Logick in Pieces: a Stratigraphic Conversation in Woolf’s Diary
Résumé
In this paper I contend that Virginia Woolf is not merely keeping records of her holidays in her Warboys Diary of 1899 but is also introducing a complex form of conversation within the narrative. The author opens the frontiers of everyday writing to a conversation with a potential reader, and undertakes a literary conversation with other genres. Additionally she creates a process of material conversation with an eighteenth-century book, thus transforming her diary into an ‘art object’ and autobiographical writing into an ‘auto-strati-graphy’.
Plan
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- 1 Roland Barthes and Frederic Berthet, La Conversation (Paris: Seuil, 1979) 3.
Quelqu’un a proposé de classer les distances d’interlocution: distance intime (45 cm), personnelle (1,20 m), sociale (3,60), publique. Peu importent les centimètres: il est certain que, sur l’échelle des places réciproques, les propos varient et ne forment pas le même objet scientifique, sans doute parce que s’adresser à d’autres corps [. . .], c’est toujours secrètement décider de ce que l’on fait de ces corps (les approcher, les éviter): il y a dans la parole un tact caché. [. . .] Cependant entre la conversation intime, situation idéale par sa simplicité [. . .] et le discours public [. . .], il existe un objet vague, sorte de ‘bruit’ interlocutoire, que l’on retrouve dans les manifestations les plus variées de la vie relationnelle: la conversation.
La conversation est un de ces objets qui portent un défi discret à la science parce qu’ils sont asymétriques et tirent leur valeur, si l’on peut dire, de leur mollesse formelle.1
1Following this definition of conversation by Roland Barthes and Frédéric Berthet in their introduction to a collective work on La Conversation, we shall try to show that Virginia Woolf’s second diary presents different levels of conversation within its narrative structure, and how, through style and metadiscourse, Woolf’s everyday conversation with herself gradually moves towards a long distance conversation with a potential reader. The ‘asymmetric’ form of the diary seems to become more complex when Woolf undertakes a conversation with other genres: journalism, essay or short story, and other forms of art. Finally, she gives concrete expression to the ‘molesse formelle’ in a creative process of material conversation with an eighteenth-century book.
Style and Metadiscourse: a First Level of Conversation Within the Diary
- 2 First notebook: Jan 4, 1897—Jan 1, 1898.
2This diary is Woolf’s second holograph notebook, which she kept from the 4th of August to the 23rd of September 1899. The entries are longer than in her first one,2 and the intentions seem to be different. It is probably the first time that Woolf transforms her diary into a ‘writing workshop’. Indeed the diary is not only retracing the memory of everyday life in an everyday writing but it is also a great matrix, a formidable workshop where the writer gathers the material of everyday sensations for a potential recycling. Although the style, the aspect and the content of the diary differ from one diary to another there are some elements which can be considered as ‘inevitable’ in diary writing. By ‘elements’, I mean the style, the relation to time, the use of voices and the comments on the narrative within the narrative—all contributing to give the diary its cyclic structure. From those ‘compulsory figures’, Woolf gradually builds her own ‘freestyle’ stylistic and narrative devices.
- 3 Virginia Woolf, A Passionate Apprentice, The Early Journals (London: The Hogarth Press, 1990) 132.
3Immediately as she starts this diary she moves away from the very terse entries of 1897, which were close to the typical telegraphic diary style: ‘Friday 1 October: Watched Jack fishing. [. . .] Took photos. Lord & Lady Morpeth to dinner. Rather awful’.3 Not only does she begin by giving a spatiotemporal landmark together with the date ‘Warboys. August 1899. (our first night),’ but her writing is rather lyrical and self-conscious:
This being our first night, & such a night not occurring again, I must make some mark on the paper to represent such an occasion, tho’ my mark must be frail & somewhat disjointed. [. . .] Our sensations were so exquisite, so crowded and so jubilant that music alone could keep pace with them or express a tenth part of their vividness. (Early Journals 135–36)
5 August The Second day at Warboys.
If I go on at this rate methinks I shall soon have finished this book—but the fever will not last—I know the disease well. (Early Journals 136)
4Follows a description of the ‘grand cleaning of the Punt’. The high degree of consciousness in her writing is then confirmed by the following sentence.
