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袛薪械胁薪懈泻褗褌 薪邪 械写薪邪 锌懈褋邪褌械谢泻邪: 懈蟹胁邪写泻懈 芯褌 写薪械胁薪懈泻邪 薪邪 袙懈褉写卸懈薪懈褟 校谢褎
鈥炐斝� 泻邪泻胁芯 薪械芯斜懈泻薪芯胁械薪芯 锌褉芯褋胁械褌谢械薪懈械 褋褌懈谐薪邪褏 屑懈薪邪谢邪褌邪 蟹懈屑邪! 小胁芯斜芯写邪; 斜谢邪谐芯写邪褉械薪懈械 薪邪 泻芯褟褌芯 褋械谐邪, 泻邪泻褌芯 褍褋褌邪薪芯胁褟胁邪屑, 谢械褋薪芯 屑芯谐邪 写邪 芯褌泻邪卸邪 锌芯泻邪薪邪褌邪 薪邪 小懈斜懈谢, 写邪 锌芯褋褉械褖薪邪 卸懈胁芯褌邪 屑薪芯谐芯 锌芯-褌胁褗褉写芯 懈 褌褉械蟹胁芯. 袧褟屑邪 写邪 斜褗写邪 鈥炐垦€芯褔褍褌邪鈥�, 鈥炐残敌恍感盒扳€�. 些械 锌褉芯写褗谢卸邪 写邪 械泻褋锌械褉懈屑械薪褌懈褉邪屑, 写邪 锌褉芯屑械薪褟屑, 写邪 芯褌胁邪褉褟屑 褍屑邪 懈 芯褔懈褌械 褋懈, 写邪 芯褌泻邪蟹胁邪屑 写邪 屑懈 谢械锌褟褌 械褌懈泻械褌懈 懈 写邪 屑械 胁泻邪褉胁邪褌 胁 薪褟泻邪泻胁懈 褋褌械褉械芯褌懈锌懈. 袙邪卸薪芯褌芯 械 写邪 芯褌锌褉懈褖褟 褋芯斜褋褌胁械薪邪褌邪 褋懈 谢懈褔薪芯褋褌: 写邪 褟 薪邪泻邪褉邪屑 写邪 薪邪屑械褉懈 屑邪褖邪斜懈褌械 褋懈, 写邪 薪械 锌芯蟹胁芯谢褟胁邪屑 写邪 褲 锌褉械褔邪褌.鈥�
袙懈褉写卸懈薪懈褟 校谢褎 械 斜褉懈褌邪薪褋泻邪 锌懈褋邪褌械谢泻邪, 褋屑褟褌邪薪邪 蟹邪 械写薪邪 芯褌 薪邪泄-懈蟹褌褗泻薪邪褌懈褌械 褎懈谐褍褉懈 薪邪 谢懈褌械褉邪褌褍褉邪褌邪 薪邪 屑芯写械褉薪懈蟹屑邪 胁褗胁 袙械谢懈泻芯斜褉懈褌邪薪懈褟 锌褉械蟹 XX 胁械泻. 袦械卸写褍 袩褗褉胁邪褌邪 懈 袙褌芯褉邪褌邪 褋胁械褌芯胁薪邪 胁芯泄薪邪 袙懈褉写卸懈薪懈褟 校谢褎 蟹邪械屑邪 褋锌械褑懈邪谢薪芯 屑褟褋褌芯 胁 谢芯薪写芯薪褋泻芯褌芯 谢懈褌械褉邪褌褍褉薪芯 芯斜褖械褋褌胁芯 懈 械 褔谢械薪 薪邪 袣褉褗谐邪 袘谢褍屑褋斜褗褉懈. 袝褋械褌邪褌邪, 褉邪蟹泻邪蟹懈褌械, 褋褌邪褌懈懈褌械 懈 褉芯屑邪薪懈褌械 薪邪 袙懈写卸懈薪懈褟 校谢褎 褋械 褋屑褟褌邪褌 蟹邪 芯褋薪芯胁邪褌邪 薪邪 褋褗胁褉械屑械薪薪懈褟 褎械屑懈薪懈蟹褗屑. 孝胁芯褉斜懈褌械 褲, 锌褉械胁械写械薪懈 薪邪 锌芯胁械褔械 芯褌 50 械蟹懈泻邪 胁 褑械谢懈褟 褋胁褟褌, 褋邪 懈蟹褌芯褔薪懈泻 薪邪 胁写褗褏薪芯胁械薪懈械 蟹邪 褋褗蟹写邪胁邪薪械褌芯 薪邪 屑薪芯卸械褋褌胁芯 锌懈械褋懈, 褉芯屑邪薪懈 懈 褎懈谢屑懈.
袙懈褉写卸懈薪懈褟 校谢褎 械 斜褉懈褌邪薪褋泻邪 锌懈褋邪褌械谢泻邪, 褋屑褟褌邪薪邪 蟹邪 械写薪邪 芯褌 薪邪泄-懈蟹褌褗泻薪邪褌懈褌械 褎懈谐褍褉懈 薪邪 谢懈褌械褉邪褌褍褉邪褌邪 薪邪 屑芯写械褉薪懈蟹屑邪 胁褗胁 袙械谢懈泻芯斜褉懈褌邪薪懈褟 锌褉械蟹 XX 胁械泻. 袦械卸写褍 袩褗褉胁邪褌邪 懈 袙褌芯褉邪褌邪 褋胁械褌芯胁薪邪 胁芯泄薪邪 袙懈褉写卸懈薪懈褟 校谢褎 蟹邪械屑邪 褋锌械褑懈邪谢薪芯 屑褟褋褌芯 胁 谢芯薪写芯薪褋泻芯褌芯 谢懈褌械褉邪褌褍褉薪芯 芯斜褖械褋褌胁芯 懈 械 褔谢械薪 薪邪 袣褉褗谐邪 袘谢褍屑褋斜褗褉懈. 袝褋械褌邪褌邪, 褉邪蟹泻邪蟹懈褌械, 褋褌邪褌懈懈褌械 懈 褉芯屑邪薪懈褌械 薪邪 袙懈写卸懈薪懈褟 校谢褎 褋械 褋屑褟褌邪褌 蟹邪 芯褋薪芯胁邪褌邪 薪邪 褋褗胁褉械屑械薪薪懈褟 褎械屑懈薪懈蟹褗屑. 孝胁芯褉斜懈褌械 褲, 锌褉械胁械写械薪懈 薪邪 锌芯胁械褔械 芯褌 50 械蟹懈泻邪 胁 褑械谢懈褟 褋胁褟褌, 褋邪 懈蟹褌芯褔薪懈泻 薪邪 胁写褗褏薪芯胁械薪懈械 蟹邪 褋褗蟹写邪胁邪薪械褌芯 薪邪 屑薪芯卸械褋褌胁芯 锌懈械褋懈, 褉芯屑邪薪懈 懈 褎懈谢屑懈.
608 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1953
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About the author
Virginia Woolf
1,865听books27.4k听followers(Adeline) Virginia Woolf was an English novelist and essayist regarded as one of the foremost modernist literary figures of the twentieth century.
During the interwar period, Woolf was a significant figure in London literary society and a member of the Bloomsbury Group. Her most famous works include the novels Mrs. Dalloway (1925), To the Lighthouse (1927), and Orlando (1928), and the book-length essay A Room of One's Own (1929) with its famous dictum, "a woman must have money and a room of her own if she is to write fiction."
During the interwar period, Woolf was a significant figure in London literary society and a member of the Bloomsbury Group. Her most famous works include the novels Mrs. Dalloway (1925), To the Lighthouse (1927), and Orlando (1928), and the book-length essay A Room of One's Own (1929) with its famous dictum, "a woman must have money and a room of her own if she is to write fiction."
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August 17, 2024
Nu spun o noutate, Virginia Woolf a fost o cititoare pasionat膬 葯i un critic foarte lucid. Timp de mai multe zile, am transcris 卯nsemn膬rile ei despre c膬r葲ile pe care le citea. Tabloul este, desigur, incomplet. Pentru a reconstitui 卯ntregul lecturilor, modul cum reac葲iona la ele, se cuvine s膬-i citim eseurile. Virginia Woolf despre:
a) Homer. Sofocle
luni, 29 octombrie 1934: Citesc 鈥�Antigona. C卯t de puternic 卯nc膬 este farmecul acesta; emo葲ia pe care 葲i-o produce [limba] greac膬 se deosebe葯te de oricare alta. Voi citi Plotinus, Herodot 葯i cred c膬 葯i Homer鈥� (p.266).
b) Shakespeare, Shelley, Coleridge
A. 15 august 1924, vineri: 鈥濩卯nd aveam 20 de ani nu puteam s膬-l citesc pe Shakespeare de pl膬cere pentru nimic 卯n lume. Acum, plimb卯ndu-m膬, m膬 bucur la g卯ndul c膬 voi citi dou膬 acte din Regele Ioan ast膬 sear膬 葯i c膬 apoi voi citi Richard al II-lea. Ceea ce m膬 atrage acum este poezia, poemele lungi鈥� (p.81).
