15 December 1919 – 21 December 1919

When I had gone to bed I realised what it was that had caused me to * give way.' It was the effort of being up, with a heart that won't work. Not my lungs at all. My despair simply disappeared — yes, simply. The weather was lovely. Every morning the sun came in and drew more squares of golden light on the wall, I looked round my bed on to a sky like silk. The day opened slowly, slowly like a flower, and it held the sun long, long before it slowly, slowly folded. Then my homesickness went. I not only didn't want to be in England, I began to love Italy, and the thought of it — the sun — even when it was too hot — always the sun — and a kind of wholeness which was good to bask in. All these two years I have been obsessed by the fear of death. This grew and grew and grew gigantic, and this it was that made me cling so, I think. Ten days ago it went, I care no more. It leaves me perfectly cold. . . . Life either stays or goes. I must put down here a dream. The first night I was in bed here, i.e. after my first day in bed, I went to sleep. And suddenly I felt my whole body breaking up. It broke up with a violent shock — an earthquake — and it broke like glass. A long terrible shiver, you un- derstand — the spinal cord and the bones and every bit and particle quaking. It sounded in my ears a low, confused din, and there was a sense of floating green- ish brilliance, like broken glass. When I woke I thought that there had been a violent earthquake. But all was still. It slowly dawned upon me — the con- viction that in that dream I died. I shall go on living now — it may be for months, or for weeks or days or hours. Time is not. In that dream I died. The spirit that is the enemy of death and quakes so and is so tenacious was shaken out of me. I am (December 15, 1919) a dead woman, and / don't care. It might comfort others to know that one gives up car- ing; but they'd not believe any more than I did until it happened. And, oh, how strong was its hold upon me! How I adored life and dreaded death! I'd like to write my books and spend some happy time with J. (not very much faith withal) and see L. in a sunny place and pick violets — all kinds of flow- ers. I'd like to do heaps of things, really. But I don't mind if I do not do them. . . . Honesty (why ? ) is the only thing one seems to prize beyond life, love, death, everything. It alone remaineth. O you who come after me, will you believe it? At the end truth is the only thing worth having: it's more thrilling than love, more joyful and more passionate. It simply cannot fail. All else fails. I, at any rate, give the remainder of my life to it and it alone.

I'd like to write a long, long story on this and call it " Last Words to Life." One ought to write it. And another on the subject of Hate.