Oh dear—the style of this work ought to undergo a radical change. All these details will swamp me in time. I find I write with greater ease than I talk sense or nonsense; writing would stand me in good stead were I struck dumb but being gifted with a tolerably facile speech the gift or possession is hardly to be envied. (Early Journals 136)
5Virginia Woolf is writing her diary, but she is also testing her writing; she is writing for herself, to herself. It seems to be more than a workshop, it is almost a self-literary review before the date.
- 4 Virginia Woolf will keep the habit of using her diary as a calendar, sometimes drawing lines and fi (...)
6Indeed, metadiscourse is a structural component of diary writing. The frontiers between the metadiscourse and the discourse are blurred, and the diary is at the same time a diary and an essay on the diary. A stratification of the different levels of narrative seems to form another sedimentation, and the metadiscourse reinforces the irruption of the present within the text. Indeed diary writing follows the calendar more or less. The entries are here to give some landmarks.The author is mixing the narration in the past tense with the present: ‘[. . .] Today is the 4th of September. I have already counted our days several times over, & we have hardly more than a fortnight left. We go back on Thursday the 21st of September’ (Early Journals 157).4 It has the double effect of creating a certain spontaneity and liveliness in the narrative, it seems more ‘real’, it seems closer to the potential reader. The most striking example is when her sister comes in and disrupts Virginia Woolf writing her diary, and here all the figures are conveyed to make the ‘reader’ feel that he is by her side.
I write distractedly. Vanessa is wandering round the room for a pair of her most valuable scissors, which she declares were last seen in this room & now have apparently vanished altogether. She insinuates, with some pertinacity that I know where they are, & that I might rouse myself from my eternal writing to tell her. I strive vainly to remember the points of the great scissors question & tell her with an assumed briskness & confidence that I placed them in a certain china pot only yesterday. An interval of quiet supervenes—then Oh—Goodness—no scissors forthcoming—Where on Earth can they be—(Early Journals 142–43)
7It could be read as an assertion: this is not fiction, this is not a classical narrative; I’m writing my diary, the little facts that make me feel great sensations. It is as if the very lack of distance with the narrated event was balanced by the comments on the narration. It is indeed a classic feature to be found in diary writing: the comments on the pen (and ink) the author is writing with come as a justification of what is to be found in the narration:
My pen, I must add, is rather unwell at present,& the aspect of this book distresses me. I cannot write prettily when my pen scratches & all joy in the art is lost to me. I love writing for the sake of writing, but when my pen is enfeebled it becomes a task & bother to me. The domestic Mary ‘a nice girl, but very empty Miss’ investigated the mechanics of my pen before we came away,& something of its divinity has fled since. (Early Journals 139)
[Terrible misfortunes with my pen have interfered severely with the progress of this work. I now an forced to resume, but I do so reluctantly; & the next pages (few I trust) will be written with a steel nib!] (Early Journals 154)
[. . .] (the first sentence or two illegible because of the curious ink, which I think of adopting for my permanent ink) [. . .] (Early Journals 140)
8Her diary writing seems at this stage to be a mixture of remembering and retelling the most striking events of the days, the nice landscapes or the colours of a sunset. These premises of ‘moments of being’ establish a dialogue with the proper moment of narration, hence the omnipresence of comments. The pen symbolises the high degree of consciousness in the writing process. In this diary Virginia Woolf is not merely stating the main events of the days, but also strives to capture the emotions of the moment in the appropriate style. On the 13th of August, as she describes and explains in detail the ‘Sugar campaign’ to catch moths, emerges the figure of a reader in relation to the writer:
An innocent reader (I suppose a reader sometimes for the sake of variety when I write; it makes me put on my dress clothes such as they are) having got this far still remains in the dark use of such a preparation. This then, is the most scientific way of catching moths. (Early Journals 144)
This is from the moths point of view—man, the hunter, starts forth the following procession. [. . .] the lantern bearer (none other than the present writer) [. . .] (Early Journals 144)
9The numerous appearances of the short phrase ‘let me’ (‘Let me supplement this’[139]) and ‘let us’ (‘let us hope that future pages [. . .]’ [135]; ‘Let us resume our narration of well authenticated facts’ [151]) or even ‘Picture us’ (149) can be considered as direct addresses to a potential reader, at least a narratee. It is all the more conceivable as Virginia Woolf did not give any name to her diary nor addressed it as ‘Dear . . .’ which is often the case of young ladies her age.
10If Woolf was writing her diary with a reader in mind (at least sometimes), if there is this distance she imposes, thanks to the metalepses and other figures, then it is not totally surprising to see her testing different forms of writing, different genres.