B. 22 iunie 1940, s卯mb膬t膬: 鈥灻巑i zic c膬 dac膬 este ultima mea etap膬, n-ar trebui oare s膬 citesc Shakespeare? Dar nu pot... Aceasta m膬 g卯ndeam ieri este poate ultima mea plimbare. Lanul de gr卯u era sm膬l葲uit cu maci ro葯ii. Seara 卯l citesc pe Shelley. Ce delica葲i, puri, muzicali 葯i integri 卯mi apar el 葯i Coleridge... Ne scurgem c膬tre marginea unei pr膬p膬stii鈥� (pp.392-393).
c) Cervantes
5 august [1920], joi: 鈥濾reau s膬 卯ncerc s膬 spun ce cred despre Don Quijote, pe care-l citesc dup膬 cin膬. Mai 卯nt卯i cred c膬 pe vremea aceea se scriau povestiri pentru a-i distra pe oamenii st卯nd 卯n jurul focului... 葰i-i 卯nchipui 葯ez卯nd roat膬, femeile torc卯nd, b膬rba葲ii pierdu葲i 卯n g卯nduri 葯i istorisindu-li-se o poveste vesel膬, fantastic膬 葯i 卯nc卯nt膬toare ca unor copii mari. Mi se pare c膬 spre aceasta 葲inte葯te Don Quijote, 葯i anume s膬 ne amuze cu orice pre葲... Cervantes nu este con葯tient de sensul profund al operei 葯i nu 卯l vede pe Don Quijote a葯a cum 卯l vedem noi. 脦ntr-adev膬r, aceasta este dificultatea de care m膬 izbesc: triste葲ea, satira, 卯n ce m膬sur膬 ne apar葲in ele nou膬, f膬r膬 s膬 fi fost inten葲ionate [de autor]? Sau poate c膬 aceste personaje nemuritoare au capacitatea de a se schimba 卯n func葲ie de genera葲ii?... Scena mar葯ului sclavilor de pe galer膬 este un exemplu a ceea ce vreau s膬 spun. Oare Cervantes a sim葲it 卯ntreaga frumuse葲e 葯i triste葲e a acestui pasaj cum o simt eu 卯ns膬mi?鈥� (p.38).
d) F.M. Dostoievski
26 septembrie 1922, joi: 鈥濪ostoievski reprezint膬 pierzania literaturii engleze鈥� (p.65).
e) Marcel Proust
8 aprilie 1925, mar葲i: 鈥濨ine卯n葲eles, [Doamna Dalloway] nici nu se poate compara cu Proust, 卯n a c膬rui lectur膬 s卯nt cufundat膬 卯n momentul de fa葲膬. Ceea ce m膬 izbe葯te la Proust este 卯mpletirea unei sensibilit膬葲i foarte ascu葲ite cu o 卯nver葯unat膬 tenacitate. Proust scruteaz膬 nuan葲ele unui fluture p卯n膬 la ultima particul膬. E viguros ca struna unei viori... Presupun c膬 m膬 va influen葲a 葯i, totodat膬, m膬 va 卯nfuria la fiecare fraz膬 pe care o voi scrie鈥� (p.89).
f) D.H. Lawrence
2 octombie 1932, duminic膬: 鈥灻巐 citesc pe D. H. Lawrence cu obi葯nuita senza葲ie de frustrare 葯i cu sentimentul c膬 el 葯i cu mine avem multe lucruri 卯n comun; aceea葯i insisten葲膬 de a fi noi 卯n葯ine, a葯a 卯nc卯t c卯nd 卯l citesc nu pot s膬 evadez. S卯nt tulburat膬. Ceea ce a葯 dori este s膬 m膬 eliberez de o alt膬 lume, Proust m膬 ajut膬 s膬 fac acest lucru, Lawrence este irespirabil, claustrat鈥� (p.218).
g) James Joyce
A. 10 august 1922, miercuri: 鈥濧r trebui s膬 citesc Ulysses 葯i s膬 pun la cale un proces 卯n favoarea sau 卯mpotriva romanului. P卯n膬 acum am citit 200 de pagini, nici m膬car o treime. Primele dou膬 sau trei capitole, p卯n膬 la sf卯r葯itul scenei din cimitir, m-au amuzat, m-au stimulat, m-au captivat, m-au interesat. Apoi am r膬mas nedumerit膬, plictisit膬, iritat膬, decep葲ionat膬 de un student gre葲os, care 卯葯i stoarce co葯urile... Dup膬 p膬rerea mea este o carte incult膬 葯i grosolan膬, cartea unui autodidact 葯i 葯tim cu to葲ii c卯t de dezarman葲i s卯nt ace葯tia, c卯t de egoi葯ti, insisten葲i, rudimentari 葯ocan葲i 葯i, 卯n ultim膬 instan葲膬, dezgust膬tori鈥� (p.61).
B. 6 septembrie 1922, miercuri: 鈥濧m terminat de citit Ulysses 葯i 卯l consider un e葯ec. Cred c膬 nu este lipsit de geniu, dar geniu de o calitate inferioar膬. Cartea este difuz膬 葯i gre葲oas膬; preten葲ioas膬 葯i vulgar膬 nu numai 卯n sensul obi葯nuit, ci 葯i 卯n sens literar. Vreau s膬 spun c膬 un scriitor de 卯nalt膬 clas膬 respect膬 prea mult scrisul ca s膬 tri葯eze, s膬 葯ocheze sau s膬 execute acroba葲ii. Aceasta 卯mi aminte葯te tot timpul de un b膬ie葲a葯 nepriceput de 葯coal膬 primar膬, plin de inteligen葲膬 葯i de daruri, dar at卯t de con葯tient de sine 葯i de egoist 卯nc卯t 卯葯i pierde capul, devine extravagant, afectat, zgomotos, st卯ngaci - 卯nc卯t 卯i face pe oamenii cumsecade s膬-l comp膬timeasc膬, iar pe cei severi 卯i 卯nfurie. Sper ca aceasta s膬-i treac膬 cu v卯rsta, dar 卯ntruc卯t Joyce are 40 de ani, e un lucru care pare foarte pu葲in probabil. N-am citit cartea foarte atent 葯i am citit-o doar o singur膬 dat膬: e foarte confuz膬, a葯a 卯nc卯t f膬r膬 卯ndoial膬 c膬 s卯nt nedreapt膬 葯i c膬 meritele ei mi-au sc膬pat...鈥� (pp.63-64).
***
脦n diminea葲a zilei de vineri, 28 martie 1941, Virginia Woolf p膬r膬se葯te casa 葯i se 卯ntreapt膬 spre r卯ul Ouse. 脦葯i umple buzunarele hainei de blan膬 cu pietre 葯i intr膬 卯n ap膬. L膬sase 卯n urm膬 dou膬 scrisori de desp膬r葲ire. Una pentru Leonard Woolf, cealalt膬 pentru sora ei, Vanessa Bell. 脦n scrisoarea pentru Leonard, notase: 鈥濱 feel certain I am going mad again鈥�. Cu trei s膬pt膬m卯ni 卯nainte, scrisese 卯n jurnal:
8 martie [1941], duminic膬: 鈥濺e葲in fraza lui Henry James: 'Observ膬 ne卯ncetat!' S膬 observ apropierea b膬tr卯ne葲ii. S膬 observ l膬comia. S膬 observ propria mea deprimare. 脦n acest mod totul poate deveni util... 葰in s膬 petrec acest timp cu folos. Voi c膬dea, dar voi 葲ine steagul sus...鈥� (p.426).
a) Homer. Sofocle
luni, 29 octombrie 1934: Citesc 鈥�Antigona. C卯t de puternic 卯nc膬 este farmecul acesta; emo葲ia pe care 葲i-o produce [limba] greac膬 se deosebe葯te de oricare alta. Voi citi Plotinus, Herodot 葯i cred c膬 葯i Homer鈥� (p.266).
b) Shakespeare, Shelley, Coleridge
A. 15 august 1924, vineri: 鈥濩卯nd aveam 20 de ani nu puteam s膬-l citesc pe Shakespeare de pl膬cere pentru nimic 卯n lume. Acum, plimb卯ndu-m膬, m膬 bucur la g卯ndul c膬 voi citi dou膬 acte din Regele Ioan ast膬 sear膬 葯i c膬 apoi voi citi Richard al II-lea. Ceea ce m膬 atrage acum este poezia, poemele lungi鈥� (p.81).
