Tuesday, 22 July 2014

Friday 17th February 1922

I meant to write about death, only life came breaking in as usual. I like, I see, to question people about death. I have taken it into my head that I shan't live till seventy. Suppose, I said to myself the other day, this pain over my heart suddenly wrung me out like a dish cloth and left me dead? - I was feeling sleepy, indifferent, and calm; and so thought it didn't much matter, except for L. Then, some bird or light, I daresay, or waking wider, set me off wishing to live - wishing chiefly to walk along the river and look at things.



  1. I feel the same too these days dear Jo.. Who is "L" in Virginia Woolf's life?

    I may not know who her bird or light..
    But you know who the bird light for me who makes me feel like Virginia: "set me off wishing to live."

    1. L is her husband, Leonard. Her words are so alive, so real, she still lives through them.

  2. So she does the same as I do! When I'm writing notes (not a diary, but some random written thoughts when I am in the act of waiting, like waiting for the water in the kettle to boil), I do not write the name, but just the first letter.. I'm worried someone else might read it and would keep teasing me saying "Who is______?"

    And sometimes I even feel the name to be a little hallowed to be written in some random papers..

    It's quite a poetic thought that she still lives in the words! When I read a dead author's work, I sense that he really is dead when his ideas do not apply to my time..

    But Virginia Woolf's words seem that they would apply for all times..Her thoughts are not just the thoughts of a woman at the turn of the century..but her ideals would always be ideal in times to come. She indeed lives still in her diary. :)