A Conversational Stratification of Different Genres
- 5 The opposition is particularly striking in French: ‘journal intime’ as opposed to ‘journal externe’ (...)
11The discrete presence of a potential reader behind the diary is all the more possible to imagine as this diary fulfills the function of a literary workshop. Indeed Woolf seems to follow the typical Victorian young lady diary writing, i.e. an account not only of her day, but also of the whole family. ‘We’ is very present, as well as the names of her relatives, thus balancing the egotistical ‘I’ in what could be somehow considered as an ‘external diary’.5 It could almost be seen as an involuntary parody of a diary (she is carefully adopting all the diary components mentioned above). This process can be considered as an assertion of the genre which it is supposed to belong to; it takes on the architecture of the diary writing in order to pervert it.
- 6 The sonority of the name may be taken into account. It inspired her as she refers to ‘Peacegirls’ i (...)
- 7 Gérard Genette, Seuils (Paris: Seuil, 1987) 271–91.
- 8 In the 1903 diary, she writes many essays and even classifies them in an ‘index’.
12We referred to the architextuality of the diary identifiable as such, thanks to the spatio-temporal landmarks of the entries, the style, the relation to time. Moreover the diary is supposed to be written just for the writer in an intimate conversation with herself. But in 1899 Virginia Woolf is already perverting the genre. She shakes the diarist architecture thanks to a hybrid paratext. When she begins a new notebook, she usually writes ‘Diary’ followed by the date (‘Diary 1920’, ‘Diary 1921’); or simply the date, thus clearly identifying the genre of the text. This one does not follow the rule as it bears a more complete title: ‘Warboy Summer Holidays, 1899’, i.e. the topos, the geo-graphy and localisation in time, rather than genre.6 Moreover she gives titles to some entries: ‘Warboys Distractions’ (146), ‘A Chapter on Sunsets’ (155), ‘An Old Curse’ (157). Those titles, or rather ‘intertitles’ in Genette’s terminology,7 are rather unusual in a diary—this new rhythm creates a rupture with the inevitable date entries. This expresses the desire to give to the diary a new dimension which superimposes itself to the first one, thuscreating a multi-layered text. The title can also be seen as an element of the exchange with the reader. With their own almost independent titles they take on the form of little essays or short stories.8 In the heart of the diary we also find a little unfinished piece of journalism with the humorous ‘Extract from the Huntingdonshire gazette. terrible tragedy in a duckpond’ (150).
- 9 See Barbara Lounsberry, The Art of Fact (New York: Greenwood Press, 1990).
13The conversation between the different genres widens to a conversation with other forms of Arts (painting, drawing and music). Being confronted to the limits of representation, she develops further an intertextual definition of the ‘art of fact’.9
I wish that once & for all I could put down in this wretched handwriting how this country impresses me—how great I feel the stony-hard flatness [?] & monotony of the plain. Every time I write in this book I find myself drifting into the attractive but impossible task of describing the Fens—till I grow heartily sick of so much feeble work painting; & long for one expressive quotation that should signify in its solitary compass all the glories of earth air & Heaven. Nevertheless I own it is a joy to me to be set down with such a vast never ending picture to reproduce—reproduction is out of the question—but to gaze at, nibble at & scratch at. After all we are a world of imitation [;] all the Arts that is to say imitate as far as they can the one great truth that all can see. Such is the eternal instinct in the human beast, to try & reproduce something of that majesty in paint, marble or ink. Somehow ink tonight seems to me the least effectual method of all—& music the nearest to truth? (Early Journals 143)
Figure 1—‘Warboys Journal’: ‘Terrible tragedy in a duckpond’, August 1899 (cf. published text pp. 150–52).
A Passionate Apprentice: the Early Journals, edited by Mitchell A Leaska, published by Hogarth Press, 1992.
- 10 In Palimpsestes, Genette identifies the main figures of intertextuality as quotation, imitation, al (...)
14With words such as ‘reproduction’ and ‘imitation’, plus the allusion to the Greek philosophers, this passage mentions not only the difficulty of writing, but also presents a reflection on the concomitant attraction and impossibility of mimetic writing and art. For the diarist who is caught in this double bind, quotation or, more generally speaking, intertextuality,10 seems to be a better solution. Such recognition of the intertextual nature of writing leads the diarist to somehow flirt with lyrical prose, coming close at times to pastiche:
I am, at the present moment (the emotion is fleeting I know, so I must chronicle it) in love with a country life [. . .]
