Perhaps it is because they emphasise my own loneliness. There are among them hundreds much lonelier and more unhappy than I am.
Monday, 23 February
I have got Elizabeth Taylor’s Wreath of Roses at Foyles. I remember vaguely the glowing reviews when it first came out, and Liz M. reading it, unable to put it down. And N.’s friend Ara telling me she had met Elizabeth Taylor: ‘A little, quiet thing. She said she had written a book, and I said, “How nice, what?” in a patronising way.’ A year or so later I met Ara again with N., and she said I reminded her a little of Elizabeth Taylor, not in looks but in her quiet manner. It fills me with rage, a rage of which I am ashamed when I analyse it, that people like Ara (whom one thinks of as intelligent, cultured, sophisticated and therefore perceptive) should express astonishment when they find that quiet little things have depth.
‘She sat there without saying much but must have been taking it all in …’ How else can you observe and absorb? When you are active in a crowd you cannot see the crowd; when you are in a state of flow you do not ebb.
But reading the book now, I cannot put it down either, finding so much of me and for me in it.
Friday, 6 March
Last week a note from the bank reminded me that my overdraft had again reached £100. Terror of the future again descended, eating me up. But there is only one thing I can do, and that is to sell more stock. Yesterday I decided quite definitely I would realise £500 out of the remaining £3,000 war stock. This should keep me going for a year at least, perhaps longer if I keep to my rigid economies (without starving or looking shabby). This money is for living, for the things that are of practical importance now, and not for any frivolity or extravagance. I am especially blessed to have this capital, and must employ it gladly, creatively, with hope adventurous. If it is God’s will that I am to suffer a lonely and impoverished old age, I will submit, with gladness if I can.
Sunday, 8 March
I may invest in a very small electric cooker – they’re to be had for about £7. And sell the oil stove with oven and stand. I have dug out the last of the family plate which has been in the bank, and am going to try to sell that with the china and glass packed away that I never use. I cling too much to my possessions.
Mid-August
I desire to change, to improve, I see the necessity for it, in myself and in others. In my own experience I have seen that nothing – none of the more ordinary religions, nor philosophies, politics, psychological analyses, nor the odd groups who try other means – nothing seems to have made a great deal of difference. A little, perhaps, here and there, but fundamentally the jealousies and greed and self-centredness within, the external rages, remain. What is it one wants, in essence? What is this thing, this quality one is always seeking, feeling sure it can be found if one’s self were a little more able? One wants not only to feel sure of one’s power of endurance in big things, but also of one’s ability to cope with the minor irritations of ordinary life.211
Tuesday, 18 August
I must accept this: that there is a condition, somewhere, somehow, that is mind-less, time-less. I only know that the mind is always busy: too busy, sometimes a burden, so that the head aches and the soul is limp. I know this; I wish very much I could make it stop, just for a minute or two, so that I could rest. I can at least drift into sleep, but there is no rest even there from the mind. One is conscious on waking that it has been churning and chattering to itself. On waking … it is like opening a door on early morning and letting in a swarm of insects.
I know also that now, in this century, we seem to have got ourselves into a state of no-time in another sense. We have no time to do things we want to and should do. There’s so much else to be done, there’s no time to be leisurely, to stand and stare. I hear this complaint on all sides, everywhere. Time flies, races, we are raced off our feet by it, and I have no time to meet you, read this, look at that, listen, feel … no time, no time … Is it the mind that is rushing us off our feet like this?
It is therefore arresting to hear someone say that there is a source (of strength, wisdom) which is not of the mind, which is not of time.
Sunday, 23 August
K.: When so-called religions fail … political parties become all important, they offer a vision, a conviction, a hope, and we jump at these things because in ourselves we have lost the source, the spring of that which is un-nameable.
