Thursday 5 May
Book out. We have sold (I think) 1690 before publicationâ€”twice Dalloway. I write however in the
shadow of the damp cloud of the Times Lit Sup. review, which is an exact copy of the JsR. Mrs Dalloway
review, gentlemanly, kindly, timid & praising beauty, doubting character, & leaving me moderately depressed.
I am anxious about Time Passes. Think the whole thing may be pronounced soft, shallow, insipid, sentimental.
Yet, honestly, don't much care; want to be let alone to ruminate. Odd how strong this feeling is in me. Now I
think we are safe to get our motor car. The next fortnight we shall both be depressed about our books.
Dined with the Wests last night, all solid, shiny, spread & spacious; as if they were settling in; wedding
presents; clean covers, carpets, &c. all too handsome for my taste. I'm reverting to squalor as my milieu. And
then why did she marry him? He is the type of any other cleverish young journalist, common, glib: unesy last
night, lest we should talk of Angus. But we talked of Madge.
I know why I am depressed: a bad habit of making up the review I should like before reading the review
I get. I am excited about my article on Poetry & Fiction. Writing for an audience always stirs me. I hope to avoid
too many jokes. Then Vita will come tomorrow. But I dont want people: I want solitude; Rome.
Nelly away; Pinker [dog] away; Clive coming back; Opera in swing; Francis to see me about writing;
fine spring weather.