Virginia Woolf (1882-1941) was een Engelse schrijfster. Ze hield vrijwel haar hele leven een dagboek bij.
Monday 20 January
I will be curt, compressed. A mood like another. Back from a damp, perhaps rather strained, visit to Charleston. Nessa & Quentin; Adrian has almost died of pneumonia. Nessa apprehensive, on guard, when I spoke of Angelica's dirt. Search for epidiascope in Lewes. Fruitless. Lecture tomorrow. 5 small trout for lunch. Octavïa's cream. Talk of soup making. Reading Gide. La Porte Etroite  feeble, slaty, sentimental.
Visit from Oliver Strachey. All stocky gloom. Flogged my brain for topics. Lïghted on the war. Civilisation over for 500 years. "And my life is at an end." Enter two breezy brisk colleagues. He shares a sitting room. I lost several pages of PH. I say to Nessa, Do you find painting gets slower? Yes. One can do more. And money? Never think of it. And Helen? She does nothing. I like being alone. How can one do nothing? Duncan coming & Clive. All the same MH is somehow cheerful. Q. has an offer of a draughtsman job at Dorking. Better than farm work. The Girls school at Lewes is behind Ann of Cleves House, a large, tiled, swept, clamorous place. The headmistress large & tight, practical. "No one knows we exist" she said. I am reading — oh all lit. for my book. No answer from David, or Harper's Bazaar. And Ethel's letters go unread — oh dear.