the voyage out

i am reading woolf’s diary, which i incidently acquired upon stumbling upon a bookshop in newtown, home of the sydney hipsters. there are no asians here, not as much as in kingsford, and the atmosphere much lively as well. people are not in a hurry. friendly. they have run out of the smith journal, i’m sure to buy a copy of the first edition soon. maybe at the end of may. i am to limit myself right this instant.

woolf, how shall i describe her? very serious in her writing, does she not laugh? i suppose there is a touch of tragedy in each of her words, as if she laying down a momentous task for herself every single moment, always something to do, the greeks the greeks. being a writer must be hard. you’d have to occupy yourself with the subject of writing and nothing else. tiresome indeed. no wonder she killed herself. she did hate joyce though. ulysses. i told you, pot, that joyce is too full of himself, that he likes himself too much. egoistical bastard. even though i liked daedalus as a person, or plump mr bloom, i couldnt enjoy him. unreadable? yes. aaah, what beauty you’d find in patched up writings that resemble nothing? ineffable? hah. i am the same. virginia laughs. hm bosan la cakap pasal ni. nak cari rumet. rupanya dia tengah buat recording nasyid.