2 February 1940

The snow remains, slightly pocked, but the road is clear. I forget to make extracts from the papers, which boom, echoing, emptily, the BBC. Hitler’s speech – Churchill’s – a ship sunk – no survivors – a raft capsized – men rowing for ten or twelve or thirty hours. How little one can explode now, as perhaps one would have done, had it been a single death. But the Black Out is far more murderous than the war. Prices rise twopence then threepence. So the screw tightens gradually; and I can’t even imagine London in peace – the lit nights, the buses roaring past Tavistock Square, the telephone ringing, and I scooping together with the utmost difficulty one night or afternoon alone. Only the fire sets me dreaming – [...]

Virginia Woolf, Diary