* Dagboek van Virginia Woolf* Virginia Woolf (1882-1941)
Sunday 26 January
I am 48: we have been at Rodmell – a wet, windy day again; but on my birthday we walked among the downs, like the folded wings of grey birds; & saw first one fox, very long with his brush stretched; then a second; which had been barking, for the sun was hot over us; it leapt lightly over a fence & entered the furze – a very rare sight. How many foxes are there in England? At night I read Lord Chaplin's life. I cannot yet write naturally in my new room, because the table is not the right height, & I must stoop to warm my hands. Everything must be absolutely what I am used to.
I forgot to say that when we made up our 6 months accounts, we found I had made about £ 3,020 last year - the salary of a civil servant: a surprise to me, who was content with £ 200 for so many years. But I shall drop very heavily I think. The Waves wont sell more than 2,000 copies. I am stuck fast in that book – I mean, glued to it, like a fly on gummed paper. Sometimes I am out of touch; but go on; then again feel that I have at last, by violent measures – like breaking through gorse – set my hands on something central. Perhaps I can now say something quite straight out; & at length; & need not be always casting a line to make my book the right shape. But how to pull it all together, how to compost it – press it into one – I do not know; nor can I guess the end – it might be a gigantic conversation. The interludes are very difficult, yet I think essential; so as to bridge & also give a background – the sea; insensitive nature – I dont know. But I think, when I feel this sudden directness, that it must be right: anyhow no other form of fiction suggests itself except as a repetition at the moment.
Lord Buckmaster sat next me. I was talking to Desmond about Irene. Suddenly Ethel said leaning across, But did you ever know Lord Tennyson? & my evening was ruined. Typical of these parties.
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