacked. I got this feeling for the first time completely yesterday; the feeling of pressure, danger, horror. The feeling…

There might be no war, the past two days. Only one raid warning. Perfectly quiet nights. A lull after the attacks on London.

Back from half a day in London—perhaps our strangest visit. When we got to Gower Street a barrier with diversion on it. No sign of damage. But coming to Doughty…

A gale has risen. Weather broken. Armada weather. No sound of planes today, only wind. Terrific air traffic last night. But the raid beaten off by new London…

A strong feeling of invasion in the air. Roads crowded with army wagons, soldiers. Just back from hard day in London. Raid, unheard by us, started outside…

A sense of invasion—that is lorries of soldiers and machines—like cranes— walloping along to Newhaven. An air raid is on. A little pop rattle which I take to be…

Well, we’re alone in our ship. A very wet stormy day. Mabel* stumped off, with her bunions, carrying her bags at 10. Thank you for all your kindness; she said the…

No invasion. High wind. Yesterday in the Public Library I took down a book of X.’s criticism. This turned me against writing my book. London Library atmosphere…

“We have need of all our courage” are the words that come to the surface this morning: on hearing that all our windows are broken, ceilings down, and most of our…

Less need of courage today. I suppose the impression of Miss P.’s voice describing the damage wears off.

I would like to pack my day rather fuller: most reading must be munching. If it were not treasonable to say so, a day like this is almost too—I won’t say happy: but…

Our private luck has turned. John says Tavistock Square is no more.* If that’s so, I need no longer wake in the night thinking the Wolves luck has taken a downward…

The most—what?—impressive, no, that’s not it—sight in London on Friday was the queue, mostly children with suitcases, outside Warren Street tube. This was about…

A gloomy evening, spiritually: alone over the fire—and by way of conversation, apply to this too stout volume. My Times book for the week is E. F. Benson’s last…

The haystack in the floods is of such incredible beauty . . . When I look up I see all the marsh water. In the sun deep blue, gulls caraway seeds: snowstorms:…

I observe, as a curious trifle in mental history—I should like to take naturalist’s notes—human naturalist’s notes—that it is the rhythm of a book that, by running…

Having this moment finished the Pageant—or Poyntz Hall?—(begun perhaps April 1938) my thoughts turn well up, to write the first chapter of the next book (nameless)…

How beautiful they were, those old people—I mean father and mother—how simple, how clear, how untroubled. I have been dipping into old letters and father’s memoirs.…

There are moments when the sail flaps. Then, being a great amateur of the art of life, determined to suck my orange, off, like a wasp if the blossom I’m on fades,…