Sublime

most of

I had learned to see these things very differently since living with Ellador;

Woolf herself was ambivalent about “On Being Ill,” and about its opening sentence.

tyrant,

And tonight I shall have the pleasure of finishing him—though why considering that I’ve enjoyed almost every stanza, this should be a pleasure I really don’t know. But so it always is, whether the book’s a good book or a bad book.

One hour’s writing daily is my allowance for the next few weeks; and having hoarded it this morning I may spend part of it now, since L. is out and I am much behindhand with the month of January. I note however that this diary writing does not count as writing, since I have just re-read my year’s diary and am much struck by the rapid haphazard gall

mbeles