Saturday 27 June

A bitter cold day, succeeding a chilly windy night, in which were lit all the Chinese lanterns of Roger's 
garden party. And I do not love my kind. I detest them. I pass them by. I let them break on me like dirty rain 
drops. No longer can I summon up that energy which when it sees one of these dry little sponges floating past, 
or rather stuck on the rock, sweeps round them, steeps them, infuses them, nerves them, & so finally fills them 
& creates them. Once I had a gift for doing this, & a passion, & it made parties arduous & exciting. So when 
I wake early now I luxuriate most in a whole day alone; a day of easy natural poses, a little printing, slipping 
tranquilly off into the deep water of my own thoughts navigating the underworld; & then replenishing my cistern 
at night with Swift. I am going to write about Stella & Swift for Richmond, as a sign of grace, after sweeping 
guineas off the Vogue counter. The first fruit of the C.R. (a book too highly praised now) is a request to write 
for the Atlantic Monthly. So I am getting pushed into criticism. It is a great stand by—this power to make large 
sums by formulating views on Stendhal & Swift.

Jack dined here last night; & we said how many years is it since we three were alone in a room
together? he & Nessa & I, waiting for dinner, & a little nervous. I'm more nervous of these encounters than she 
is. She has a sweet cordiality (odd term to use) which impressed me, recalling mother, as she led him on; & 
laughed; so sincere, so quiet, & then, when we went on to Roger's rather dismal gathering, gay & spirited, 
kissing Chrissie & flirting with Mrs Anrep, so careless & casual & white-haired—but enough of this. The truth 
is I am too random headed to describe Jack, yet he is worth describing. He made us laugh of course. He said 
such Wallerish things. "There are two kinds of biography, my dear Ginia"—in his old opinionative sententious 
way with enormous emphasis. He is red-copper coloured, with a pouch under his chin which rests on his collar; 
trusty brown eyes, a little hazy now, & one ear deaf, he said, & proceeded to tell us how he is cured by a Swiss 
every year, & gives the Nuns who keep the clinic a box of chocolates, which they love, being underfed. He looks 
in at the window & sees them handing the box round, & picking in turn. Then he told us, driving back from 
Roger's—I insist upon paying this taxi my dear Leonard—how he sugared for moths last summer & caught 
perhaps 150—& the man he was with (on a fishing club) left his electric light on & the moths came & sat on the 
curtain. He exaggerates, illuminates, appreciates everyone very generously. L. thinks he "might become a bit of 
a bore". Then we discussed his writing an autobiography: upon which he became very intent, & almost 
emotional. "But could one tell the truth? About one's affairs with women? About one's parents? My mother 
now—she was a very able woman—we all owe her an awful lot—but hard." She said an odd thing to Nessa 
once—that she hated girls, especially motherless girls. "There you go very deep— It was the terror of her life—
that she was losing her charm. She would never have a girl in the house. It was a tragedy. She was a very selfish 
woman." (But while I try to write, I am making up "To the Lighthouse"—the sea is to be heard all through it. I 
have an idea that I will invent a new name for my books to supplant "novel". A new —— by Virginia Woolf. 
But what? Elegy?)