Tuesday 19 January

Vita having this moment (20 minutes ago—it is now 7) left me, what are my feelings? Of a dim 
November fog; the lights dulled & damped. I walked towards the sound of a barrel organ in Marchmont Street. 
But this will disperse; then I shall want her, clearly & distinctly. Then not—& so on. This is the normal human 
feeling, I think. One wants to finish sentences. One wants that atmosphere—to me so rosy & calm. She is not
clever; but abundant & fruitful; truthful too. She taps so many sources of life: repose & variety, was her own
expression, sitting on the floor this evening in the gaslight. We dined last night at the Ivy with Clive; & then they
had a supper party, from which I refrained. Oh & mixed up with this is the invigoration of again beginning my 
novel, in the Studio, for the first time this morning. All these fountains play on my being & intermingle. I feel a 
lack of stimulus, of marked days, now Vita is gone; & some pathos, common to all these partings; & she has 4 
days journey through the snow.