Saturday, February 7th.
Here in the few minutes that remain, I must record, heaven be praised, the end of The Waves. I wrote the words O Death fifteen minutes ago, having reeled across the last ten pages with some moments of such intensity and intoxication that I seemed only to stumble after my own voice, or almost, after some sort of speaker (as when I was mad) I was almost afraid, remembering the voices that used to fly ahead. Anyhow, it is done; and I have been sitting these 15 minutes in a state of glory, and calm, and some tears, thinking of Thoby and if I could write Julian Thoby Stephen 1881-1906 on the first page. I suppose not. How physical the sense of triumph and relief is! Whether good or bad, it’s done; and, as I certainly felt at the end, not merely finished, but rounded off, completed, the thing stated - how hastily, how fragmentarily I know; but I mean that I have netted that fin in the waste of water which appeared to me over the marshes of my window at Rodmell when I was coming to an end of To the Lighthouse.
What interests me in the last stage was the freedom and boldness with which my imagination picked up, used and tossed aside all the images, symbols which I had prepared. I am sure that this is the right way of using them - not in set pieces, as I had tried at first, coherently, but simply as images, never making them work out; only suggest. Thus I hope to have kept the sound of the sea and the birds, dawn and garden subconsciously present, doing their work under ground.
Saturday, March 28th.
Arnold Bennett died last night; which leaves me sadder than I should have supposed. A lovable genuine man; impeded, somehow a little awkward in life; well meaning; ponderous; kindly; coarse; knowing he was coarse; dimly floundering and feeling for something else; glutted with success; wounded in his feelings; avid; thicklipped; prosaic intolerably; rather dignified; set upon writing; yet always taken in; deluded by splendour and success; but naive; an old bore; an egotist; much at the mercy of life for all his competence; a shopkeeper’s view of literature; yet with the rudiments, covered over with fat and prosperity and the desire for hideous Empire furniture; of sensibility. Some real understanding power, as well as a gigantic absorbing power. These are the sort of things that I think by fits and starts this morning, as I sit journalizing; I remember his determination to write 1,000 words daily; and how he trotted off to do it that night, and feel some sorrow that now he will never sit down and begin methodically covering his regulation number of pages in his workmanlike beautiful but dull hand. Queer how one regrets the dispersal of anybody who seemed - as I say - genuine: who had direct contact with life - for he abused me; and I yet rather wished him to go on abusing me; and me abusing him. An element in life - even in mine that was so remote - taken away. This is what one minds.
Saturday, April nth.
Oh I am so tired of correcting my own writing - these 8 articles - I have however learnt I think to dash: not to finick. I mean the writing is free enough; it’s the repulsiveness of correcting that nauseates me. And the cramming in and cutting out. And articles and more articles are asked for. Forever I could write articles.
But I have no pen - well, it will just make a mark. And not much to say, or rather too much and not the mood.
Wednesday, May 13th.
Unless I write a few sentences here from time to time I shall, as they say, forget the use of my pen. I am now engaged in typing out from start to finish the 332 pages of that very condensed book The Waves. I do 7 or 8 daily; by which means I hope to have the whole complete by June 16th or thereabouts. This requires some resolution; but I can see no other way to make all the corrections and keep the lilt and join up and expand and do all the other processes. It is like sweeping over an entire canvas with a wet brush.
Saturday, May 30th.
No, I have just said, it being 12.45, I cannot write any more, and indeed I cannot: I am copying the death chapter; have, re-written it twice. I shall go at it again and finish it, I hope, this afternoon. But how it rolls into a tight ball the muscles in my brain! This is the most concentrated work I have ever done - and oh the relief when it is finished. But also the most interesting.
Tuesday, June 23rd.
And yesterday, 22nd June, when, I think, the days begin to draw in, I finished my re-typing of The Waves. Not that it is finished - oh dear no. For then I must correct the re-re-typing. This work I began on May 5th, and no one can say that I have been hasty or careless this time; though I doubt not the lapses and slovenliness are innumerable.
