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Virginia Woolf
A Writer’s Diary
1940
Saturday, August 31st
Now we are in the war. England is being attacked. 1 got this feeling for the first time completely yesterday; the feeling of pressure, danger, horror. The feeling is that a battle is going on – a fierce battle. May last four weeks. Am I afraid? Intermittently. The worst of it is one'S mind won't work with a spring next morning. Of course this may be the beginning of invasion. A sense of pressure. Endless local stories. No – it's no good trying to capture the feeling of England being in a battle. I daresay if I write fiction and Coleridge and not that infernal bomb article for U.S.A. I shall swim into quiet water.
Wednesday, October 2nd
Ought I not to look at the sunset rather than write this? A flush of red in the blue; the haystack on the marsh catches the glow; behind me, the apples are red in the trees. L.* is gathering them. Now a plume of smoke goes from the train under Caburn. And all the air a solemn stillness holds. Till 8:30 when the cadaverous twanging in the sky begins; the planes going to London. Well it's an hour still to that. Cows feeding. The elm tree sprinkling its little leaves against the sky. Our pear tree swagged with pears; and the weathercock above the triangular church tower above it. Why try again to make the familiar catalogue, from which something escapes. Should I think of death? Last night a great heavy plunge of bomb under the window. So near we both started. A plane had passed dropping this fruit. We went on to the terrace. Trinkets of stars sprinkled and glittering. All quiet. The bombs dropped on Itford Hill. There are two by the river, marked with white wooden crosses, still unburst. I said to L.: I don't want to die yet. The chances are against it. But they're aiming at the railway and the power works. They get closer every time. Caburn was crowned with what looked like a settled moth, wings extended – a Messerschmitt it was, shot down on Sunday. I had a nice gallop this morning with Coleridge – Sara. I'm to make 20 pounds with two articles. Books still held up. And Spiras** free, and Margot*** writes to say "I did it" and adds "a long letter all about yourself and what you believe." What do I? Can't at the moment remember. Oh I try to imagine how one's killed by a bomb. I've got it fairly vivid – the sensation: but can't see anything but suffocating nonentity
following after. I shall think – oh I wanted another 10 years – not this – and shan't, for once, be able to describe it. It – I mean death; no, the scrunching and scrambling, the crushing of my bone shade in on my very active eye and brain: the process of putting out the light – painful? Yes. Terrifying. I suppose so. Then a swoon; a drain; two or three gulps attempting consciousness – and then dot dot dot.
* Leonard Woolf
** Mela and Robert Spiras
*** Lady Oxford