(Early Journals 137)
No one—save a poet—can express in words or paint the human significance & pathos of the sun unclouded rain of light—that makes the Heavens a delight & a difficulty to look upon. [. . .] it is as if you were slung on a flat green board in mid air; with only sky sky sky around & above & beneath you. [. . .] We have this moment come in from a sunset expedition—an account which I must at once write down, or I shall never attempt it. Nothing methinks is so impossible as to describe a real sunset in pen and ink 3 days after that sunset has faded from the sky.
(Early Journals 155)
15The exchange becomes more complex when her stylistic attempts are also mixed with references to a book she was then reading, such as this diary of a bishop:
7 August. Monotony, so methinks, dwells in these plains. Such melting gray of sky land & water is the very spirit of monotony. I [. . .] read a sleepy preaching [?] book; the diary of some ancient Bishop written in flowing ancient English that harmonised with this melancholy melodious monotony (what an awful sentence!) of bank and stream. [. . .]
(Early Journals 138)
16The premise of the diary within the diary, the book within the book she will develop in a unique way. Halfway between the literary review and the ‘pure’ quotation, the contamination of her text by other texts can be figured as a crutch to everyday life narration. The literary references interfere with factual narration: ‘Mr Lowell’ is conveyed via the evocation of the thermometer as the symbol of heat in an opposition between city and country life, then a more de-constructed passage links Lord Byron to Virginia Woolf’s address in London (423); and even ‘the great Panjandrum’, a character to be found in Harry and Lucy Concluded (423), interferes with a language analysis (of a writer? the curate?). ‘[. . .] When he describes a fine day, he gives the epithet ‘firm’ which at once conveys to the mind an idea of solidity and almost flesh. In the same way he uses always what one may call language of the body in speaking of things of the soul’ (Early Journals 422).
- 11 Jorge Luis Borges, Fictions (1956 ; Paris: Gallimard, 1983).
17The textual crutch develops with her use of Kelly’s Hundington Directory. By the use of full quotations or clear allusions, she is taking over this text to insert it in hers—not in a collage—but in a re-creation. We are not reading a guidebook anymore, it now belongs to Virginia Woolf’s diary, just as Pierre Ménard did not reproduce but became the author of the Quichotte in Fictions.11
Ramsey (or Ram’s Island) a market town on the borders of the Fenns. [. . .] The town became infected by the plague in the year 1666 [. . .]. There was once a Benedictine Abbey founded in 969 [. . .]. This interesting observation (the first sentence being illegible because of curious ink, which I think of adopting as my permanent ink) is taken from our only guide book to these parts—Kelly’s Huntingdonshire Directory; whose first object is to detail the shopkeepers; a little information however, such as I have written above, is intermixed (140)
(I will look up the History of St Ives & its bridge in Kelly, write it on the opposite page.) (148).
St Ives was anciently called Slepe & appears under that name in the Domesday book [. . .] (Early Journals 150)
Logick in Pieces
18The embedded forms of transtextuality perverting the diary as a genre, blurring the lines between reminiscences and sketches of recent past and present, blurring the egotistical self of the diary into a broader work takes on a new dimension (revealing the writer’s ambitions) when we consider another complex archi-texture transforming the text: the patch-work linking—binding—her text with another. It seems to convey both metatextual and intertextual types of transtextual relations.
- 12 Antoine Compagnon, La Seconde Main (Paris: Seuil, 1979).
19In La Seconde Main Antoine Compagnon indicates that the tools for a good quotation are scissors and a glue pot.12 We know Virginia Woolf has the scissors (in the china pot) and she has apparently found the book to cut from, glue on. Her work is a double quotation—a quotation in two directions, I should almost say a ‘transquotation’.
This work has undergone so many changes since I last wrote that before proceeding to expatiate upon the 18th of September I must explain briefly the state of the case. The work heretofore was contained in one modest paper book, that fronted the world in a state of nature—naked but not ashamed. Boards it recked not of, now it boasts boards that amount the dignity of a binding, being ancient tooled calf—the tooling resplendent today as a hundred years ago.