Tuesday, July 7th.
O to seek relief from this incessant correction (I am doing the interludes) and write a few words carelessly. Still better, to write nothing; to tramp over the downs, blown like thistle, as irresponsible. And to get away from this hard knot in which my brain has been so tight spun - I mean The Waves. Such are my sentiments at half past twelve on Tuesday July 7th - a fine day I think - and everything, so the tag runs in my head, handsome about us.
Tuesday, July 14th.
It is now twelve o’clock on the morning of July 14th - and Bob1 has come in to ask me to sign a paper to get Palmer a pension. Bob says... mostly about his new house, washing basins, can he use a candle still to go to bed with; Bessy is moving in today; he is off to Italy for a month; will I send a copy of my new book to Count Moira, all Italians are Counts, once he showed four Counts round Cambridge; Palmer...... and so on: shuffling from foot to foot, taking his hat off and putting it on again, moving to the door and returning.
I had meant to say that I have just finished correcting the Hampton Court scene. (This is the final correction please God!) But my Waves account runs, I think, as follows: — I began it, seriously, about September 10th 1929. I finished the first version on April 10th 1930. I began the second version on May 1st 1930. I finished the second version on February 7th 1931. I began to correct second version on May 1st 1931, finished 22nd June 1931. I began to correct the typescript on 25th June 1931. Shall finish (I hope) 18th July 1931. Then remain only the proofs.
Friday, July 17th.
Yes, this morning I think I may say I have finished. That is to say I have once more, for the 18th time, copied out the opening sentences. L. will read it tomorrow; and I shall open this book to record his verdict. My own opinion - oh dear - it’s a difficult book. I don’t know that I’ve ever felt so strained. And I’m nervous, I confess, about L. For one thing he will be honest, more than usually. And it may be a failure. And I can’t do any more. And I’m inclined to think it good but incoherent, inspissate; one jerk succeeding another. Anyhow it is laboured, compact. Anyhow I had a shot at my vision - if it’s not a catch, it’s a cast in the right direction. But I’m nervous. It may be small and finicky in general effect. Lord knows. As I say, repeating it to enforce the rather unpleasant little lift in my heart, I shall be nervous to hear what L. says when he comes out, say tomorrow night or Sunday morning, to my garden room, carrying the MS. and sits himself down and begins ‘Well!’
Sunday, July 19th.
‘It is a masterpiece,’ said L., coming out to my lodge this morning. ‘And the best of your books.’ This note I make; adding that he also thinks the first 100 pages extremely difficult and is doubtful how far any common reader will follow. But Lord! what a relief! I stumped off in the rain to make a little round to Rat Farm in jubilation and am almost resigned to the fact that a goat farm, with a house to be built, is now in process on the slope near Northease.
Monday, August 10th.
I have now - 10.45 ~ read the first chapter of The Waves, and made no changes, save 2 words and 3 commas. Yes, anyhow this is exact and to the point. I like it. And see that for once my proofs will be despatched with a few pencil strokes. Now my blood mounts: I think ‘I am taking my fences... We have asked Raymond. I am forging through the sea, in spite of headache, in spite of bitterness. I may also get a.’ I will now write a little at Flush.
Saturday, August 15th.
I am in rather a flutter - proof reading. I can only read a few pages at a time. So it was when I wrote it and Heaven knows what virtue i
t has, this ecstatic book.
Sunday, August 16th.
I should really apologize to this book for using it as I am doing to write off my aimlessness; that is I am doing my proofs - the last chapter this morning - and find that I must stop after half an hour and let my mind spread, after these moments of concentration. I cannot write my life of Flush, because the rhythm is wrong. I think The Waves is anyhow tense and packed; since it screws my brain up like this. And what will the reviewers say? And my friends? They can’t, of course, find anything very new to say.
Monday, August 17th.
Well now, it being just after 12.30, I have put the last corrections in The Waves; done my proofs; and they shall go tomorrow - never, never to be looked at again by me, I imagine.
