Monday 8 February

Just back from Rodmell—to use again the stock opening. And I should explain why I've let a
month slip perhaps. First, I think, the German measles or influenza; next Vita; then, disinclination for any 
exertion, so that I never made a book till last week. But undoubtedly this diary is established, & I sometimes 
look at it & wonder what on earth will be the fate of it. It is to serve the purpose of my memoirs. At 60 I am to 
sit down & write my life. As rough material for that masterpiece—& knowing the caprice of my own brain as 
record reader for I never know what will take my fancy, I here record that I come in to find the following letters 
waiting me. 1. Ottoline, on that wonderful essay On Being Ill. She is doing a cure. 2. A long letter of hysterical 
flattery from Miss Keiller [Kieffer] who is translating Jacob's Room. 3. a card, showing me her character in an 
unfavourable light from Miss Ethel Pye, who once met me in an omnibus & wishes to take a mask of my head; 
4. a letter from Harcourt Brace enclosing cheque from the Forum for O[n]. B[eing]. Ill. 5. a letter asking me to 
become one of the Committee of the English Association; 6. a cutting on Hogarth Essays from the Dial; 7. a note 
from Clive asking me to dine to meet his brother. I think this makes me out rather specially important. It is 3 
days post. I am rather tired, a little tired, from having thought too much about To the Lighthouse. Never never 
have I written so easily, imagined so profusely. Murry says my works won't be read in 10 years time—Well,
tonight I get a new edition of the V[oyage]. O[ut]. from Harcourt Brace—this was published 11 years ago.