A sudden idea struck me, that it would be original useful & full of memories if I embedded that foregoing pages in the leaves of some worthy and ancient work, the like of which might I knew be bought at St Ives old Curiosity Shop [. . .]. At last I gave up glancing at the title page & confined myself wholly to the outward aspect of the book. [. . .] My work—the present volume, attracted my attention firstly because of its size, which fitted my paper—& 2ndly because its back had a certain air of distinction among its brethren. I fear the additional information given on the title page that this is the Logic of the ‘late Reverend & learned Isaac Watts’ was not a third reason why I bought it.
Any other book almost, would have been too sacred to undergo the desecration that I planned; but one methought could bewail the loss of these pages. (Early Journals 158–60)
- 13 ‘When I quote, I excise, I mutilate, I remove. The chosen fragment becomes a text itself’, My trans (...)
20The ‘desacration’ goes through the deconstruction of the book in order to convert the ‘material’ into a new text. ‘Lorsque je cite, j’excise, je mutile, je prélève. [. . .] le fragment élu se convertit lui-même en texte’ (Compagnon 17).13 Here the transplant is almost blind as the text she uses she does not seem to read, and the text which is quoted is finally hers. She thus offers a self-reading on the ground of another text. With this ‘two-in-one’, she is rewriting both her text and Watts’ with a pair of scissors and a glue pot. The text now reads at least in three different ways as there is Watts’ book, on which is glued Virginia Woolf’s diary pages, on which she has written upside down. The chasm, or mise en abyme, of the hypotext becoming hypertext and vice-versa becomes vertiginous when, three years later, in 1902, she tears some pages up in quest for more paper to write on and adds a new stratum of text and comments.
Figure 2—‘Warboys Journal’, september 1899 (and 1902?) (cf. published text p. 418).
A Passionate Apprentice: the Early Journals, edited by Mitchell A Leaska, published by Hogarth Press, 1992.
- 14 The title of Jeanette Winterson’s essays: Art Objects (London: Vintage, 1996).
- 15 Maurice Couturier, Textual Communication. A Print-Based Theory of the Novel (London: Routledge, 199 (...)
21Virginia Woolf uses the word ‘desacration’, and indeed it is more a desacration than a desacralisation of the book—on the contrary. This act which could be seen as a proper violation, is in fact a phantasm of the book as an ‘art object’.14 This ‘bookhood of the novel’ has been described by Couturier who goes back to the eighteenth century—the date of publication of Logick—a date when ‘[i]t apparently seemed something of a mystery [. . .] that two strangers living in different ‘universes or discourse’ could communicate with each other through a printed book’.15 Needless to say that we reach here a highly complex form of communication, and the conversation seems less and less clear. Rewriting the title of the book—whereas she does not glue anything on it—shows not only that she has chosen the process before actually giving it shape, but that there is moreover a certain fascination for the typical eighteenth-century title.
Logick or the Right use of Reason, with A Variety of Rules to Guard Against Error in the Affairs of Religion and Human Life as well as the Sciences (Early Journals 160)
Most of the titles of eighteenth-century novels are very long; they sometimes constitute a text in themselves. [. . .] [T]hey preface it with note underlining the historicity of the book. [. . .] In those days, of course, there was no dust-jacket [. . .] and therefore no blurb on the cover to advertise the book. All the advertising had to be done on the title-page. (Couturier 57–59)
Figure 3—‘Warboys Journal’, 18 september 1899 (cf. published text p. 160).
A Passionate Apprentice: the Early Journals, edited by Mitchell A Leaska, published by Hogarth Press, 1992.
Figure 4—‘Warboys Journal’, original title page of Isaac Watts’ Logick.
A Passionate Apprentice: the Early Journals, edited by Mitchell A Leaska, published by Hogarth Press, 1992.
22The word ‘reason’ in the very title seems to be an echo to a form of diary which is less common nowadays, the ‘livre de raison’. We may also note the humour with which she excludes the title as the third reason why she may have chosen this book. As indeed, the de-construction work she operates on this book seems to fit paradoxically well with the title!
23Nevertheless the main reason she gives to justify her ‘embedding’ process is the need she feels to gather her pages in a properly bound and hardcover book. This phantasm of the unity of the book as opposed to her notebook reads as a desire to gather her ‘self’ in a unique book. This process has forced her into a conversation with the book as an object, as the literary creation as lead her to turn the facts into art. Through this process, Virginia Woolf clearly asserts the link between ‘mere’ facts and art, a genre that deserves a book.
