"What sort of diary should I like mine to be?
Something loose-knit and yet not slovenly,
so elastic that it will embrace anything,
slight or beautiful,
that comes into my mind.
I should like it to resemble some deep old desk or capacious hold-all,
in which one flings a mass of odds and ends without looking them through.
I should like to come back,
after a year or two,
and find that the collection had sorted itself and refined itself and coalesced,
as such deposits so mysteriously do,
into a mould,
transparent enough to reflect the light of our life,
and yet steady,
tranquil compounds with the aloofness of a work of art.
The main requisite,
on reading my old volumes,
is not to play the part of a censor,
but to write as the mood comes or of anything whatever;
since I was curious to find how I went for things put in haphazard,
and found the significance to lie where I never saw it at the time." -Virginia Woolf