Tuesday, September 22nd.
And Miss Holtby says ‘It is a poem, more completely than any of your other books, of course. It is most rarely subtle. It has seen more deeply into the human heart, perhaps, than even To the Lighthouse...’ and though I copy the sentence, because it is in the chart of my temperature, Lord, as I say, that temperature which was deathly low this time last week and then fever high, doesn’t rise: is normal. I suppose I’m safe; I think people can only repeat. And I’ve forgotten so much. What I want is to be told that this is solid and means something. What it means I myself shan’t know till I write another book. And I’m the hare, a long way ahead of the hounds my critics.
52 Tavistock Square
Monday, October 5th.
A note to say I am all trembling with pleasure - can’t go on with my Letter - because Harold Nicolson has rung up to say The Waves is a masterpiece. Ah Hah - so it wasn’t all wasted then. I mean this vision I had here has some force upon other minds. Now for a cigarette and then a return to sober composition.
Well, to continue this egotistic diary: I am not terribly excited; no; at arms length more than usual; all this talk, because if the W. is anything it is an adventure which I go on alone; and the dear old Lit. Sup: who twinkles and beams and patronizes - a long, and for The Times, kind and outspoken review - don’t stir me very much. Nor Harold in Action either. Yes; to some extent; I should have been unhappy had they blamed, but Lord, how far away I become from all this; and we’re jaded too, with people, with doing up parcels. I wonder if it is good to feel this remoteness - that is, that The Waves is not what they say. Odd, that they (The Times) should praise my characters when I meant to have none. But I’m jaded; I want my marsh, my down, a quiet waking in my airy bedroom. Broadcasting tonight; to Rodmell tomorrow. Next week I shall have to stand the racket.
Friday, October 9th.
Really, this unintelligible book is being better ‘received’ than any of them. A note in The Times proper - the first time this has been allowed me. And it sells - how unexpected, how odd that people can read that difficult grinding stuff!
Saturday, October 17th.
More notes on The Waves. The sales, these past three days, have fallen to 50 or so: after the great flare up when we sold 500 in one day, the brushwood has died down, as I foretold. (Not that I thought we should sell more than 3,000.) What has happened is that the library readers can’t get through it and are sending their copies back. So, I prophesy, it will now dribble along till we have sold 6,000 and then almost die, yet not quite. For it has been received, as I may say, quoting the stock phrases without vanity, with applause. All the provinces read enthusiastically. I am rather, in a sense, as the M.’s would say, touched. The unknown provincial reviewers say with almost one accord, here is Mrs Woolf doing her best work; it can’t be popular; but we respect her for so doing; and find The Waves positively exciting. I am in danger, indeed, of becoming our leading novelist, and not with the highbrows only.
Monday, November 16th.
Here I will give myself the pleasure - shall I? - of copying a sentence or two from Morgan’s unsolicited letter on The Waves: —
‘I expect I shall write to you again when I have re-read The Waves. I have been looking in it and talking about it at Cambridge. It’s difficult to express oneself about a work which one feels to be so very important, but I’ve the sort of excitement over it which comes from believing that one’s encountered a classic.’
But I must keep to the old style in this volume. And how, I wonder, could I do it? There must be some simpler, subtler, closer means of writing about books, as about people, could I hit upon it. (The Waves has sold more than 7,000.)
1932.
Wednesday, January 13th.
Oh but this is, as I always say, making an apology myself to myself, not the first day of the year. It is the thirteenth, and I am in one of those lassitudes and ebbs of life when I cannot heave another word on to the wall. My word, what a heaving The Waves was, that I still feel the strain!
Can we count on another 20 years? I shall be fifty on 25th, Monday week that is: and sometimes feel that I have lived 250 years already, and sometimes that I am still the youngest person in the omnibus. (Nessa said that she still always thinks this, as she sits down.) And I want to write another four novels: Waves, I mean; and the Tap on the Door; and to go through English literature, like a string through cheese, or rather like some industrious insect, eating its way from book to book, from Chaucer to Lawrence. This is a programme, considering my slowness, and how I get slower, thicker, more intolerant of the fling and the rush, to last out my 20 years, if I have them.
