1925

“Rodmell was all gale and flood: these words are exact. The river overflowed…Often I could not face a walk.” Instead, she revises Mrs. Dalloway, the chilliest part of the whole business of writing, the most depressing–exacting.” revision process: dislike of

She gets home from a trip to the South of France, and is characteristically self-involved and anti-social about a car accident she witnesses in London–the underclasses again.

128

Jacques Raverat, self portrait

Her friend, the painter Raverat, Jacques, has died. She remembers him for a complimentary letter he wrote to her about the proofs of Mrs. Dalloway, and she paraphrases Montaigne, Michel de: “it’s life that matters.”

She envies the style of another Frenchman Proust, Marcel, and writes about her blissful trip with Leonard to Cassis, France. 

She has “bored into her oil well” this year–has more ideas, and more ability to set them down, than ever before. She has the hang of first drafts: “the actual writing being now like the sweep of a brush; I fill it up afterwards.” She finally has “faith” in her own novels, something new for her, she never before “thought them my own expression.”

Common Reader, The comes out almost at the same time as Mrs. Dalloway, and at first, she thinks it will sink like a stone. No comment from critics, or friends–until there is, and a lot of it is good.

Strachey, Lytton doesn’t like Mrs. Dalloway, though. Style and subject not in harmony, doesn’t like Clarissa, but also, “what can one call it, but genius?” He suggests she use her gifts to write something like Tristram Shandy instead. (Friends: writing advice of). On the other hand, he thinks The Common Reader is  perfect. And she didn’t like Clarissa much either, but “one must dislike people in art without its mattering, unless indeed it is true that certain characters detract from the importance of what happens to them.” characters: likeability of and likeability of characters. Second time that subject has come up.

“It’s odd that when Clive and others… say it is a masterpiece, I am not much exalted; when Lytton picks holes, I get back into my working fighting mood, which is natural to me. I don’t see myself a success. I like the sense of effort better.” More for criticism of her writing: emotional effects of So far that’s enough, but I can see the tide is shifting from negative effects to positive–we’ll see if that has to be broken down later.

Common Reader, The starts doing so well, she gets more requests to write criticism. She likes the money, but is distracted by plans for To The Lighthouse. And so much to read. And plans for a book about obscure people in English history, that she never wrote. And then she overdoes it all, faints at her brother-in-law’s birthday party, and spends two of her eight planned writing weeks at Rodmell on bed rest with more of her headache. More subentries for illness… “Never mind. Arrange whatever pieces come your way. Never be unseated by the shying of that undependable brute, life, hag-ridden as she is by my own queer, difficult, nervous system.”

Reading:  plans for, and more criticism, both hers, and by others of her. Bridges, Robert, Poet Laureate, “likes Mrs. Dalloway; says no one will read it; but it is beautifully written” —and so were women writers ever reviewed. How’s the legacy doing, Mr. Bridges?

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1924

Reading: plans for. She assigns herself almost no current books. When she does, they’re mostly for reviews or the hot new topic of conversation. But when she lays out reading for herself, it’s mostly classics and poetry. Poetry includes Shakespeare, two acts an evening. Her train of thought turns to aging: taste in books and –her tastes have changed from prose to poetry.

And here I am reading her. After five years working for a book recommendation site, it’s refreshing and encouraging to be reminded that the constant hype machine of publishing, the pretty covers and author interviews, are the floodwater rapids of literature, with whatever depths there may be concealed beneath the froth. And that there are still deep clear all-season pools full of fish to explore…to overextend that metaphor.

More plans and schedules for reading and writing. A whole year laid out to finish Mrs. Dalloway, put her aside for three months, finish a book of essays, revise the novel, and have them come out one after another the next spring.

A move to Monk’s House, Rodmell gives her writer’s block.  “A change of house makes me oscillate for days.”

sitting_room_-_monks_house_-_rodmell_east_sussex_england_-_dsc05197-640x427

She makes herself feel better about her unsteady mental states by ascribing them to her superior sensitivities, denigrating the lower classes again, the reverend’s wife, etc. People like that “never quiver.” As if she could know.

I suspect she would snub me to death if we could meet. Much as I love her writing, and envy many things about her abilities and circumstances, I’m content to have all this time and space between us. But that’s true of so many artists and writers whose work I adore. The connection is at least half my imagination.

“But it’s a question of work” she says. 250 words a day of fiction, then The Common Reader, then her planned reading. All interrupted by the death of Conrad, Joseph, and a wire from the Times Literary Supplement asking her to write him up, which she does.