B. 22 iunie 1940, s卯mb膬t膬: 鈥灻巑i zic c膬 dac膬 este ultima mea etap膬, n-ar trebui oare s膬 citesc Shakespeare? Dar nu pot... Aceasta m膬 g卯ndeam ieri este poate ultima mea plimbare. Lanul de gr卯u era sm膬l葲uit cu maci ro葯ii. Seara 卯l citesc pe Shelley. Ce delica葲i, puri, muzicali 葯i integri 卯mi apar el 葯i Coleridge... Ne scurgem c膬tre marginea unei pr膬p膬stii鈥� (pp.392-393).
c) Cervantes
5 august [1920], joi: 鈥濾reau s膬 卯ncerc s膬 spun ce cred despre Don Quijote, pe care-l citesc dup膬 cin膬. Mai 卯nt卯i cred c膬 pe vremea aceea se scriau povestiri pentru a-i distra pe oamenii st卯nd 卯n jurul focului... 葰i-i 卯nchipui 葯ez卯nd roat膬, femeile torc卯nd, b膬rba葲ii pierdu葲i 卯n g卯nduri 葯i istorisindu-li-se o poveste vesel膬, fantastic膬 葯i 卯nc卯nt膬toare ca unor copii mari. Mi se pare c膬 spre aceasta 葲inte葯te Don Quijote, 葯i anume s膬 ne amuze cu orice pre葲... Cervantes nu este con葯tient de sensul profund al operei 葯i nu 卯l vede pe Don Quijote a葯a cum 卯l vedem noi. 脦ntr-adev膬r, aceasta este dificultatea de care m膬 izbesc: triste葲ea, satira, 卯n ce m膬sur膬 ne apar葲in ele nou膬, f膬r膬 s膬 fi fost inten葲ionate [de autor]? Sau poate c膬 aceste personaje nemuritoare au capacitatea de a se schimba 卯n func葲ie de genera葲ii?... Scena mar葯ului sclavilor de pe galer膬 este un exemplu a ceea ce vreau s膬 spun. Oare Cervantes a sim葲it 卯ntreaga frumuse葲e 葯i triste葲e a acestui pasaj cum o simt eu 卯ns膬mi?鈥� (p.38).
d) F.M. Dostoievski
26 septembrie 1922, joi: 鈥濪ostoievski reprezint膬 pierzania literaturii engleze鈥� (p.65).
e) Marcel Proust
8 aprilie 1925, mar葲i: 鈥濨ine卯n葲eles, [Doamna Dalloway] nici nu se poate compara cu Proust, 卯n a c膬rui lectur膬 s卯nt cufundat膬 卯n momentul de fa葲膬. Ceea ce m膬 izbe葯te la Proust este 卯mpletirea unei sensibilit膬葲i foarte ascu葲ite cu o 卯nver葯unat膬 tenacitate. Proust scruteaz膬 nuan葲ele unui fluture p卯n膬 la ultima particul膬. E viguros ca struna unei viori... Presupun c膬 m膬 va influen葲a 葯i, totodat膬, m膬 va 卯nfuria la fiecare fraz膬 pe care o voi scrie鈥� (p.89).
f) D.H. Lawrence
2 octombie 1932, duminic膬: 鈥灻巐 citesc pe D. H. Lawrence cu obi葯nuita senza葲ie de frustrare 葯i cu sentimentul c膬 el 葯i cu mine avem multe lucruri 卯n comun; aceea葯i insisten葲膬 de a fi noi 卯n葯ine, a葯a 卯nc卯t c卯nd 卯l citesc nu pot s膬 evadez. S卯nt tulburat膬. Ceea ce a葯 dori este s膬 m膬 eliberez de o alt膬 lume, Proust m膬 ajut膬 s膬 fac acest lucru, Lawrence este irespirabil, claustrat鈥� (p.218).
g) James Joyce
A. 10 august 1922, miercuri: 鈥濧r trebui s膬 citesc Ulysses 葯i s膬 pun la cale un proces 卯n favoarea sau 卯mpotriva romanului. P卯n膬 acum am citit 200 de pagini, nici m膬car o treime. Primele dou膬 sau trei capitole, p卯n膬 la sf卯r葯itul scenei din cimitir, m-au amuzat, m-au stimulat, m-au captivat, m-au interesat. Apoi am r膬mas nedumerit膬, plictisit膬, iritat膬, decep葲ionat膬 de un student gre葲os, care 卯葯i stoarce co葯urile... Dup膬 p膬rerea mea este o carte incult膬 葯i grosolan膬, cartea unui autodidact 葯i 葯tim cu to葲ii c卯t de dezarman葲i s卯nt ace葯tia, c卯t de egoi葯ti, insisten葲i, rudimentari 葯ocan葲i 葯i, 卯n ultim膬 instan葲膬, dezgust膬tori鈥� (p.61).
B. 6 septembrie 1922, miercuri: 鈥濧m terminat de citit Ulysses 葯i 卯l consider un e葯ec. Cred c膬 nu este lipsit de geniu, dar geniu de o calitate inferioar膬. Cartea este difuz膬 葯i gre葲oas膬; preten葲ioas膬 葯i vulgar膬 nu numai 卯n sensul obi葯nuit, ci 葯i 卯n sens literar. Vreau s膬 spun c膬 un scriitor de 卯nalt膬 clas膬 respect膬 prea mult scrisul ca s膬 tri葯eze, s膬 葯ocheze sau s膬 execute acroba葲ii. Aceasta 卯mi aminte葯te tot timpul de un b膬ie葲a葯 nepriceput de 葯coal膬 primar膬, plin de inteligen葲膬 葯i de daruri, dar at卯t de con葯tient de sine 葯i de egoist 卯nc卯t 卯葯i pierde capul, devine extravagant, afectat, zgomotos, st卯ngaci - 卯nc卯t 卯i face pe oamenii cumsecade s膬-l comp膬timeasc膬, iar pe cei severi 卯i 卯nfurie. Sper ca aceasta s膬-i treac膬 cu v卯rsta, dar 卯ntruc卯t Joyce are 40 de ani, e un lucru care pare foarte pu葲in probabil. N-am citit cartea foarte atent 葯i am citit-o doar o singur膬 dat膬: e foarte confuz膬, a葯a 卯nc卯t f膬r膬 卯ndoial膬 c膬 s卯nt nedreapt膬 葯i c膬 meritele ei mi-au sc膬pat...鈥� (pp.63-64).
***
脦n diminea葲a zilei de vineri, 28 martie 1941, Virginia Woolf p膬r膬se葯te casa 葯i se 卯ntreapt膬 spre r卯ul Ouse. 脦葯i umple buzunarele hainei de blan膬 cu pietre 葯i intr膬 卯n ap膬. L膬sase 卯n urm膬 dou膬 scrisori de desp膬r葲ire. Una pentru Leonard Woolf, cealalt膬 pentru sora ei, Vanessa Bell. 脦n scrisoarea pentru Leonard, notase: 鈥濱 feel certain I am going mad again鈥�. Cu trei s膬pt膬m卯ni 卯nainte, scrisese 卯n jurnal:
8 martie [1941], duminic膬: 鈥濺e葲in fraza lui Henry James: 'Observ膬 ne卯ncetat!' S膬 observ apropierea b膬tr卯ne葲ii. S膬 observ l膬comia. S膬 observ propria mea deprimare. 脦n acest mod totul poate deveni util... 葰in s膬 petrec acest timp cu folos. Voi c膬dea, dar voi 葲ine steagul sus...鈥� (p.426).
November 4, 2016
These diary entries brim over with life, with hunger, with a passion that cannot be contained, with the conflicted need to absorb it all; the lonely walks in the Sussex countryside, the visual and sonorous chaos of life in the city, of incessant travel, mental and otherwise, the unstoppable flow of time, the transience of things, the galloping rhythm of emotions, sensations and the simultaneity of memory, past and present in one鈥檚 conscience, the tedium of discussions and routine, the truth about daily life without embellishment.
Virginia sat at her desk and wanted to condense it all into poetry and leave out whatever that was superfluous. She never rested. She pushed herself to the limit, squeezed out her mind and existed fully only when she was writing. Writing as a means of being. She became inebriated by the exuberance of words and was carried away by the enthusiasm of getting closer to the voice that would finally give a physical shape to her dispersed, hyperactive senses. Working soothed and provided purpose to an otherwise futile reality, it gave her a reason to be.
But when the last page was done, revised, rewritten and typed out, almost manically, the vertigo of impending emptiness oppressed her, and incessant self-doubt erased all sense of wholeness or achievement.
The vain, arrogant, scathing writer became a vulnerable woman, conflicted about her own expectations and with an almost obsessive need for validation.
