In the wild grey water after last weeks turmoil. I liked the dinner with Dadie best. All very lit up & confidential. I liked the soft grey night at Newnham. We found Pernel in her high ceremonial room, all polished & spectatorial. She was in soft reds & blacks. We sat by a bright fire. Curious flitting talk. She leaves next year.
Then Letchworth — the slaves chained to their typewriters, & their drawn set faces, & the machines — the incessant more & more competent machines, folding, pressing, glueing & issuing perfect books. They can stamp cloth to imitate leather. Our Press is up in a glass case. No country to look at. Very long train journeys. Food skimpy. No butter, no jam. Old couples hoarding marmalade & grape nuts on their tables. Conversation half whispered round the lounge fire. Eth Bowen arrived two hours after we got back, & went yesterday; & tomorrow Vita; then Enid; then perhaps I shall re-enter one of my higher lives. But not yet.
Virginia Woolf (1882-1941) was een Engelse schrijfster. Ze hield vrijwel haar hele leven een dagboek bij.
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