I know that this last quotation is true of myself. I have worshipped authority, and do, and have even looked to political parties – Socialism, Fabians, Liberals – not with ardent conviction that all could be solved through politics, but with the belief that their influence is powerful, and the more people voted for the underdogs and have-nots and tried to restrict ‘the grinding of the faces of the poor’ (mock the phrase if you will), the better.212
Is not K. implying that the majority of people everywhere are up against the same sense of failure and frustration?
Friday, 28 August
N. threw in a sentence in her last letter: when she comes on leave she might not go back, it has been such a hard year. This put me into a mood of terror and exasperation for days. I hate her, hate her, will not have her here. We don’t want her in England! She is such a menace to everyone when out of work, and is bad enough when she has a job. She is always provoking the worst in people. I fear her interference and her cruelty, the weight of her. My idea of hell is a heaven full of N.s and Josephines trying to help me.
What can I do with this mood? Does K. say anything about that? I’ve somehow got the idea that when he talks of fear that it is … within the mind-field, and that really there is nothing to fear. But there is. There are destructive forces within oneself and without. How does one find the courage and strength to meet them so that one is not swamped, defeated by them?
Sunday, 13 September
One must be everlastingly aware, says K. This is possible, but it leads one into dangerous paths – one becomes self-conscious, self-centred, morbidly introspective. And then one begins to feel, very slightly, how wearisome is the burden of the ego. Can’t one get rid of it altogether? Discard it completely and so escape its tyranny?
9.45 p.m. A peaceful, busy day, alone with cats, listening to wireless. And so a guinea goes to the Wireless Bedridden Society for which Gilbert Harding spoke. I have great admiration and liking for G.H.213 This isn’t recorded here to illustrate my generosity. The gift goes on impulse – there are many other causes to which I should contribute. I do not feel for this one more than I do for cancer relief, displaced persons, distressed children, oppressed nations, animal welfare. One cannot give to them all: one has to give now and then when prodded to it or by ‘sticking a pin’ method.
One thinks of the things one buys for oneself which one could do without – those extra shoes, blouse, frock, cigarettes and so on, and the money spent on them … There will always be rich and poor, said K. to children in India last December, so long as some people must have more and more. More power, position, success. Success in fact is bought always at the price of other people’s failure. Giving to charities is a very easy way of seeming generous.
Sunday, 20 September
My problem is to experiment, to find out through self-knowledge. To watch patiently every movement of the ego, to observe without judgement. To do this, to understand self, what other way is there but through the science of psychology?
But so many people are frightened of this way – they think it leads only to confusion and greater disease. We are afraid of knowing ourselves and have remarkable skill in shutting doors and blocking awareness that would reveal us fully. We all in greater or lesser degree suffer from some form of neurosis – irritability, tempers, cowardice, vanity, arrogance – all these things indicate a lack of balance and maladjustment in some way.
Sunday, 4 October
Fundamental change comes when the mind is quiet, still. There is no freedom from struggle, pain, inertia, until the mind is stripped and empty: purged of a
ll images and things acquired and stored in the memory.
We cannot put an end to thinking, but we can understand the movement of thought; we can be everlastingly aware. We must watch, patiently, continually, without judgement. Observe the fact without condemnation. When I begin to understand the ways of my own mind, its chatter will cease. Let us understand our own conflicts without going with or against them. Let them come up from the depths of our being.
Watch and listen for what is true.
These aphorisms should be learnt by heart, so that one can say them during the day to oneself and ponder their meaning. I carry them written in my handbag, but do not study them as often as I might.
The most difficult of them to apply is ‘observe without judgement’. When I am with people I admire, respect, and know to be cleverer or better in some way than myself, I despise myself for not being their equal. I am awkward, gauche in my manner. If they are people of my own stature I quickly spot faults and failings, probably similar to my own, and despise them. Even with individual and valued friends whom I love sincerely, this contempt creeps in. When I realise that I am behaving or thinking in a despicable way, I am torn with fury at myself, for being so mean, so petty, unbalanced and without compassion.