The constant search for meaning made her restless, abstracted and prone to introspection. She devoured books compulsively, classics and contemporary literature, and had no trouble scoffing the likes of Joyce, Hardy or Bernard Shaw, but she wasn鈥檛 harsher with any other author than she was with herself. She kept track of her book sales, she was easily humiliated by negative reviews and dreaded the reactions of her close friends in the Bloomsbury group.
The vulnerability shown in these diaries bespeaks of a woman aware of her writing prowess but also mindful of her limitations, something one might not expect to see in the diaries of her male contemporaries.
As years pass and the entries get closer to the onset of WWII, the collapse of Woolf鈥檚 world seems to match her increasing mental frailty. The constant fear of imminent bombings during the Blitz overpowers her creativity. Her writing becomes rushed and it loses the quality of a safe haven. Woolf鈥檚 hunger to seize meaning through writing wanes and a lulling indifference takes hold of her former urgency.
Where to draw the line between the woman and the writer? Between imposed circumstance and deliberate choice? Maybe one wouldn鈥檛 exist without the other.
Some might think Leonard Woolf鈥檚 selection of diary entries show a fragmented account of Virginia鈥檚 intimate thoughts, but for this reader, they are more than a censured portrait of an artist. They present a fair testimony to the great joys and uncertainties of being a writer, of surrendering to an unknown vision and committing one鈥檚 life to seize it without compromising the fleeting quality of its beauty.
Virginia sat at her desk and wanted to condense it all into poetry and leave out whatever that was superfluous. She never rested. She pushed herself to the limit, squeezed out her mind and existed fully only when she was writing. Writing as a means of being. She became inebriated by the exuberance of words and was carried away by the enthusiasm of getting closer to the voice that would finally give a physical shape to her dispersed, hyperactive senses. Working soothed and provided purpose to an otherwise futile reality, it gave her a reason to be.
But when the last page was done, revised, rewritten and typed out, almost manically, the vertigo of impending emptiness oppressed her, and incessant self-doubt erased all sense of wholeness or achievement.
The vain, arrogant, scathing writer became a vulnerable woman, conflicted about her own expectations and with an almost obsessive need for validation.
The constant search for meaning made her restless, abstracted and prone to introspection. She devoured books compulsively, classics and contemporary literature, and had no trouble scoffing the likes of Joyce, Hardy or Bernard Shaw, but she wasn鈥檛 harsher with any other author than she was with herself. She kept track of her book sales, she was easily humiliated by negative reviews and dreaded the reactions of her close friends in the Bloomsbury group.
The vulnerability shown in these diaries bespeaks of a woman aware of her writing prowess but also mindful of her limitations, something one might not expect to see in the diaries of her male contemporaries.
As years pass and the entries get closer to the onset of WWII, the collapse of Woolf鈥檚 world seems to match her increasing mental frailty. The constant fear of imminent bombings during the Blitz overpowers her creativity. Her writing becomes rushed and it loses the quality of a safe haven. Woolf鈥檚 hunger to seize meaning through writing wanes and a lulling indifference takes hold of her former urgency.
Where to draw the line between the woman and the writer? Between imposed circumstance and deliberate choice? Maybe one wouldn鈥檛 exist without the other.
Some might think Leonard Woolf鈥檚 selection of diary entries show a fragmented account of Virginia鈥檚 intimate thoughts, but for this reader, they are more than a censured portrait of an artist. They present a fair testimony to the great joys and uncertainties of being a writer, of surrendering to an unknown vision and committing one鈥檚 life to seize it without compromising the fleeting quality of its beauty.
Read
April 22, 2022scritch scratch scritch scratch dash
scritch scratch scritch scratch semi-colon
scritch scratch scritch scratch inkblot
the trusty nib flounders a moment
then wades through the puddle of ink
and on to the end of the line
to the end of the page
to the end of that year鈥檚 diary
and though it flounders sometimes along the way
the trusty nib keeps on scratching through the diaries
until half-way though the last volume
it flounders finally
_______________________________
Now for The Longer Review - and apologies in advance.
Reading a diary is like being in a room with someone who thinks they are alone. And even though they think they are alone, and feel quite safe talking to themselves aloud, we see them glance in the mirror from time to time to see how they look when they are speaking. It can鈥檛 matter how they look but they check all the same, just in case. How much 鈥榡ust in case鈥� is present in Virginia Woolf鈥檚 diary, the kindly blank-faced confidante she turned to in good times and in bad?
In March, 1926, aged forty-four, she wrote: But what is to become of all these diaries, I asked myself yesterday. If I died, what would Leo make of them? He would be disinclined to burn then; he could not publish them. Well, he should make up a book from them, I think; and then burn the body. I daresay there is a little book in them; if the scraps and scratching were straightened out a little...This is dictated by a slight melancholia, which comes upon me sometimes now and makes me think I am old. Yet, as far as I know, as a writer I am only now writing out my mind.
She was right on all counts. She lived to be fifty-nine and wrote five more novels, some of her most famous essays, many short stories, the second series of , a biography of the artist Roger Fry, plus fifteen more years worth of diary entries. And Leonard Woolf did edit her diaries after her death in 1941, selecting the sections on writing, and some on reading, which he then published as full of little gems like this: You see, I鈥檓 thinking furiously about Reading and Writing
starts in 1918 when Woolf鈥檚 second novel, was about to be published, and it covers the most important years of her writing life. I for one am very grateful to Leonard Woolf for both the editing and the publishing. It is very exciting to get to read about the writing process as it is happening, and about the writer鈥檚 reaction to the reception of their work as it is published.
As a reader, I鈥檓 rarely drawn to the biographical details of a writer鈥檚 life except where they are so closely linked to the writing that an understanding of one requires an understanding of the other. In the case of Virginia Woolf, it seems to me that biographical details are simply not relevant to an appreciation of her writing. She may have used life experiences as material for her books but the reader doesn鈥檛 need to know which episodes are fact and which are fiction; the writing carries the day almost entirely on its own. It is interesting that we don鈥檛 often seek to know the intimate lives of artists the way we sometimes do with writers; we accept an artist鈥檚 work as it is, simply placing it in its epoch and appreciating its technique and its merits in relation to its contemporaries. The parallel with the artist is particularly relevant in Woolf鈥檚 case; the main agenda in her novels is her art. The novels make political points certainly, but it is done without stridency; it never gets in the way of the style of the writing or the shape she is architecting. Even when she makes political points in her non-fiction, her phrasing is always perfect and her voice remains serene; she examines the field as a scientist or an anthropologist might, and sets out her conclusions. In both her fiction and her non-fiction, there is this firm focus on the writing style. I think she would have abhorred any search for intimate details about the personal life behind that writing style.
So what does Virginia Woolf say about the process of writing if writing it is鈥攖his dash at the paper of a phrase, this sweep of a brush? In 1923, when she is working on the first draft of , she writes: But now what do I feel about my writing? One must write from deep feeling, said Dostoievsky. And do I? Or do I fabricate with words, loving them as I do?鈥ut to get further. Have I the power of conveying the true reality?鈥nswer these questions as I may鈥here remains this excitement: to get to the bones, now that I鈥檓 writing fiction again I feel my force glow straight from me at its fullest. After a dose of criticism I feel that I鈥檓 writing sideways, using only an angle of my mind.
The other angles of her mind were constantly focused upon the current novel she was working on, or upon the germ of an idea for the next one. Why not invent a new kind of play; as for instance: Woman thinks鈥e does. Organ plays. She writes. They say: She sings. Night speaks. As we read through the diaries, we watch such seeds grow and change: that particular seed grew into . Soon afterwards, she began mentioning another theme: 鈥榤oths鈥�. She spoke of those moths again and again, spoke of them hovering at the back of her brain, and finally I realised that she was shaping the playpoem that would become . More of her diary entries concern than any of her other books, except perhaps . I find it significant that of the entire ten, those are the two I appreciated the most.
And so, there was always a story in the making, even before she had finished the previous one, and the diaries were where she coaxed these seeds of stories into the light. As we can see from the quotes, Woolf wrote the diaries in a kind of shorthand, quite unlike the way she writes in her novels and essays: It strikes me that here I practice writing; do my scales; yes and work at certain effects. I daresay I practiced Jacob here; and Mrs D. and shall invent my next book here; for here I write merely in spirit鈥攇reat fun it is too, and Old V. of 1940 will see something in it too. She will be a woman who can see, old V., everything鈥攎ore than I can, I think. She registers her thoughts on the spot, her nib following the swerves of her thinking, sensitive to every shift of mood, and very often the mood mentioned is one of exhilaration, of the 鈥榟igh' she experienced from creating phrases. The notion of immense satisfaction, rapture, electric shocks gained from writing is repeated over and over again and most often in relation to the periods when she was engaged on fiction: Great content鈥攁lmost always enjoying what I am at, but with constant change of mood. I don鈥檛 think I鈥檓 ever bored. Sometimes a little stale; but I have a power of recovery.