Sunday, January 31st.
Having just finished, as I say, the final version as I call it, of my Letter to a Young Poet, I can take a moment’s liberty. From the cynical tone of this sentence I see that my finality is not secure. Writing becomes harder and harder. Things I dashed off I now compress and re-state. And for purposes which I need not go into here, I want to use these pages for dialogue for a time.
Monday, February 8th.
Why did I ever say I would produce another volume of Common Reader? It will take me week after week, month after month. However a year spent - save for diversions in Greece and Russia - in reading through English literature will no doubt do good to my fictitious brain. Rest it anyhow. One day, all of a rush, fiction will burst in. These remarks are jotted down at the end of a long morning’s work on Donne, which will have to be done again, and is it worth the doing? I wake in the night with the sense of being in an empty hall: Lytton dead and those factories building. What is the point of it - life - when I am not working - suddenly becomes thin, indifferent. Lytton is dead, and nothing definite to mark it. Also they write flimsy articles about him.
Thursday, February 11th.
My mind is set running upon A Knock on the Door (what’s its name?) owing largely to reading Wells on Woman - how she must be ancillary and decorative in the world of the future, because she has been tried, in 10 years, and has not proved anything.
Tuesday, February 16th.
And I have just ‘finished’ - I use inverted commas ironically - my Donne, a great but I think well intentioned grind. And I’m quivering and itching to write my - what’s it to be called?
- “Men are like that’? - no, that’s too patently feminist. The sequel then, for which I have collected enough powder to blow up St Paul’s. It is to have four pictures. And I must go on with the Common Reader - for one thing, by way of proving my credentials.
Tuesday, May 17th.
What is the right attitude towards criticism? What ought I to feel and say when Miss B. devotes an article in Scrutiny to attacking me? She is young, Cambridge, ardent. And she says I’m a very bad writer. Now I think the thing to do is to note the pith of what is said - that I don’t think - then to use the little kick of energy which opposition supplies to be more vigorously oneself. It is perhaps true that my reputation will now decline. I shall be laughed at and pointed at. What should be my attitude - clearly Arnold Bennett and Wells took the criticism of their youngers in the wrong way. The right way is not to resent; not to be longsuffering and Christian and submissive either. Of course, with my odd mixture of extreme rashness and mode
sty (to analyse roughly) I very soon recover from praise and blame. But I want to find out an attitude. The most important thing is not to think very much about oneself. To investigate candidly the charge; but not fussily, not very anxiously. On no account to retaliate by going to the other extreme - thinking too much. And now that thorn is out - perhaps too easily.
Wednesday, May 25th.
Now I have ‘finished’ David Copperfield, and I say to myself can’t I escape to some pleasanter atmosphere? Can’t I expand and embalm and become a sentient living creature? Lord how I suffer! What a terrific capacity I possess for feeling with intensity - now, since we came back, I’m screwed up into a ball; can’t get into step; can’t make things dance; feel awfully detached; see youth; feel old; no, that’s not quite it: wonder how a year or so perhaps is to be endured. Think, yet people do live; can’t imagine what goes on behind faces. All is surface hard; myself only an organ that takes blows, one after another; the horror of the hard raddled faces in the flower show yesterday: the inane pointlessness of all this existence: hatred of my own brainlessness and indecision; the old treadmill feeling, of going on and on and on, for no reason: Lytton’s death; Carrington’s; a longing to speak to him; all that cut away, gone:... women: my book on professions: shall I write another novel; contempt for my lack of intellectual power; reading Wells without understanding;... society; buying clothes; Rodmell spoilt; all England spoilt: terror at night of things generally wrong in the universe; buying clothes; how I hate Bond Street and spending money on clothes: worst of all is this dejected barrenness. And my eyes hurt: and my hand trembles.
Complete Works of Virginia Woolf Page 575