On a walk one day, she has a standoff with some cows. “I waved my stick and stood at bay; and thought of Homer as they came flourishing and trampling towards me”  Should I index the cows? They stuck in my brain overnight. I’ll stick them in under the Greek literature they made her think of, and deal with them later.

Her writing plans are thrown off by visitors, effectively invited by one of her servants, Hope, Lottie who thought she’d like to see her niece, Stephen, Ann. Virginia is thwarted, frustrated by the interruption, but also finds Ann “wonderful and charming.” Which is children for you. When they leave, she finishes Mrs. Dalloway and reflects on the style, structure, revision process. What will the reviews be like? They’ll call it disjointed, and “I suppose there is some superficial glittery writing.” But it doesn’t matter, she’s happy, “it seems to leave me plunged in the richest strata of my mind.”

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1923

“I’m over peevish in private, partly in order to assert myself. I am a great deal interested suddenly in my book.”  It is June already in 1923, and the book is Mrs. Dalloway.

mw72163

She wants to “bring in the despicableness of people like Ott” — her supposed friend, Morrell, Ottoline. I am 54 pages into this book and have finally hit the point where the work picks up speed. Most of the main characters and themes have been introduced, and I’m starting to get a feel for the shape of this index. Still, so many people, and new ones keep cropping up, for instance here is the name Sackville West for the first time, but it isn’t Vita yet, it’s her novel-writing cousin, Edward. I’m going to leave him in for the novel, and because it’s interesting to see him here before Vita.

But I’ve decided to leave a lot of the others out. If people are interested in the minor friends, they can look them up in the diaries and letters. I have to keep in mind that the main point of this index (the metatopic!) is her writing life.

“To get to the bones, now I’m writing fiction again I feel my force glow straight from me at its fullest.” That stumped me for a bit, until I went back to the sentence before and noticed I’d skimmed past the word “excitement.” mental states: excitement of writing. One of those dissections that kills the thing–but the index is supposed to point you to the inspiration, not embody it.

More about reviews and criticism of her work. But this year she finds that a bad response to one of her essays makes her less inclined to please others,  makes her more determined to be herself. This might be because she’s in the thick of writing Mrs. Dalloway.  Even when she can only write 50 words in a morning doing the madness parts. She’s also realizing new things about structure, and how she can’t do it all consciously. “One feels about in a state of misery–and then one touches the hidden spring.”  planning of novels …. backstory… and also Lubbock, Percy who wrote a book on the craft of fiction that she and her friends obsessed over. It is out of print now.

I still don’t know what Leonard’s criteria were in editing this book, it’s very haphazard. He leaves out book talk, and leaves in these bits about how much she dislikes Ottoline (who died three years before Virginia). I am sure I could do a better job of composing a book for writers out of her diaries and letters myself. There’s probably a “(dead) writer (s’ private thoughts) on writing” series in that idea. However, for that I’d need to see some cash.

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1922

Peacock, Thomas Love. “Doubtless, Peacock is a taste acquired in maturity.” Her dead brother Thoby liked his novels, but she was less enthusiastic in her youth. “I wanted mystery, romance, psychology, I suppose. And now more than anything I want beautiful prose.” aging: taste in books and

NPG x13093; Thoby Stephen by George Charles Beresford

Thoby Stephen by George Charles Beresford 1902-1906

Also Stephen, Thoby.  Is this really the first mention of her promising favorite brother, dead at 26 of typhoid? She just wrote a whole book about him? But I skim the first forty pages, and it does appear to be.

On to Scott, Walter and a description of her friend Dickinson, Violet who is is happy, and also ready to die.

Books, books, books. She is reading La Princesse de Clèves (novel) “reading classics is generally hard going.” It’s beautiful but too perfect, and thank god she is not reviewing it. She reads a lot of other reviews instead. “The best brains in England (metaphorically speaking) sweated themselves for I don’t know how many hours to give me this brief condescending sort of amusement.”

She is not impressed with Ulysses. She admired the first 2 or 3 chapters, then became irritated and bored. “An illiterate underbred book it seems to me” …another of her tirades about the repulsive and dimwitted underclasses. Why on earth does Tom Eliot like it so much?

A nice discussion of how to “rock oneself back into writing.”

exercise

reading

writer’s block: cures for

As the light fades, she records a conversation with Eliot about Ulysses among many topics (added to the main heading for conversations, and subheadings for many others, including style).