She needed every power of recovery that she could muster when it came to the reception of her novels. After came out to unenthusiastic reviews in 1919, she wrote: I ought to be writing Jacob鈥檚 Room; and I can鈥檛鈥鈥檓 a failure as a writer. I鈥檓 out of fashion: old: shan鈥檛 do any better鈥�.my book..a damp firework. Later, while still working on , she noted: Elliot (T. S.) coming on the heel of a long stretch of writing (two months without a break) made me listless; cast shade upon me; and the mind when engaged upon fiction wants all its boldness and self-confidence. He said nothing (about Jacob's Room)鈥� but I reflected how what I鈥檓 doing was probably being better done by Mr Joyce.
By 1939, even though she had some huge successes behind her, and had had books written about her, she was still easily cast down by criticism and brooded about her writing reputation having been damaged by Windham Lewis and Gertrude Stein, and about how she was seen by some critics to be out of date..unlikely to write anything good again鈥econd-rate and likely to be discarded altogether. I think that's my public reputation at the moment. It is based largely on C. Connolly's cocktail criticism: a sheaf of feathers in the wind.
About reading contemporary reviewers such as Cyril Connolly, she writes: When I read reviews [of other people's books] I crush the column together to get at one or two sentences; is it a good book or a bad? And then I discount those two sentences according to what I know of the book and of the reviewer. But when I write a review I write every sentence as if it were going to be tried by three Chief Justices. I can鈥檛 believe that I am crushed together and discounted. Reviews seem to me more and more frivolous鈥he truth is that writing is the profound pleasure and being read the superficial.
Whatever about being read, reading itself was a tremendous pleasure. She mentions reading certain authors again and again; Dante and Proust were two such. She not only reread her favourites over and over, she liked to read them alongside other books, and the more books she had going at once, the better she liked it. In one of her letters, she said: I am reading six books at once, the only way of reading; since, as you will agree, one book is only a single unaccompanied note, and to get the full sound, one needs ten others at the same time. Due to her association with The Times Literary Supplement as an occasional reviewer, she claims to have learned eventually to read with a pen and notebook, seriously.
There are frivolous moments as well as serious ones in her diary life; a line from an old song is tossed out several times like a repeated theme in a piece of music; it reveals a different Virginia from the one we usually see: And what do I care for a goose-feather bed. The line is from the well-known ballad about the Lady who leaves her Lord and her comfortable house and goes off to share a life on the road with the RaggleTaggle Gypsy-O. Interpret that how we like, it is clear that Virginia liked her comforts and was pleased to have made enough money from her writing to eventually afford certain luxuries. I enjoy epicurean ways of society; sipping and then shutting my eyes to taste. I enjoy almost everything.
Coexistent with the epicurean was a restless spirit constantly questioning itself, sometimes finding only blackness. Why is there not a discovery in life? Something one can lay one鈥檚 hands on and say 鈥楾his is it鈥�? My depression is a harassed feeling. I'm looking: but that's not it鈥攖hat鈥檚 not it. What is it? And shall I die before I find it?
It is at this point that the reviewer might be tempted to end this review by presuming tritely that Virginia Woolf never did find 鈥榠t鈥�. But no, this reviewer thinks she had 鈥榠t鈥� in front of her all the time, and that she knew it: Nothing makes a whole except when I am writing.
scritch scratch scritch scratch semi-colon
scritch scratch scritch scratch inkblot
the trusty nib flounders a moment
then wades through the puddle of ink
and on to the end of the line
to the end of the page
to the end of that year鈥檚 diary
and though it flounders sometimes along the way
the trusty nib keeps on scratching through the diaries
until half-way though the last volume
it flounders finally
_______________________________
Now for The Longer Review - and apologies in advance.
Reading a diary is like being in a room with someone who thinks they are alone. And even though they think they are alone, and feel quite safe talking to themselves aloud, we see them glance in the mirror from time to time to see how they look when they are speaking. It can鈥檛 matter how they look but they check all the same, just in case. How much 鈥榡ust in case鈥� is present in Virginia Woolf鈥檚 diary, the kindly blank-faced confidante she turned to in good times and in bad?
In March, 1926, aged forty-four, she wrote: But what is to become of all these diaries, I asked myself yesterday. If I died, what would Leo make of them? He would be disinclined to burn then; he could not publish them. Well, he should make up a book from them, I think; and then burn the body. I daresay there is a little book in them; if the scraps and scratching were straightened out a little...This is dictated by a slight melancholia, which comes upon me sometimes now and makes me think I am old. Yet, as far as I know, as a writer I am only now writing out my mind.
She was right on all counts. She lived to be fifty-nine and wrote five more novels, some of her most famous essays, many short stories, the second series of , a biography of the artist Roger Fry, plus fifteen more years worth of diary entries. And Leonard Woolf did edit her diaries after her death in 1941, selecting the sections on writing, and some on reading, which he then published as full of little gems like this: You see, I鈥檓 thinking furiously about Reading and Writing
starts in 1918 when Woolf鈥檚 second novel, was about to be published, and it covers the most important years of her writing life. I for one am very grateful to Leonard Woolf for both the editing and the publishing. It is very exciting to get to read about the writing process as it is happening, and about the writer鈥檚 reaction to the reception of their work as it is published.
As a reader, I鈥檓 rarely drawn to the biographical details of a writer鈥檚 life except where they are so closely linked to the writing that an understanding of one requires an understanding of the other. In the case of Virginia Woolf, it seems to me that biographical details are simply not relevant to an appreciation of her writing. She may have used life experiences as material for her books but the reader doesn鈥檛 need to know which episodes are fact and which are fiction; the writing carries the day almost entirely on its own. It is interesting that we don鈥檛 often seek to know the intimate lives of artists the way we sometimes do with writers; we accept an artist鈥檚 work as it is, simply placing it in its epoch and appreciating its technique and its merits in relation to its contemporaries. The parallel with the artist is particularly relevant in Woolf鈥檚 case; the main agenda in her novels is her art. The novels make political points certainly, but it is done without stridency; it never gets in the way of the style of the writing or the shape she is architecting. Even when she makes political points in her non-fiction, her phrasing is always perfect and her voice remains serene; she examines the field as a scientist or an anthropologist might, and sets out her conclusions. In both her fiction and her non-fiction, there is this firm focus on the writing style. I think she would have abhorred any search for intimate details about the personal life behind that writing style.
So what does Virginia Woolf say about the process of writing if writing it is鈥攖his dash at the paper of a phrase, this sweep of a brush? In 1923, when she is working on the first draft of , she writes: But now what do I feel about my writing? One must write from deep feeling, said Dostoievsky. And do I? Or do I fabricate with words, loving them as I do?鈥ut to get further. Have I the power of conveying the true reality?鈥nswer these questions as I may鈥here remains this excitement: to get to the bones, now that I鈥檓 writing fiction again I feel my force glow straight from me at its fullest. After a dose of criticism I feel that I鈥檓 writing sideways, using only an angle of my mind.
The other angles of her mind were constantly focused upon the current novel she was working on, or upon the germ of an idea for the next one. Why not invent a new kind of play; as for instance: Woman thinks鈥e does. Organ plays. She writes. They say: She sings. Night speaks. As we read through the diaries, we watch such seeds grow and change: that particular seed grew into . Soon afterwards, she began mentioning another theme: 鈥榤oths鈥�. She spoke of those moths again and again, spoke of them hovering at the back of her brain, and finally I realised that she was shaping the playpoem that would become . More of her diary entries concern than any of her other books, except perhaps . I find it significant that of the entire ten, those are the two I appreciated the most.
And so, there was always a story in the making, even before she had finished the previous one, and the diaries were where she coaxed these seeds of stories into the light. As we can see from the quotes, Woolf wrote the diaries in a kind of shorthand, quite unlike the way she writes in her novels and essays: It strikes me that here I practice writing; do my scales; yes and work at certain effects. I daresay I practiced Jacob here; and Mrs D. and shall invent my next book here; for here I write merely in spirit鈥攇reat fun it is too, and Old V. of 1940 will see something in it too. She will be a woman who can see, old V., everything鈥攎ore than I can, I think. She registers her thoughts on the spot, her nib following the swerves of her thinking, sensitive to every shift of mood, and very often the mood mentioned is one of exhilaration, of the 鈥榟igh' she experienced from creating phrases. The notion of immense satisfaction, rapture, electric shocks gained from writing is repeated over and over again and most often in relation to the periods when she was engaged on fiction: Great content鈥攁lmost always enjoying what I am at, but with constant change of mood. I don鈥檛 think I鈥檓 ever bored. Sometimes a little stale; but I have a power of recovery.
