Friday:
Three o'clock is always too late or too early for anything you want to do. A peculiar moment in the afternoon. Today it is intolerable.
A cold sunshine is whitening the dust on the window-panes. A pale sky, mottled with white. The gutters were frozen this morning.
I am digesting dully near the stove; I know in advance that this is a wasted day. I shan't do anything good, except, perhaps, after nightfall. It's on account of the sun; it vaguely gilds dirty white wisps of mist hanging in the air above the yard, it flows into my room, all fair, all pale, and it spreads four dull, false reflections on my table.
My pipe is daubed with a golden varnish which at first catches the eye by means of it's appearance of gaiety; you look at it, and the varnish melts, nothing is left but a big pale streak on a piece of wood. Everything is like that, everything, even my hands. When the sun begins shining like that the best thing to do would be to go to bed. Only I slept like a log last night, and I am not sleepy.
I liked yesterday's sky so much, a narrow sky, dark with rain, pushing against the window-panes like a ridiculous, touching face. This sun isn't ridiculous, quite the contrary. On everything I love, on the rust of the yards, on the rotten planks of the fence, a miserly, sensible light is falling, like the look you give, after a sleepless night, at the decisions you made enthusiastically the day before, at the pages you wrote straight off without a single correction.
I am loving this book so much. The way it's written and the choice of words - so good
If I didn't have so much to do, I'd like to illustrate some sections
