A battle against depression, rejection (by Harper's of my story & Ellen Terry) routed today (I hope) by clearing out kitchen; by sending the article (a lame one) to N.S.: & by breaking into PH 2 days, I think, of memoir writing.
This trough of despair shall not, I swear, engulf me. The solitude is great. Rodmell life is very small beer. The house is damp. The house is untidy. But there is no alternative. Also days will lengthen. What I need is the old spurt. "Your true life, like mine, is in ideas"Desmond said to me once. But one must remember one cant pump ideas. I begin to dislike introspection. Sleep & slackness; musing; reading; cooking; cycling; oh & a good hard rather rocky book -- viz: Herbert Fisher. This is my prescription. We are going to Cambridge for two days. I find myself totting up my friends lives: Helen at Alciston without water; Adrian & Karin; Oliver at Bedford, & adding up rather a higher total of hapiness. There's a lull in the war. 6 nights wihout raids. But Garvin says the greatest struggle is about to come - say in 3 weeks - & every man, woman dog cat even weevil must girt their arms, their faith - & so on.
Its the cold hour, this, before the lights go up. A few snowdrops in the garden. Yes, I was thinking: we live without a future. Thats whats queer, with our noses pressed to a closed door. Now to write, with a new nib, to Enid Jones.
Virginia Woolf (1882-1941) was een Engelse schrijfster. Ze hield vrijwel haar hele leven een
dagboek bij.
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