Why do I despise others? The mob. Their tawdry, vulgar, ugly clothes and voices, their common, common silly chatter. Partly perhaps because I am afraid of being enveloped, drawn down to it and drowned. I am trying to get above the mediocre, the slovenly, slipshod habits of the average person. I know these failings are in me and I hate them, despise them intensely.
Tuesday, 13 October
Today heard that Peggy D.’s youngest son died yesterday morning. This is one of those completely inexplicable tragedies. I can feel her grief acutely. He was the apple of her eye, full of promise, unusually intelligent and never seemed delicate like the other children. It was no one’s fault – no road accident, or carelessness of the boys or anything like that. A tumour that couldn’t be reached, and an asthma attack.
Peggy’s life has been full of blows. Her first marriage was very happy, but he was killed at the beginning of the war, leaving her with three young children to bring up. Her second marriage was not a success. She had to sell the lovely house here in Egypt and lives now in a near-slum in London SE. One of her brothers is always causing anxiety, and so on. And now this. It doesn’t seem fair that one person should have to bear so much, when it doesn’t seem deserved.
Tuesday, 20 October
40 – what was I on Sunday – 3/4/5? Does it matter? I am over 40 and have so little to show for all these years. They have been spent in struggle to understand myself and to improve; to change and become what I think I want to be.
Neither her cat book nor her novel (Heiress Caroline) found a publisher. Even her journals became less central to her life: having filled 34 exercise books between 1925 and 1952, in addition to hundreds of personal loose pages before this, Jean would write only 11 further (and far thinner) books before her death. Whereas once she would take one book to describe three months, increasingly, a single volume would cover two or three years. Several months would often pass without an entry or explanation of absence.
43.
The Colour of Nurses
Wednesday, 3 February 1954 (aged forty-four)
Our world is frost-bound. Hard, hard, everything tight and solid with frost. I keep fires going in sitting room and kitchen, all doors closed. I fear there will be terrible mortality in the garden.
Yesterday the Southern Counties Silver Jubilee Cat Show in Westminster. I entered Pye and Bum (Bumphrey). Pye was only entry in her class. She was awarded a 1st.
Bum, competing with fully pedigreed red and silver tabbies, won a 2nd in a kitten class. This is very cheering. I tried to sell him yesterday – but custom was bad. I failed to find anyone for Pye too, so here we are, all home again, seven cats in fine form.
Wednesday, 10 February
Now Pinnie is missing. Oh these cats, unending anxiety and heartbreak. She must have been coming on heat last week. Nick the local stud seemed very interested. I shut the pair up together in shed for two days and nights. But she would have nothing to do with him – just batted him on the nose and went to sleep. On Monday afternoon I idiotically let her out. She went off, yelling madly, and was seen by a neighbour that afternoon heading towards the Common.
I’ve been writing a review of Virginia Woolf’s published diary for the Society of Women Writers Festival comp. Could have written pages, but had to compress into 750 words. Somewhere she remarks something to the effect that a diary is often the resource of the potential writer unable to make the sustained effort for other work. But is useful for writers as a means of loosening the ligaments. The result is enthralling.
Later: I have supper, do ironing, and wash-up listening to The Unguarded Hour, and now silence.214 Pinnie is missing. Does it matter? One little cat in seven? Can I endure it again, this not knowing, maybe never knowing, the long search, the asking? My little grey cat galloping after me through the woods, here I come, here I come.
Thursday, 11 February
She crawled in this morning – no, trotted, when I opened door to postman. Very hungry and peevish. Is sulky, arrogant, and only now and then condescends to be gracious and playful.
Aunt Maggie is to have an old friend’s bungalow rent-free for the rest of her life, and when she is settled, Ethel is to join her. This is a miracle. One could not imagine what these two old ladies were to do, and now here is a home for them, secure, till the end.
Saturday, 13 February
Yesterday’s evening and this morning’s papers have been full of the research being done on the ‘relationship between smoking and cancer of the lung’. It is established now that there is a connection, though other factors may contribute (e.g. air pollution in urban areas) and some people who were not smokers at all have died from it. When I mentioned that to friend tobacconist he brought out the names of seven locals who had died recently of the disease – and all of them excessive smokers. But I still get my supply for 30–40 a day. ‘Well goodbye,’ he said, ‘in case I don’t see you again’.