The Jacob’s Room: publication process has been harrowing and depressing, as always, but she gets the best possible letter from Brace, Donald and his praise, plus the offer of a contract from someone other than her stepbrother, brightens her right up.  Discussion of her reading “with a purpose” and how at forty she is finally learning how to maximize her productivity, though of course she doesn’t put it that way. “The secret is I think always so to contrive that work is pleasant.” Hm.

More praise for Jacob, and with that, she’s back on top of everything. “Though the surface may be agitated, the center is secure.”

Next come the bad reviews. “An elderly sensualist” says Daily News. But, she’s already moving on to Mrs. Dalloway, and doesn’t want to think about it anymore. “I expect I could have screwed Jacob up tighter, if I had foreseen; but I had to make my path as I went.”

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1921

So much self-appraisal, anxiety, aging, and vanity! It’s a diary. I’m starting to think those main headings may overflow with subheadings, and need a lot of disentangling to break down. For now, I’ll just keep adding to them. And remember there is such a thing as over-indexing. Just because I have plenty of time, and all the space in the world, doesn’t mean anyone needs 20 entries per page.

Boredom is a problem in indexing. At least for me. There’s the data entry aspect, simple repetition combined with close attention to detail.  And you’re always struggling to comprehend the author and how their ideas string together across the book, as well as how others might describe those ideas. It gets boggling at times, the brain gets weary.

When that happens, I scan through my headings to look for new patterns, try not to be too perfect, get things in badly if I can’t think of a way to do it well, know I can’t predict everything and will go back over it later. My MLIS advisor said she’d rather eat ground glass. The pleasure when you get all the bits into place is enough for me though, it’s probably a little like coding. It’s a job for those who love certain forms of complex order and tidiness.

And now I should put in a photo of my dumpster of an office for contrast, but, no.

Going on–an interesting little discussion of how Woolf instinctively manages her time. She is unsettled by visitors, and anxious about  reviews for her new story collection, Monday or Tuesday. So anxious she spends a page trying to predict what Times, The and “serious evening papers” will say. “I shall be treated very shortly with sarcasm…too much in love with the sound of my own voice; not much in what I writer; indecently affected; a disagreeable woman… I shan’t get much attention anywhere. Yet, I become rather well known.”

I hope that made her feel better, that she clapped the book shut and got on to something else, writing, reading, darning. Needlework comes up more often than you might think.

But, next entry, she’s in the middle of writing Jacob’s Room and stalls out again. She’s a failure, washed up, old…nobody likes her story collection.

But why is it important to be popular? Not for the sake of an established reputation but “to be kept up to the mark…that people should be interested and watch one’s work.” She thinks she’ll know when to quit, that she’ll know if she’s obsolete. But ultimately it’s all vanity, and she needs plenty of hobbies outside of writing to give her an outlet when her mental state declines. I can sympathize with that. She’s more cheerful the next day, 50 copies ordered by the wholesaler.

Tea and brioche with Lytton at Verrey’s Restaurant [where Dickens once ate, and which closed in the 1960s, I think]. “gilt feathers; mirrors; blue walls.” They sit in a corner and discuss nonfiction vs. fiction writing, and where they each stand in literary history vs. writers such as Carlyle, Thomas.

bl28541.tif

Verrey’s Restaurant, Regent Street, 1926

She talks to Keynes, Maynard for 90 minutes and wishes she “put down what people say, instead of describing them. The difficulty is that they say so little.”

More talk about praise and boasting–are all famous people like this?

Lady CarlisleHer cousin “Lady Carlisle” has died, after losing almost everything, including “her hope for humanity.” Who? Looking her up, I find the ‘Virginia Woolf Monk’s House photograph album‘ at Harvard.

Then her obituary makes me think she deserves a book to herself. Opponent of the Boer War, promoter of Home Rule, temperance and women suffrage. Carlisle, Lady Rosalind (née Stanley)

Next is an unkind/kind portrait of one of her more ignorant (but endearing) doctors, Vallence, Herbert. She is forbidden to walk or work again, “chained to my rock,” snapping at Leonard, who escapes to mow the lawn. Reduced to reading the sports pages, she compares some cricketer to Ajax, and wishes she could just walk across the room.

Freed, she finishes Jacob’s Room and puts the draft aside for stacks of other writing, reviews, essays… “will my fingers stand so much scribbling?” An editor refuses to let her use the word “lewd” in her review of The Wings of the Dove and she wonders whether pandering is worthwhile, or if she should “go on writing against the current…somehow the consciousness of doing that cramps one…and how much time I have wasted!”

