Melhor Blogger Hipotético: Leonard Woolf

22nd March 1941

Oh, woman, please do shut up, do shut your big, massive gob, please do!

No. No such luck. Here she comes again (if I have to listen to that whinning little voice of hers one more time , "Lenny, I hear voices", "Lenny, I can't write today", "Lenny, I am a dreadful housewife, do you not think so?", "Lenny, I say, for the life of me I am at a loss with Mrs Dalloway, what shall she do after buying the flowers, I simply cannot fathom, perhaps a trip to a lighthouse...", the way she babbles on, oooooooh!). Now she is telling me she cannot write. Again.
Of course you can't, dear. You're too busy bothering me with that appaling depression of yours. I am not a doctor, helloo-O!

And this bloody war going on... what is happening to my people?

25th March 1941

Right. I am a busy man. Busy and concerned. I am deeply concerned with the faith of my people in "Europe", for example (what a ghastly place - I dare say, every gentleman ought to have been born a British man). So, I do have all these worries. And this woman gives me no peace. I cannot work. I cannot print my pamphlets. All my life is now devoted to her needs, her writing, her thoughts... oh, God.

For example, the other day. She made me read the rubbish she was writing. I could not follow a bloody sentence! I do not know what she is on about half the time! This woman just ignores the meaning of "punc-tua-tion". But of course, I could not tell her that, oh God, no, we wouldn't want another of her fits, would we?, so I just told her, "This is all quite lovely, Ginnie, old girl, but perhaps a comma or two, a stop or two, wouldn't hurt?" Even this harmless remark made her cry. Hours spent trying to appease her... oh, what to do!

If only I could go back to living alone, without "her"... I need to help with the war effort somehow, I can't have her breathing down my neck, she and her "depression".

27th March 1941

I have had what I believe is just about the most brilliant idea any man in my situation could have had. The most brilliant idea! Now, Ginnie is depressed, everybody knows that - what if something happens, something that... if she had a crisis... I could put stones in her pockets...

29th March 1941 Oh, the grief.