She needed every power of recovery that she could muster when it came to the reception of her novels. After came out to unenthusiastic reviews in 1919, she wrote: I ought to be writing Jacob鈥檚 Room; and I can鈥檛鈥鈥檓 a failure as a writer. I鈥檓 out of fashion: old: shan鈥檛 do any better鈥�.my book..a damp firework. Later, while still working on , she noted: Elliot (T. S.) coming on the heel of a long stretch of writing (two months without a break) made me listless; cast shade upon me; and the mind when engaged upon fiction wants all its boldness and self-confidence. He said nothing (about Jacob's Room)鈥� but I reflected how what I鈥檓 doing was probably being better done by Mr Joyce.
By 1939, even though she had some huge successes behind her, and had had books written about her, she was still easily cast down by criticism and brooded about her writing reputation having been damaged by Windham Lewis and Gertrude Stein, and about how she was seen by some critics to be out of date..unlikely to write anything good again鈥econd-rate and likely to be discarded altogether. I think that's my public reputation at the moment. It is based largely on C. Connolly's cocktail criticism: a sheaf of feathers in the wind.
About reading contemporary reviewers such as Cyril Connolly, she writes: When I read reviews [of other people's books] I crush the column together to get at one or two sentences; is it a good book or a bad? And then I discount those two sentences according to what I know of the book and of the reviewer. But when I write a review I write every sentence as if it were going to be tried by three Chief Justices. I can鈥檛 believe that I am crushed together and discounted. Reviews seem to me more and more frivolous鈥he truth is that writing is the profound pleasure and being read the superficial.
Whatever about being read, reading itself was a tremendous pleasure. She mentions reading certain authors again and again; Dante and Proust were two such. She not only reread her favourites over and over, she liked to read them alongside other books, and the more books she had going at once, the better she liked it. In one of her letters, she said: I am reading six books at once, the only way of reading; since, as you will agree, one book is only a single unaccompanied note, and to get the full sound, one needs ten others at the same time. Due to her association with The Times Literary Supplement as an occasional reviewer, she claims to have learned eventually to read with a pen and notebook, seriously.
There are frivolous moments as well as serious ones in her diary life; a line from an old song is tossed out several times like a repeated theme in a piece of music; it reveals a different Virginia from the one we usually see: And what do I care for a goose-feather bed. The line is from the well-known ballad about the Lady who leaves her Lord and her comfortable house and goes off to share a life on the road with the RaggleTaggle Gypsy-O. Interpret that how we like, it is clear that Virginia liked her comforts and was pleased to have made enough money from her writing to eventually afford certain luxuries. I enjoy epicurean ways of society; sipping and then shutting my eyes to taste. I enjoy almost everything.
Coexistent with the epicurean was a restless spirit constantly questioning itself, sometimes finding only blackness. Why is there not a discovery in life? Something one can lay one鈥檚 hands on and say 鈥楾his is it鈥�? My depression is a harassed feeling. I'm looking: but that's not it鈥攖hat鈥檚 not it. What is it? And shall I die before I find it?
It is at this point that the reviewer might be tempted to end this review by presuming tritely that Virginia Woolf never did find 鈥榠t鈥�. But no, this reviewer thinks she had 鈥榠t鈥� in front of her all the time, and that she knew it: Nothing makes a whole except when I am writing.
June 3, 2013
Virginia Woolf
On January 1, 1953, Leonard Woolf completed his Preface to , a compilation of extracts from the 26 volumes of diaries that Virginia Woolf wrote from 1915 until 1941, with the last entry written just four days before her death. This book was published before the five-volume set of Woolf's diaries that is still in print today. Leonard Woolf makes it clear that, especially since so many of the people whom Woolf wrote about were still alive at the point, it was important for him to avoid publishing the more personal diary entries. Instead, Leonard Woolf selected excerpts that focused especially on Virginia Woolf's writing about writing, fiction as well as criticism. There's something very powerful about reading through Woolf's characterizations of her writing process in one volume, covering decades of her development as a novelist and a critic. As such, this volume is an ideal book to read if you are fascinated by Woolf's creative process, if you are a writer looking for inspiration, or if you are interested in Woolf's diaries, but want a taste of her writing before you make the commitment to read the more complete published editions of her diaries (which I plan to read through this summer).
There are some strong themes and topics that emerge from . One is Woolf's strong commitment to writing and revising, even in the face of poor health. She describes the highs and lows she experienced at every stage of the writing process, from her initial conceptualization of a new novel or essay (often while she was completing another project), to her struggles to pinpoint her vision for her novels and to realize it in prose, to her commitment to re-writing and revising, always looking to condense her writing, to cut away any extraneous words or passages, to realize the heart of her vision for each novel or essay or biography.
Woolf struggled to find a rhythm to her writing and reading that would sustain her through the very difficult periods when she had just completed a long work, and when she was waiting to learn what its reception would be among friends and critics alike. She describes having at least two writing projects going at one time, along with some very ambitious reading projects, sometimes tied to her critical essays, and sometimes part of her development as a writer, to learn from others.
As I mentioned above, Woolf writes at length about her unease over the critical reception of her own books. Over time, and with more accolades behind her, this becomes a slightly less difficult struggle, but she never completely shook off her concern over how others, friends, family, critics, and the reading public, thought of her work and of her place in literature. How best to handle reviews of her work? To what extent should she write for external approval? How could she judge how good her writings were when her own assessments of them could shift by the hour?
All of the topics I mention above would be fascinating enough, but for me the true joy comes in reading Woolf's beautiful prose. I couldn't resist posting something like 15 excerpts in updates when I was reading this book, and that was a result of my being selective. Here are some of my favorite passages:
Woolf writes about her approach to writing a diary: "What sort of diary should I like mine to be? Something loose knit and yet not slovenly, so elastic that it will embrace anything, solemn, 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."
Woolf's aspirations for her writing: "Anyhow, nature obligingly supplies me with the illusion that I am about to write something good; something rich and deep and fluent, and hard as nails, while bright as diamonds."
Woolf's description of the relationship she seeks between her writing and the substance of life: "So the days pass and I ask myself sometimes whether one is not hypnotised, as a child by a silver globe, by life; and whether this is living. It's very quick, bright, exciting. But superficial perhaps. I should like to take the globe in my hands and feel it quietly, round, smooth, heavy, and so hold it, day after day. I will read Proust I think. I will go backwards and forwards."
The dual nature of life--solid and fleeting: "Now is life very solid or very shifting? I am haunted by the two contradictions. This has gone on for ever; will last for ever; goes down to the bottom of the world鈥攖his moment I stand on. Also it is transitory, flying, diaphanous. I shall pass like a cloud on the waves. Perhaps it may be that though we change, one flying after another, so quick, so quick, yet we are somehow successive and continuous we human beings, and show the light through. But what is the light? I am impressed by the transitoriness of human life to such an extent that I am often saying a farewell鈥攁fter dining with Roger for instance; or reckoning how many more times I shall see Nessa."
The importance of revision: "At Rodmell I read through The Common Reader; & this is very important鈥擨 must learn to write more succinctly. Especially in the general idea essays like the last, "How it strikes a Contemporary," I am horrified by my own looseness. This is partly that I don't think things out first; partly that I stretch my style to take in crumbs of meaning. But the result is a wobble & diffusity and breathlessness which I detest."
Reading and discovery: "Now, with this load despatched, I am free to begin reading Elizabethans鈥攖he little unknown writers, whom I, so ignorant am I, have never heard of, Pullenham, Webb, Harvey.
"This thought fills me with joy鈥攏o overstatement. To begin reading with a pen in my hand, discovering, pouncing, thinking of phrases, when the ground is new, remains one of my great excitements."
The efforts to pin down ideas when writing: "It is all very well, saying one will write notes, but writing is a very difficult art. That is one has always to select: and I am too sleepy and hence merely run sand through my fingers. Writing is not in the least an easy art. Thinking what to write, it seems easy; but the thought evaporates, runs hither and thither. Here we are in the noise of Siena鈥攖he vast tunnelled arched stone town, swarmed over by chattering shrieking children."
Her thoughts of what she wants to achieve and develop in The Waves (referred to here by its early title The Moths): "Orlando has done very well. Now I could go on writing like that鈥攖he tug and suck are at me to do it. People say this was so spontaneous, so natural. And I would like to keep those qualities if I could without losing the others. But those qualities were largely the result of ignoring the others. They came of writing exteriorly; and if I dig, must I not lose them? And what is my own position towards the inner and the outer? I think a kind of ease and dash are good;鈥攜es: I think even externality is good; some combination of them ought to be possible. The idea has come to me that what I want now to do is to saturate every atom. I mean to eliminate all waste, deadness, superfluity: to give the moment whole; whatever it includes. Say that the moment is a combination of thought; sensation; the voice of the sea. Waste, deadness, come from the inclusion of things that don't belong to the moment; this appalling narrative business of the realist: getting on from lunch to dinner: it is false, unreal, merely conventional. Why admit anything to literature that is not poetry鈥攂y which I mean saturated? Is that not my grudge against novelists? that they select nothing? The poets succeeding by simplifying: practically everything is left out. I want to put practically everything in: yet to saturate. That is what I want to do in The Moths. It must include nonsense, fact, sordidity: but made transparent."