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1920

An oddly short chapter. I glance at the complete diaries and truly do not know what criteria Leonard used, so much reading and writing not included. However. She begins with her birthday again. She is 38. “A great deal happier than I was at 28; and happier today than I was yesterday having this afternoon arrived at some idea of a new form for a new novel.” Which will be Jacob’s Room, a new main heading.

“I figure that the approach will be entirely different this time: no scaffolding; scarcely a brick to be seen; all crepuscular, but the heart, the passion, humour, everything as bright as fire in the mist. Then I’ll find room for so much–a gaiety–an inconsequence–a light spirited stepping at my sweet will.”

I have to say, this isn’t exactly writing advice as we know it. But it is helpful to read as a writer, to watch her feel her way toward a new way of forming a novel, how that process is more vision and sensations than hardware.

“The danger is the damned egotistical self…” I’m going to put in a main heading for ego: as obstacle in writing and see if more turns up.  Indexing also requires a certain amount of feeling your way, the sense that an idea is important to the author when you first encounter it. Stick it in, see if it comes up again, you can always take it out later when you edit. And I’m going to give ego a see also self-appraisal and again resist “narcissism!” Dang it though, I’m going to put it in anyway because I’ve thought of it twice, and that means someone else may think of it. I’ll just redirect it, as I keep doing, with See self-appraisal and See ego and see where it all takes me. Again, a lot shifts as I go, and will even more in the final edit.

She imagines this new book will take hands with Kew Gardens and “Mark on the Wall, The” and dance in unity with them. “What the unity will be I  have yet to discover…” isn’t that a lovely image of an author’s works. Matisse popped right into my head.

La_danse_(I)_by_Matisse

But, that’s a free association step too far. Back to Virginia. She evaluates her self, past and self, future and is critical but kind with both.

Others are critical and kind with her new essay on Henry James and she is irritated with an old man (65, she looked him up), who attacked it and insinuated that she must be one of James’ “sentimental lady” friends. She is mortified, but also puts it down to being “a woman writing well, and writing in The Times.”  She is philosophical about it too, that there is always a grain of truth in criticism, and she is “damnably refined” when she writes for that paper.

Beginning a new book, and the process of that — so many intertwined thoughts and emotions, so many questions for me on how to phrase them so that others can find them! Emotions I might not index for a client with limited space, but I think they are important here, so I’m doing them. Putting them all in for later editing. Determination, doubts, beginning a new book, new book, beginning a, process of writing, difficulty of writing… I don’t know, time will tell. She compares writing a book to walking a long distance, the excitement at first, turning to doubts, turning to steady determination.

More books, more authors. Some ad hominem about Conrad, Joseph which I will show to my 17 year old. He has to read Heart of Darkness for school this month, and keeps appearing in doorways saying “why?” and “frickin’ racist.”

Some thoughts on entertainment value in Don Quixote and now that I have that main heading I realize she was just talking about that quality in her own fiction, I overlooked it, and have to go back.  And then also intention, of writers.

She charges ahead with Jacob’s Room. They have a visit from T. S. Eliot, and she stalls out, can’t write, gets depressed. And then of course she’s depressed about everything: money, lack of children, living so far from everyone, the price of groceries, aging, Ireland… “And with it all how happy I am–if it weren’t for my feeling that it’s a strip of pavement over an abyss.  New heading for happiness. I have to go back again and look for where I missed it, because looking back to the start of this entry, there it is! She’s not known for it, though she did have a lot. Good to note where it appears.

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1919, part 2.

April. Virginia ditches Moll Flanders to visit London, where she observes the lower orders through the eyes of Defoe, Daniel. Class irritations aside, I love when a book does that to me. She runs into “Morgan” ( Forster, E. M.), who flinches. She orders him to read Defoe.

There is a long entry about Peace Day in July, in which Virginia expresses her disgust and disdain for the general public, “sticky stodgy conglomerations of people” “docile herds” –the sort of thing that makes me not want to have her to the dinner party. Why is this in here? It’s not about writing. Maybe Leonard admired her descriptions.

Much more about the publication of her essay collection, Kew Gardens, which she and Leonard published themselves (Hogarth Press) printed themselves, and of her novel Night and Day. anxiety of  publication also many names of friends with the subheading opinions of her writing. And, praise, dependence on. More entries for self-appraisal, plus “see also”s between it and anxiety of publication which is gaining subentries all the time! Narcissism crossed my mind too, but no, aren’t we all, and those other headings will cover it.

