Tag: diary

My friendship with Vita is over. Not with a quarrel, not with
a bang, but as ripe fruit falls. No I shant be coming to London
before I go to Greece, she said. And then I got into the car.
But her voice saying ‘Virginia?’ outside the tower room was
as enchanting as ever. Only then nothing happened. And she
has grown very fat, very much the indolent county lady, run
to seed, incurious now about books; has written no poetry;
only kindles about dogs, flowers, & new buildings. S[issinghurs]t
is to have a new wing; a new garden; a new wall. Well, its
like cutting off a picture: there she hangs, in the fishmongers
at Sevenoaks, all pink jersey & pearls; & thats an end of it.
And there is no bitterness, & no disillusion, only a certain
emptiness. In fact-if my hands werent so cold-I could here
analyse my state of mind these past 4 months, & account for
the human emptiness by the defection of Vita; Roger’s death;
& no-one springing up to take their place; & a certain general
slackening of letters & fame, owing to my writing nothing.