Day One — Icons

An extract from the diary of one the most celebrated 20th century writers…

This is not written very seriously. — obviously not — to try a pen, I
think. And it is now [Friday] April 30th, the last of a wet windy month,
excepting the sudden opening of all the doors at Easter, & the summer
displayed blazing, as it always is, I suppose; only cloud hidden.
I have not said anything about Iwerne Minster. Now it would amuse me to see what I remember it by. Cranbourne Chase: the stunted aboriginal forest
trees, scattered, not grouped in cultivations; anemones, bluebells, violets,
all pale, sprinkled about, without colour, livid, for the sun hardly shone.
Then Blackmore Vale; a vast air dome & the fields dropped to the
bottom; the sun striking, there, there; a drench of rain falling, like a veil
streaming from the sky, there & there; & the downs rising, very strongly
scarped (if that is the word) so that they were ridged & ledged; then an
inscription in a church “sought peace & ensured it”, & the question,
who wrote these sonorous stylistic epitaphs? — & all the cleanliness of
Iwerne village, its happiness & well being, making me ask, as we tended
to sneer.
Still this is the right method, surely; & then tea & cream —
these I remember: the hot baths; my new leather coat; Shaftesbury, so
much lower & less commanding than my imagination, & the drive to
Bournemouth, & the dog & the lady behind the rock, & the view of
Swanage, & coming home.

Extract from the diary of Virginia Woolf circa 1926.

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