24It reveals a desire to put her creation in line with a tradition, ensuring a continuity between her literary heritage and the innovation of her writing. This creativity introduces a complex form of conversation, a genre of her own which tears to pieces a text to insert and link pieces of her own text cut into pieces of her self. Layer after layer, stratum after stratum, we attend to the creation of a kaleidoscopic sedimentation not only of the self, but also of the text which can be seen as an ‘auto-strati-graphy’.
Notes
1 Roland Barthes and Frederic Berthet, La Conversation (Paris: Seuil, 1979) 3.
2 First notebook: Jan 4, 1897—Jan 1, 1898.
3 Virginia Woolf, A Passionate Apprentice, The Early Journals (London: The Hogarth Press, 1990) 132.
4 Virginia Woolf will keep the habit of using her diary as a calendar, sometimes drawing lines and filling in the dates herself.
5 The opposition is particularly striking in French: ‘journal intime’ as opposed to ‘journal externe’. For Georges Gusdorf and Alain Girard the ‘journal externe’ is an echo of the outside world, the diary of others rather than the writer’s (See Georges Gusdorf, Auto-bio-graphie, Lignes de vie 2 (Paris: Odile Jacob, 1991). Michel Tournier refers to his ‘Journal extime’ as being ‘tourné vers le dehors, primaire, extraverti, ponctué par les saisons et la lecture des livres et des journaux, par l’irruption chez [lui] des amis, des inconnus [. . .]’ (Le Monde de Livres, 6 août 1982).
6 The sonority of the name may be taken into account. It inspired her as she refers to ‘Peacegirls’ in a letter to Emma.
7 Gérard Genette, Seuils (Paris: Seuil, 1987) 271–91.
8 In the 1903 diary, she writes many essays and even classifies them in an ‘index’.
9 See Barbara Lounsberry, The Art of Fact (New York: Greenwood Press, 1990).
10 In Palimpsestes, Genette identifies the main figures of intertextuality as quotation, imitation, allusion and plagiarism. See Gérard Genette, Palimpsestes (Paris: Seuil, 1982).
11 Jorge Luis Borges, Fictions (1956 ; Paris: Gallimard, 1983).
12 Antoine Compagnon, La Seconde Main (Paris: Seuil, 1979).
13 ‘When I quote, I excise, I mutilate, I remove. The chosen fragment becomes a text itself’, My translation.
14 The title of Jeanette Winterson’s essays: Art Objects (London: Vintage, 1996).
15 Maurice Couturier, Textual Communication. A Print-Based Theory of the Novel (London: Routledge, 1991) 53–59.
Haut de pageTable des illustrations
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| Titre | Figure 1—‘Warboys Journal’: ‘Terrible tragedy in a duckpond’, August 1899 (cf. published text pp. 150–52). |
| Légende | A Passionate Apprentice: the Early Journals, edited by Mitchell A Leaska, published by Hogarth Press, 1992. |
| URL | http://journals.openedition.org/ebc/docannexe/image/15031/img-1.png |
| Fichier | image/png, 330k |
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| Titre | Figure 2—‘Warboys Journal’, september 1899 (and 1902?) (cf. published text p. 418). |
| Légende | A Passionate Apprentice: the Early Journals, edited by Mitchell A Leaska, published by Hogarth Press, 1992. |
| URL | http://journals.openedition.org/ebc/docannexe/image/15031/img-2.png |
| Fichier | image/png, 334k |
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| Titre | Figure 3—‘Warboys Journal’, 18 september 1899 (cf. published text p. 160). |
| Légende | A Passionate Apprentice: the Early Journals, edited by Mitchell A Leaska, published by Hogarth Press, 1992. |
| URL | http://journals.openedition.org/ebc/docannexe/image/15031/img-3.png |
| Fichier | image/png, 220k |
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| Titre | Figure 4—‘Warboys Journal’, original title page of Isaac Watts’ Logick. |
| Légende | A Passionate Apprentice: the Early Journals, edited by Mitchell A Leaska, published by Hogarth Press, 1992. |
| URL | http://journals.openedition.org/ebc/docannexe/image/15031/img-4.png |
| Fichier | image/png, 235k |
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Frédérique Amselle, « Logick in Pieces: a Stratigraphic Conversation in Woolf’s Diary », Études britanniques contemporaines [En ligne], Hors série | 2005, mis en ligne le 10 juillet 2024, consulté le 13 décembre 2025. URL : http://journals.openedition.org/ebc/15031 ; DOI : https://doi.org/10.4000/12cwk
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