I am a keeper of journals.
Scribbled with secret thoughts.
Thoughts and bits and pieces of my life.
Even a pressed flower to remember a summer day.
Virginia Woolf kept diaries – more than thirty-two marble patterned notebooks. Her diaries – one of the most complete records of an exceptional writer.
“What sort of diary should I like mine to be? Something loose knit and yet not slovenly, so elastic that it will embrace any thing, solemn, slight or beautiful that comes into my mind.
I should like it to resemble some deep old desk, or capacious hold-all, in which one flings a mass of odds and ends without looking.
I should like to come back, after a year or two and find that the collection had sorted itself and refined itself and coalesced, as such deposits so mysteriously do, into a mould, transparent enough to reflect the light of our life, and yet steady, tranquil compounds with the aloofness of a work or art.
The main requisite, I think, on readying my old volumes, is not to play the part of a censor, but to write a the mood comes or of anything whatever; since I was curious to find how I went for things put in haphazard, and found the significance to lie where I never saw it at the time.”
(written April 1919)