And one last inspirational quote, which captures the magic, the beauty, the sadness, and the wonder of this volume: "Then (as I was walking through Russell Square last night) I see the mountains in the sky: the great clouds; and the moon which is risen over Persia; I have a great and astonishing sense of something there, which is "it." It is not exactly beauty that I mean. It is that the thing is in itself enough: satisfactory; achieved. A sense of my own strangeness, walking on the earth is there too: of the infinite oddity of the human position; trotting along Russell Square with the moon up there and those mountain clouds. Who am I, what am I, and so on: these questions are always floating about in me: and then I bump against some exact fact鈥攁 letter, a person, and come to them again with a great sense of freshness. And so it goes on. But on this showing, which is true, I think, I do fairly frequently come upon this "it"; and then feel quite at rest."
Virginia Woolf
June 28, 2021
If you have a lot of support in your writing, perhaps you don鈥檛 need this shot in the arm. But for those of us scribbling in the dark, without guidance, the book feels essential. Read it alongside Woolf鈥檚 , , , , , etc. I have never read anything comparable. The reader travels with Woolf through each draft, through all the joy and despair of writing her books. It鈥檚 surprising how much she struggled. Genius or not, she had her doubts like anyone. Though I was disappointed to see how drunk she became with praise in the form of good reviews. She writes of 鈥済lory.鈥� The approval of the critics meant a lot to her. Edited by her husband Leonard Woolf, this book is a compilation of entries specifically about writing pulled from her more extensive general diary. I鈥檓 grateful for his effort. I would not otherwise have found this information, buried as it was in that oceanic tome.
December 17, 2015
I have to wonder at my timing on this one. Here I am, picking up one of the most perfect books for spurring the self on to writing during the merry month of NaNoWriMo, only to finish in the midst the most recent surge of action in the great Gramazon debacle; a debacle wholly embittered by the concept of self-published authors. Now, I'd like to go the traditional rout of publishing myself, but still. It gives both this review and my dream of writing for a living an air of antagonism, watch your step/mince your words or be misunderstood severely.
Or that could be me thinking too much.
But see here, though, that's what this whole work is all about. Thinking about writing, and when the person doing the thinking is Woolf, well. One hesitates to define one's principles about the 'too much thinking' business, for on one side lies her suicide and on the other, her body of work. And if you've ever had the privileged pleasure to experience her work, you know what I'm talking about.
What I'm actually attempting to talk about, here, in this review, is harder to say. The comfort I feel in comparing myself to Woolf is eerily seductive and not nearly as obsequiously awestruck as I would like it to be. I mean, Woolf! Bloomsbury group! Only one of the greatest prose artists to grace this poor world of ours, a life led during the interwar period filled with famous names, famous intrigues, and famous writing. Eurocentric and even more despairingly Anglocentric, to be fair, and her easy disparagement of others and her half-handed hypocrisy on women's rights set my teeth on edge, but my god. This old English lady who drowned herself fifty years before I was born understands me, down to the marrow of my meaning of life.
This compilation of cut-outs from a 27 year run of personal record is chock-full of that feeling, that sense of one's heartbeat relying on the pace and pound of words both writing and already written, a heartbeat that is sensitive in all the ways both right and wrong. It is not practical. It is not objective. It is everything to do with how a question of how I write put by a unwitting bystander is going to set me off on a complete and utter rhapsodizing on the power of literature in every facet of life. It is both unbearably personal and the manifesto of my character that I would proclaim to all, if I got the chance to. For, as you all know, literature means publishing, and publishing means business, and it is a very rare case indeed where those as devoted as Woolf to their craft avoid having their soul sucked out by the reality of writing for a living. Advertising, academia, pick your grindstone and hang on for dear life and the slow weathering down of passion in the face of life.
Did I mention that this book is not practical? Good. This isn't a creative fictioning self-help book, for all its sociocultural periphery. This is a lifeline.
Woolf was lucky to have a living situation such as hers. I am lucky for her being lucky enough to create such a body of work of not only reading and writing, but commentary on said reading and writing, especially writing. Especially how intimately and horrifically her mental state was tied to it, in as much a way as anything one lives for becomes. Which makes the state less of a tragedy and more of a best of all possible worlds, except not, except. Maybe? Or one could stick with 'that's life'. That is a much more honest answer, one that if you're lucky spools out enough years for the ink to spread out and flow.
I'd say more, but really, what else is there to say but: writers, read this. Readers, read this. As for me?
Or that could be me thinking too much.
But see here, though, that's what this whole work is all about. Thinking about writing, and when the person doing the thinking is Woolf, well. One hesitates to define one's principles about the 'too much thinking' business, for on one side lies her suicide and on the other, her body of work. And if you've ever had the privileged pleasure to experience her work, you know what I'm talking about.
What I'm actually attempting to talk about, here, in this review, is harder to say. The comfort I feel in comparing myself to Woolf is eerily seductive and not nearly as obsequiously awestruck as I would like it to be. I mean, Woolf! Bloomsbury group! Only one of the greatest prose artists to grace this poor world of ours, a life led during the interwar period filled with famous names, famous intrigues, and famous writing. Eurocentric and even more despairingly Anglocentric, to be fair, and her easy disparagement of others and her half-handed hypocrisy on women's rights set my teeth on edge, but my god. This old English lady who drowned herself fifty years before I was born understands me, down to the marrow of my meaning of life.
I thought, driving through Richmond last night, something very profound about the synthesis of my being: how only writing composes it: how nothing makes a whole unless I am writing: now I have forgotten what seemed so profound.To reiterate the perfection above, writing is both everything and nothing, depending on whether I'm paying more attention to my self or the grander scheme of things. A fervor delving into the very core of existence's delight, or a waste that asks the ultimate question of why I'm still bothering with everything in general. Once upon a time, if given the chance of control or perhaps even some means of getting rid of the nihilistic face of the coin completely, I would have taken it. These days, I'm not so sure.
This compilation of cut-outs from a 27 year run of personal record is chock-full of that feeling, that sense of one's heartbeat relying on the pace and pound of words both writing and already written, a heartbeat that is sensitive in all the ways both right and wrong. It is not practical. It is not objective. It is everything to do with how a question of how I write put by a unwitting bystander is going to set me off on a complete and utter rhapsodizing on the power of literature in every facet of life. It is both unbearably personal and the manifesto of my character that I would proclaim to all, if I got the chance to. For, as you all know, literature means publishing, and publishing means business, and it is a very rare case indeed where those as devoted as Woolf to their craft avoid having their soul sucked out by the reality of writing for a living. Advertising, academia, pick your grindstone and hang on for dear life and the slow weathering down of passion in the face of life.
Did I mention that this book is not practical? Good. This isn't a creative fictioning self-help book, for all its sociocultural periphery. This is a lifeline.
Woolf was lucky to have a living situation such as hers. I am lucky for her being lucky enough to create such a body of work of not only reading and writing, but commentary on said reading and writing, especially writing. Especially how intimately and horrifically her mental state was tied to it, in as much a way as anything one lives for becomes. Which makes the state less of a tragedy and more of a best of all possible worlds, except not, except. Maybe? Or one could stick with 'that's life'. That is a much more honest answer, one that if you're lucky spools out enough years for the ink to spread out and flow.
I'd say more, but really, what else is there to say but: writers, read this. Readers, read this. As for me?
You see, I'm thinking furiously about Reading and Writing. I have no time to describe my plans.Toodles.
October 18, 2015
My copy of A Writer's Diary鈥擨 tried to post a photo, but 欧宝娱乐 just couldn't deal with whatever it was I had to offer鈥攈as a forest of little tags poking out from the side. All the passages I've marked.
As a writer, I move between despair and joy on a daily basis. A good day of writing leaves me scoured clean and refilled with peace;
There is some ebb and flow of the tide of life which accounts for it; though what produces either ebb or flow I'm not sure.
but the stress of rejection and of praise is such an invasion of the external world into my inner equilibrium.
...the worst of writing is that one depends so much upon praise. One should aim, seriously, as disregarding ups and downs; a compliment here, silence there.
The only way to right the imbalance is to shut out the world and offer myself up to the page. To sit and write until my limbs are stiff, my eyes ache, my brain empties out.
