Early, gray but with enough light to waken me. Among various work, and things not done, and a few things done: still a certain drift, this frequent anxiety that my inept use of my own time puts my life in the category of 'unsuccessful, also ran, not quite sound.' Not quite a failure, certainly not a success.
Woolf's diaries again: so comforting, so everyday. She is also disappointed in her life, between bouts of exaltation – of course there are things that seem now almost humorous in their incommensurability: "here nothing but odds and ends", in the midst of writing To the Lighthouse (still my revered favorite of all her books), and meeting with Hardy and one of the Sitwells. Odds and ends from some perspectives, maybe.
In little things – plane fares, what to do next with the book, days when nothing gets done – I of course want to turn to V. Have a fairly childish, peevish sense of missing somebody that I want to be around, somebody I need to depend on. An odd image that has drifted into my mind several nights, as I'm going to sleep: of me carrying her – she was very thin, it wouldn't have been hard to do I think; though I never did pick her up – and walking towards – I don't know what.
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