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.
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?
Her 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!”