Not that I mind dying – I have to face it one day. But I don’t want to die just yet. I’d like to feel I’d done here what I have to do. I’m still very much of a ‘failure’, and shall go on feeling so until I can earn my living by writing. If I have any luck with the V.W. review it might lead to something. I have been thinking of Woman’s Hour possibilities too. Might try a talk on breeding cats for a hobby (NOT Siamese), and could chat endlessly about Wee and garden.
Friday, 5 March
British Museum again this week – Monday, Wednesday and yesterday. On Tuesday to the annual meeting of the Red, Cream, Tortie, Blue-Cream and Brown Tabby Society. At 7 a.m. Pinnie had another alarming ‘attack’ in my bedroom, nearly fell into the electric fire. I stayed at home and summoned vet. He thinks she is epileptic. This really is a blow to my breeding hopes.
Sunday, 2 May
Finished typing the novel yesterday and felt all-in. I wheedled drugs and tonic from doctor to carry me over Easter. He gave me mild sleeping tablets which do seem to work, wonderfully. They stop the brain-buzz, and get me off quickly and soundly. When one has to wake early, as I did when paying guests were here, one feels a bit drunk at first; one bumps into things.
Monday, 10 May
Last night Lady S.’s little brute of a dog began to bark furiously in her kitchen at about midnight – it seemed just under my window. I was falling off deliciously, but the noise made me think of night prowlers, sex maniacs and homicidal lunatics. Torment. Couldn’t relax. The old panics returned. Krishnamurti useless in these night hours of desolation.
Friday, 4 June
Ethel came and was with me three weeks. She took over all the chores and catering while I finished Heiress Caroline – it was posted to Harper’s on May 22nd. I went flat after that for several days, felt like a tube of squeezed-out toothpaste. E. kept me in bed one
whole day, spoilt me thoroughly.
This morning I was at hairdresser’s by 9 a.m. Have taken to a horse’s tail – oddly, it suits my temperamental hair and is the one style that seems to keep moderately tidy in nearly all circs. I thought I would never wear this absurdity: too young for me, altogether too eccentric and silly. But it isn’t. It meets with general approval, at least with my own.
I have my longed-for portable radio – a Champion (£9 5s), and have finished with Radio Rentals. I can listen in bed, or in any room at any time. Runs off the mains; plugs into each room.
Phone rings. I am to join the M.s on a picnic excursion to Whipsnade tomorrow.
Whit Monday, 7 June
We all set off in grand style in thin frocks with picnic baskets. Then came the storm – torrential rain, thunder and lightning. We sheltered beneath trees while Peter dashed out to get the car for us. We were eleven in all: seven adults and four children, in two cars.
I enjoyed it all, on the surface. Why have I this urge to be alone, this feeling of relief and pleasure when I am? Not that it lasts, but the need mounts until I must have the breathing space: an interval in which I can stretch, relax and be myself. But am I never ‘myself’ except when alone? What do I mean by that? I think I mean freedom to think and feel without restraint. Always, the presence of another person or other people sets up resistance, barriers, obstacles. One is aware not only of one’s own limitations and shortcomings, but of the prejudices and barriers and limitations in other people. One is stifled, wounded, or made impatient by them. I long for the opportunity to withdraw into silence.
Saturday, 12 June
I was thinking of brilliant people who achieve big things. People who do brilliantly at school from an early age and become leading politicians or lawyers (I listened to Cambridge Union debate on Third Programme last night), or psychologists, or doctors, or poets, or artists, or business men … They have it in them from the cradle; their potentiality is apparent, is nursed in encouraging circumstances, and flowers naturally. They are born to be great, and become great in their particular line, and rarely, rarely if ever can they understand the mentality of mediocrity, the also-rans.
A Notable Woman Page 54