The truth is that writing is the profound pleasure and being read the superficial.
Then, to take a walk, letting the words sift from my head down to my toes. When I return home, I have room for the words of others.
The way to rock oneself back into writing is this. First gentle exercise in the air. Second the reading of good literature.
A Writer's Diary show the decades of a writer's life unfolding in real time: the highs and near-shame of success; the deep, quiet pleasures of the life of the mind; the fear and resignation of failure, which is usually far more a product of the writer's imagination than of the external world.
Arrange whatever pieces come your way. Never be unseated by the shying of that undependable brute, life, hag-ridden as she is by my own queer, difficult, nervous system.
What would Woolf make of the cult of personality she has become?
Now I suppose I might become one of the interesting鈥揑 will not say great鈥揵ut interesting novelists?
What would we have made of her work, what more could she have offered us, if mental illness had not had the final say, if she could have found her way to a different final chapter?
A thousand things to be written had I time; had I power. A very little writing uses up my capacity for writing.
I remarked to another writer what an inspiration this book is to me, what comfort I have found in Woolf's own struggles and doubts. She reminded me how things ended for Woolf. That she took her own life. How strange a response. She missed the point entirely. Instead of being haunted by Woolf's end, I think of Mary Oliver's poem, "The Summer Day" Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life? Oliver asks.
Here is how Woolf would have answered:
Now is life very solid or very shifting? I am haunted by the two contradictions. This has gone on for ever; will last for ever; goes down to the bottom of the world鈥攖he moment I stand on. Also it is transitory, flying, diaphanous. I shall pass like a cloud on the waves.
Virginia Woolf passed like a cloud on the waves. But her words have become moments upon which we all stand, strengthened, made taller by the foundation of her genius. And we look up at those clouds, mouthing, Thank you.
As a writer, I move between despair and joy on a daily basis. A good day of writing leaves me scoured clean and refilled with peace;
There is some ebb and flow of the tide of life which accounts for it; though what produces either ebb or flow I'm not sure.
but the stress of rejection and of praise is such an invasion of the external world into my inner equilibrium.
...the worst of writing is that one depends so much upon praise. One should aim, seriously, as disregarding ups and downs; a compliment here, silence there.
The only way to right the imbalance is to shut out the world and offer myself up to the page. To sit and write until my limbs are stiff, my eyes ache, my brain empties out.
The truth is that writing is the profound pleasure and being read the superficial.
Then, to take a walk, letting the words sift from my head down to my toes. When I return home, I have room for the words of others.
The way to rock oneself back into writing is this. First gentle exercise in the air. Second the reading of good literature.
A Writer's Diary show the decades of a writer's life unfolding in real time: the highs and near-shame of success; the deep, quiet pleasures of the life of the mind; the fear and resignation of failure, which is usually far more a product of the writer's imagination than of the external world.
Arrange whatever pieces come your way. Never be unseated by the shying of that undependable brute, life, hag-ridden as she is by my own queer, difficult, nervous system.
What would Woolf make of the cult of personality she has become?
Now I suppose I might become one of the interesting鈥揑 will not say great鈥揵ut interesting novelists?
What would we have made of her work, what more could she have offered us, if mental illness had not had the final say, if she could have found her way to a different final chapter?
A thousand things to be written had I time; had I power. A very little writing uses up my capacity for writing.
I remarked to another writer what an inspiration this book is to me, what comfort I have found in Woolf's own struggles and doubts. She reminded me how things ended for Woolf. That she took her own life. How strange a response. She missed the point entirely. Instead of being haunted by Woolf's end, I think of Mary Oliver's poem, "The Summer Day" Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life? Oliver asks.
Here is how Woolf would have answered:
Now is life very solid or very shifting? I am haunted by the two contradictions. This has gone on for ever; will last for ever; goes down to the bottom of the world鈥攖he moment I stand on. Also it is transitory, flying, diaphanous. I shall pass like a cloud on the waves.
Virginia Woolf passed like a cloud on the waves. But her words have become moments upon which we all stand, strengthened, made taller by the foundation of her genius. And we look up at those clouds, mouthing, Thank you.
April 4, 2018
A Writer's Diary, unlike Woolf's fiction鈥揵eautiful though, is an easy book to read. One can see what she has lived through from 1918 to 1941. The book is aptly titled; it is primarily about words, mind, books, artists, writing, and how these myriad things at once possess and liberate a sensitive soul like hers.'
There are a few things, among many other, that particularly make me stop and reflect to know her better. What one immediately recognizes in her work, even when her work is not really understood or only partly read, is the brilliance of mind that is at work. In her diaries entries, we glimpse that mind. She comes across as someone who is wholly immersed in words, drawn to them immensely. Life seems to have no meaning if one cannot give shape it through words鈥� to express her 'becoming.' Such an extraordinary ambition could be liberating and rewarding, but it could also whip the person indulging it鈥� this constant struggle to better life, to live it fully by capturing its 'ever-eluding, ever-mobile' essence. In one of her entries, for instance, a rather casually selected example, she thinks of 'wording' a floating cloud in these words; 鈥淭he clouds鈥� if I could describe them I would; one yesterday had flowing hair on, like the very fine white hair of an old man. At this moment they are white in a leaden; ...,鈥�
I find some entries particular poignant in which she mentions what comes between her and the 'word-world' she seeks to tame. The phases when she could not write due to ill鈥揾ealth, and times when non-creative processes usurp her time which she only wishes to spend writing and thinking things. I guess as she was aging she became more and more restless with thoughts of 'body' and 'time,' Such a fecund mind, rippling with ideas and books in it, is tied to very real limitations. In one of her entries, she writes about a dying person, but her way of seeing gives a peep into her own fears of what lays ahead鈥� what it all comes to in the end. She observes,鈥� he is sinking into old age, very shabby, loose-limbed, wearing black woollen mittens. His life is receding like a tide slowly; or one figures him as a dying candle, whose wick will soon sink into warm grease and be extinct.鈥�
These entries also show how vulnerable writers generally are. Throughout the book, she claims that criticism of her work does not matter, that she does not care much, but we also see that she cares and gets affected by bad reviews. However, I trust her when she says she does not care as much as its reverse. She also mentions that writing is what one lives for. It is through writing that one drives a supreme pleasure. In many diaries, we see how concern she is often about the sales of her book (1200 copies, 2000 copies). Now reading this in 2018, these are also aspects that make her identifiable and endearing with ordinary mortals, that she is not only someone who wrote 'Mrs. Dalloway.' it is a pleasure to see the little girl, even momentarily, in her who is so powerfully overshadowed by the formidable adult writer in her.
I am also quite moved by how she responded to Joyce's Ulysses- to her this book seemed 'thin, diffuse, pretentious, brackish, even underbred in the literary sense, pointless. To her, it all felt as if a young boy is scratching his pimples on page after page. Clearly, she was quite stunned by Joyce's achievement but found it hard to acknowledge it. Even toward her last entries, she remains occupied with his work and finally accepts his genius which I assume she has noticed, to her bewilderment, when she first lays her eyes on 'Ulysses.' It was all very clear to her even then.
While reading her thoughts I was a bit surprised that she hardly wrote about her relationships about, love, gender, and sexuality. I wondered if the book is a compilation of only her selective diary entries鈥� pertaining to the writer's struggles and ruminations on her art. But finally, I did see gender and sexuality, casually but powerfully, being mentioned in small paragraphs. I saw someone who wrote 'A Room of One's Own' making astute observations on men's behavior and how men occupy space. As for sexuality, there is again a brief but telling claim that friendships between women are more superior, private and comforting than between man and woman. All this, of course, sated my gratuitous curiosity.
Even before I started reading her book, I knew a few things about her life, the most unfortunate being the manner of her suicide. For this reason, probably, I noticed that throughout this book images and metaphors of water appear in all sort of ways. One also feels that there is nothing more important to her than 'words.' (Maybe certain heights or territories come with their own challenges and fears鈥� it might be lonely 'there'. What shall I write now? Whom shall I read now?)
At a certain point in her life either the words were not there anymore or they had gone unruly鈥� wholly unmanageable. The only comforting thing, then left, was to walk into a river.
November 11, 2015
A full review to come.
It has arrived. However most of the, Likes, below referred to a quote of Woolf's in an update status I entered. Then using the magic of my technical skills I lost. Sad. A period of web mourning, yet it appeared again in the review below.
What we have here is a reviewer who has been kidnapped. I鈥檓 sure it will be in tomorrow鈥檚 papers. But how to get out to write鈥� the review? Is there anything here to use to be resourceful?
Only words.
More words.
They mount threatening to crush me as they form before me into ideas, a life. Am I鈥� inside of a diary? How strange.
But do I want to escape? These words and ideas around me, covering me, are brilliant. They are honest. