Novel Readings

In my previous post I wondered whether we knew what Woolf’s wishes were for her diary: whether she imagined it as something others would someday read, or thought of it as—and hoped it would remain—a private space. How might these different ideas about what she was writing, or who she was writing for, have affected what she wrote? With these questions still lingering as I read on yesterday, I reached an entry that explicitly addresses what keeping a diary meant to her and what her aspirations were for it, particularly for herself as a writer. It’s a longish passage but I’m going to copy the whole of it here, because I find every bit of it so interesting. It’s part of her entry for Sunday 20 April, 1919.

In the idleness which succeeds any long article, & Defoe is the 2nd leader this month, I got out this diary, & read as one always does read one’s own writing, with a kind of guilty intensity. I confess that the rough & random style of it, often so ungrammatical, & crying for a word altered, afflicted me somewhat. I am trying to tell whichever self it is that reads this hereafter that I can write very much better; & take no time over this; & forbid her to let the eye of man behold it. And now I may add my little compliment to the effect that it has a slapdash & vigour, & sometimes hits an unexpected bulls eye. But what is more to the point is my belief that the habit of writing thus for my own eye only is good practise. It loosens the ligaments. Never mind the misses & the stumbles. Going at such a pace as I do I must make the most direct & instant shots at my object, & thus have to lay hands on words, choose them, & shoot them with no more pause than is needed to put my pen in the ink. I believe that during the past year I can trace some increase of ease in my professional writing which I attribute to my casual half hours after tea. Moreover there looms ahead of me the shadow of some kind of form which a diary might attain to. I might in the course of time learn what it is that one can make of this loose, drifting material of life; finding another use for it than the use I put it to, so much more consciously & scrupulously, in fiction. What sort of diary should I like mine to be? Something loose knit, & yet not slovenly, so elastic that it will embrace any thing, solemn, slight or beautiful that comes into my mind. I should like it to resemble some deep old desk, or capacious hold-all, in which one flings a mass of odds & ends without looking them through. I should like to come back, after a year or two, & find that the collection had sorted itself & refined itself & coalesced, as such deposits so mysteriously do, into a mould transparent enough to reflect the light of our live, & yet steady, tranquil composed with the aloofness of a work of art. The main requisite, I think on re-reading my old volumes, is not to play the part of censor, but to write as the mood comes or of anything whatever; since I was curious to find how I went for things put in haphazard, & found the significance to lie where I never saw it at the time. But looseness quickly becomes slovenly. A little effort is needed to face a character or an incident which needs to be recorded. Nor can one let the pen write without guidance; for fear of becoming slack & untidy like Vernon Lee. Her ligaments are too loose for my taste.

“But to return to live,” she then says, “albeit with something of an effort,” and back she goes to writing the diary instead of reflecting on it.

What a lot of “significance” there is in these ruminations! Of course I noticed the comments about writing just for her own eye, nobody else’s, which seem crucially linked to the insight that for the process to work, she must not censor herself. Probably all writers know she is right that writing often, however seemingly loosely, does lead to an “increase in ease” for the writing we have to do: I have not personally gotten into ‘morning pages,’ but they seem a good example of this theory put into practice—for me, this blog loosens my ligaments, without, I hope, seeming “slovenly”! Her desire to express the “loose, drifting material of life,” to find a kind of transparency in prose that allows form and meaning to emerge unexpectedly, anticipates the ways her fiction would develop over the next twenty years; “steady, tranquil composed with the aloofness of a work of art” is a beautiful description of the somewhat abstract aesthetic of To the Lighthouse, say. It’s clear that she sees the diary form as permissive in a way that even then she would not accept for her fiction, but that the freedom she wanted in writing less “consciously & scrupulously” feels to her like essential preparation for the work to come. As we ourselves read her diaries, invading the privacy she did seem to want, perhaps we can also think of ourselves as opening that “capacious hold-all” and proving through our own fascination that, as she had hoped, the “mass of odds & ends” she threw into it have coalesced and refined into something new and wonderful.

As I keep reading, I will be thinking especially about the challenge she set for herself of being loose and elastic without becoming “slack & untidy,” and also watching for more such self-conscious reflections on the process of keeping the diary. Does the “shadow of some kind of form” become more fixed in her mind or her practice? Or does the looseness she values depend on that form always being somehow elusive, so that the result never becomes routine or formulaic?