Night and Day (novel) is out, her friends have their beaks in it, she’s not as scared as she thought she might be, “more excited and pleased than nervous.” And in fact they all like it, and so does the Times Literary Supplement. Forster is not so sure though, and this upsets and then pleases her. Criticism, emotional effects of. He comes to dinner, and explains himself intelligently. We should all be so lucky.

E. M. Forster at Monk's House

E. M. Forster at Monk’s House

Waterlow, Sydney is there too, and was “completely upset” by it, in a good way, it seems. More entries for them, and for friends, various publications, and criticism.

The rest of her writing year is distracted by reviews, good and bad. Checking the more complete diaries, I see she talked about them even more in entries not included here! Maybe Leonard thought she looked insecure. I wish he had included all of them though, for the sake of completeness, and because her insecurities soothe mine.

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1919, part 1.

She begins with January 20, and some of her chronic health problems. A tooth extraction, followed by a two-week on and off headache that kept her in bed and unable to write, or go out to buy a new blank diary book. The doctor has at last allowed her one hour of writing a day.

Among others, I add a main heading for illness, with subheadings headaches and dental. More will be coming for that. Time for writing, prescribed by doctors ? that will almost certainly need rewording! Is writing time too close to the metatopic? Well. One for books, with subheadings purchase of and blank and a See also specific titles and I’m sure I’ll be adding to that “see also.” Shopping? purchases? both for now.

She comments that this diary doesn’t count as real writing (and Leonard is out of the house) because it is written too fast and carelessly, though that has its advantages too. She informs her future 50 year old self that if her diary is useless for writing her memoirs, “I can only condole with her and remind her of the existence of the fireplace…” But she envies herself that project, the idea of writing her memoirs takes away some of the horror of her 37th birthday. She plans to write out an account of her friendships “for the benefit of this elderly lady…50 is elderly, though I anticipate her protest and agree that it is not old.” Aging. Birthdays. Memoir. Friendships.

The next entry has her just back from five days in the country with Leonard, still rattled by the railroad trip and unable to read anything in her TBR stack: everything by Dickens, George Eliot, Hardy and Gaskell, plus others by Joyce, Wyndham Lewis, Pound,  –all those names to index in one sentence! If this is the only time she mentions them, I may take them out again due to lack of content here, but we’ll see, page by page…

Her “Aunt Anny” has died, and the footnote says “Lady Ritchie, Thackeray’s daughter.” Virginia has just written her obituary, but has no real emotion about it, didn’t really know her, partly, Virginia says, because she did not want to be known. But, Virginia writes down what she does remember of her. family.

“Aunt Anny” though. Who is this person. Back to the index for Volume One of the more complete Diary. Andrew McNeillie the indexer (and poet) has her as Ritchie, Lady (Aunt Anny), née Anne Isabella Thackeray. Only he changed “Anny” to “Annie”–I’ll stick with Woolf’s spelling, and cut that down to a version of the Library of Congress record for her: Ritchie, Anne Thackeray (Aunt Anny). Because my first impulse was to look for her maiden name, and someone else might do the same, I’ll also add her at Thackeray, Anne (Aunt Anny) and if she’s mentioned much more I’ll redirect readers with a “see” to the first one. If she isn’t, I’ll leave her double-posted.

You think that’s bad, try indexing a book on medieval Spain, or 17th century French Canada. Will I ever look her up again? Who knows. She was a writer herself, as well as minding her father’s legacy. Can sympathize.

Hester” — oh, her cousin. Visits to Asheham and Charleston. More writers, Bernard Shaw, Carlyle.  She comes down hard on the “Barnetts,” a religious charitable couple she’s been reading about, possibly for review. Night and Day is done, and Leonard likes it, with certain caveats about its philosophy, so twin subheadings for him and the novel about his opinions, she did care about them, and argued with them too. She’s meeting with her balding brother, Duckworth, Gerald about publishing it.

“I certainly don’t anticipate even two editions,” she says. I should index that thought, she has them a lot, as do most writers. Self-appraisal? For now. “Is the time coming when I can endure to read my own writing in print without blushing–shivering and wishing to take cover?”

We’re only at the end of March.

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1918

Page one! Leonard sectioned this book by year, I’ll try to follow that pattern.

