I must note the symptoms of the disease so as to know it next time. A slice of wind like a circular saw. Doubts creep in, I omit the flourishes. The haphazard gallop. An odd thing, the human mind! In the comfortable bright hour after tea, London was burning. I am blown like an old flag, considerably damaged.
Today, we saw the most beautiful views and the most melancholy man with devastating clearness. What sort of diary should I like mine to be?. What does it matter, writing too many pages? Feasting spontaneously on the grave?
Often now I have to control my excitement. I'll run through the rain like a lost child--wandering the house, sitting on the bottom step to cry. Really I am a little bored. .All eyeless and featureless with nothing to cling to. Asleep again on the train. I have written myself into half a headache and have come to a halt. Like a tired horse, I shall revise it January February March April
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* fragments culled from Virgina Woolf's A Writer's Diary....
