Virginia Woolf’s diary, 1938

Yes, I will force myself to begin this cursed year. For one thing I have “finished” the last chapter of Three Guineas and for the first time since I don’t know when…

A ten minutes spin here. L. gravely approves Three Guineas. Thinks it an extremely clear analysis. On the whole I’m content. One can’t expect emotion, for as he…

We had our Easter at M.H.: but as for the sun, it never shone; was colder than Christmas; a grudging lead-coloured sky; razor wind; winter clothes; proofs; much…

I’m pleased this morning because Lady Rhondda writes that she is profoundly excited and moved by Three Guineas. Theo Bosanquet who has a review copy read her…

Time and again I have meant to write down my expectations, dreads and so on, waiting the publication on—I think June 2nd—of Three Guineas: but haven’t, because what…

It’s odd to be working at half cock after all those months of high pressure. The result is half an hour every day to write here. Roger I’m retyping: and shall then…

A letter from Pippa. She is enthusiastic. So this is the last load off my mind— which weighed it rather heavy, for I felt if I had written all that, if it was not…

This is the coming out day of Three Guineas. And the Lit. Sup. has two columns and a leader; and the Referee a great black bar Woman declares sex war, or some such…

This is the mildest childbirth I have ever had. Compare it with The Years! I wake knowing the yap will begin and never bother my head. Yesterday I had Time and…

Stop to light a pipe on the Icknield Way, a scrubby street of yellow villas. Now St. James Deeping. After Croyland, a magnificent moulded Church. Now very hot:…

Oh the appalling grind of getting back to Roger, after these violent oscillations, Three Guineas and P.H. How can I concentrate upon minute facts in letters? This…

The character of this summer is extreme drought. Brooks dry. Not a mushroom yet. Sunday is the devil’s own day at M.H.: dogs, children, bells . . . there they go…

A very fine clear September day. Sybil threatens to dine, but may put us off— should a Cabinet Minister crop up. Politics marking time. A violent attack on Three…

I don’t feel that the crisis is real—not so real as Roger in 1910 at Gordon Square, about which I’ve just been writing; and now switch off with some difficulty to…

Since I’m too stale to work—rather headachy—I may as well write a sketch roughly of the next chapter.* (I’ve been rather absorbed in P.H., hence headache. Note:…

By mistake I wrote some pages of Roger here; a proof, if proof is needed, as I’m in the habit of saying, that my books are in a muddle. Yes, at this moment, there…

Another 10 minutes. I’m taking a frisk at P.H. at which I can only write for one hour. Like the Waves. I enjoy it intensely: head screwed up over Roger. A violent…

Two things I mean to do when the long dark evenings come: to write, on the spur of the moment, as now, lots of little poems to go into P.H.: as they may come in…

I meant to write Reflections on my position as a writer. I don’t want to read Dante; have ten minutes over from rehashing “Lappin and Lapinova,” a story written I…

I will spend the last morning—for tomorrow will be an odious scramble—in summing up the year True, there are 10 days or so to run: but the liberty of this book…