Woolf was thirty-six. She had been married six years, the Hogarth Press was one year old, she had published The Voyage Out three years earlier, and would publish Night and Day the following year.

Six pages. In the complete diaries, this year takes up 136, two handwritten volumes.

So many poets! Main headings for each name, another for poetry, and for now, maybe, another for poets. Three on the first page: Rossetti, Byron, and Leconte de Lisle, who she was buying “great quantities” of. I’d never heard of him. He seems to be barely translated, was she buying his books in French?

[I get distracted looking this up, fail to find much right away, but notice an interesting book on Woolf and Colette, and order it from my public library.]

Here he is:

À l’heure de silence et d’ivresses profondes,
Où, vers les horizons, le voyageur divin,
Se penchant sur les vertes ondes,
Baigne ses pieds lassés du céleste chemin ;

Leconte de Lisle-1850-60

Oof. Doubt I’ll look him up again, but for consistency’s sake, in he goes.

Woolf says that if she were bringing a case against God, she would call Christina Rossetti as one of the first witnesses. Through her devotion to religion, Rossetti starved herself of love “which meant also life,” and “castrated” her poetry. Main heading for religion. And one for marriage. And maybe talent, literary since she discusses Rossetti’s here.

On the next page, Woolf has just read the latest copy of the English Review and is disgusted with Katharine Mansfield’s story, Bliss.  After shredding Mansfield’s character and abilities (I thought Leonard edited out all the hurtful parts? Oh. Mansfield was dead by then), she paragraphs and moves on to Byron. “He has at least the male virtues.” Wow, Virginia. She thinks the Album is terrible but the form of Don Juan is a flexible wonder and I’m putting in a main heading for form, literary because this is Virginia Woolf.

She wonders why there is so much pleasure in finishing a book she enjoys (main heading for reading), and tells us how Maynard Keynes would separate off the ads at the end of a book so that he would know how much he had to get through. I am always counting pages as I read, even if I enjoy the book, it seems to be a common impulse, human nature’s completism.  And part of why some of us don’t love ebooks; knowing what percentage you’ve read is not the same as knowing the page count. Keynes might not have liked them either. “Useful for long trips,” he might have said.

And now here is Sophocles! And Emily Bronte! Social conventions. Electra, trapped in the house. Milton! Shakespeare!

Condensation effect of editing of course, but still, the density. This is why she was rarely short of conversation material. Six pages: seventy-four index entries.

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Preface

Not mine, there’s been enough of that. Leonard Woolf’s.

12-wolf1

When Virginia Woolf died, he became her literary executor. He chose not to immediately publish her diaries in full, and in this preface he explains why. Rather than publish a sanitized “caricature” of the 26 volumes of her personal diaries to save the feelings of  the living, he went through them and extracted “practically everything that referred to her own writing.”

A Writer’s Diary was published in 1953, about 12 years after Virginia’s death. Leonard took time and care with it. His preface is a carefully thought out work of personal integrity. He does not gush. He does not bare his heart for you, or even his shirt sleeves. Calm and professional, he explains his editorial decisions, addressing every challenge that might be raised. Virginia Woolf’s artistic standing was still in question in 1953, and he says so, and lays out a measured argument that resists any accusation of partiality. Having stated the controversies, he quotes a respected professor: “she was a great artist,” “she did supremely well what no one else has attempted to do,” “[her] world will survive as the crystal survives under the crushing rock-masses.” A paragraph later, having built himself a solid foundation, Leonard steps up on it to face you: “Unless I had agreed with Professor Blackstone, I would not have edited and published this book. She was, I think, a serious artist and all her books are serious works of art.” He expands on this, he cites specific titles, he goes on for most of a page, and finishes as calm as he began:  “I put forward this opinion, not as of any value, but as an explanation of my publishing the book.”

He paragraphs there, and ends with some editorial technicalities. He has said what he has to say.

But indexing is not about admiration. I have to back off and ask myself: Is the preface indexable?

Prefaces are not always indexed. Hans Wellisch says:

The preface or foreword is at best a brief recommendation written by a good friend of the author or by a more or less well known authority in the field who could be persuaded to say a good word about the work and at worst just a piece of puffery. Generally none of this should be indexed.

Ouch. But he has a point. This particular preface is not puffery, and is well worth reading. However, it is 3 1/2 pages at the front of the book, and it is backstory, not meat. I often ask the editor or author of a book if they want me to include the preface. But because this index belongs to me, I here make my own decision to skip it.

Next: page one. I begin to pick things up.

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