Tuesday, January 20th
I have this moment, while having my bath, conceived an entire new book *—a sequel to A Room of One's Own—about the sexual life of women: to be called Professions for Women perhaps—Lord how exciting! This sprang out of my paper to be read on Wednesday to Pippa's society. Now for The Waves. Thank God—but I'm very much excited.
(This is Here and Now, I think. May '34.)
Friday, January 23rd
Too much excited, alas, to get on with The Waves. One goes on making up "The Open Door," or whatever it is to be called. The didactive demonstrative style conflicts with the dramatic: I find it hard to get back inside Bernard again.
Monday, January 26th
Heaven be praised, I can truthfully say on this first day of being 49 that I have shaken off the obsession of Opening the Door, and have returned to Waves: and have this instant seen the entire book whole, and now I can finish it—say in under 3 weeks. That takes me to February 16th; then I propose, after doing Gosse, or an article perhaps, to dash off the rough sketch of Open Door, to be finished by April 1st. (Easter is April 3rd.) We shall then, I hope, have an Italian journey; return say May 1st and finish Waves, so that the MS. can go to be printed in June and appear in September. These are possible dates anyhow. Yesterday at Rodmell we saw a magpie and heard the first spring birds: sharp egotistical, like man. A hot sun; walked over Caburn; home by Horley and saw three men dash from a blue car and race without hats across a field. We saw a silver and blue aeroplane in the middle of a field, apparently unhurt, among trees and cows. This morning the paper says three men were killed—the aeroplane dashing to the earth. But we went on, reminding me of that epitaph in the Greek anthology: when I sank, the other ships sailed on.
Monday, February 2nd
I think I am about to finish The Waves. I think I might finish it on Saturday.
This is merely an author's note: never have I screwed my brain so tight over a book. The proof is that I am almost incapable of other reading or writing. I can only flop wide once the morning is over. Oh Lord the relief when this week is over and I have at any rate the feeling that I have wound up and done with that long labour: ended that vision. I think I have just done what I meant; of course I have altered the scheme considerably; but my feeling is that I have insisted upon saying, by hook or by crook, certain things I meant to say. I imagine that the hookedness may be so great that it will be a failure from a reader's point of view. Well, never mind: it is a brave attempt. I think, something struggled for. Oh and then the delight of skirmishing free again—the delight of being idle and not much minding what happens; and then I shall be able to read again, with all my mind—a thing I haven't done these four months I daresay. This will have taken me 18 months to write: and we can't publish it till the autumn I suppose.
Wednesday, February 4th
A day ruined, for us both. L. has to go every morning at 10:15 to the Courts, where his jury is still called, but respited always till 10:15 the next day; and this morning, which should have dealt a formidable blow at The Waves—B. is within two days I think of saying O Death—was ruined by Elly, who was to have come at 9:30 sharp but did not come till 11. And it is now 12:30 and we sat talking about the period and professional women, after the usual rites with the stethoscope, seeking vainly the cause of my temperature. If we like to spend 7 guineas we might catch a bug—but we don't like. And so I am to eat Bemax and—the usual routine.
How strange and wilful these last exacerbations of The Waves are! I was to have finished it at Christmas.
Today Ethel * comes. On Monday I went to hear her rehearse. A vast Portland Place house with the cold wedding cake Adams plaster: shabby red carpets; flat surfaces washed with dull greens. The rehearsal was in a long room with a bow window looking on, in fact in, to other houses—iron staircases, chimneys, roofs—a barren brick outlook. There was a roaring fire in the Adams grate. Lady L. a now shapeless sausage, and Mrs. Hunter, * a swathed satin sausage, sat side by side on a sofa. Ethel stood at the piano in the window, in her battered felt, in her jersey and short skirt conducting with a pencil. There was a drop at the end of her nose. Miss Suddaby was singing the Soul, and I observed that she went through precisely the same attitudes of ecstasy and inspiration in the room as in a hall: there were two young or youngish men. Ethel's pince nez rode nearer and nearer the tip of her nose. She sang now and then; and once, taking the bass, made a cat squalling sound—but everything she does with such forthrightness, directness, that there is nothing ridiculous. She loses self-consciousness completely. She seems all vitalised; all energised. She knocks her hat from side to side. Strides rhythmically down the room to signify to Elizabeth that this is the Greek melody; strides back. Now the furniture moving begins, she said, referring to some supernatural gambols connected with the prisoner's escape, or defiance or death. I suspect the music is too literary—too stressed—too didactic for my taste. But I am always impressed by the fact that it is music—I mean that she has spun these coherent chords, harmonies, melodies out of her so practical vigorous student mind. What if she should be a great composer? This fantastic idea is to her the merest commonplace: it is the fabric of her being. As she conducts, she hears music like Beethoven's. As she strides and turns and wheels about to us perched mute on chairs she thinks this is about the most important event now taking place in London. And perhaps it is. Well—I watched the curiously sensitive, perceptive Jewish face of old Lady L. trembling like a butterfly's antennae to the sound. How sensitive to music old Jewesses are—how pliable, how supple. Mrs. Hunter sat like a wax figure, composed, upholstered, transfixed, with her gold chain purse.
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 out 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 journalising; 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 beg
in 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 11th
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 the 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 final 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.
p. 162. therefore halfway in 26 days. Shall finish by 1st July with luck.
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 Bob * 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 the 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!"
Which I then lost.
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 I 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 brood 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 it has, this ecstatic book.
Sunday, August 16th
I should really apologise 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. Arid 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 patronises—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 shou
ld 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.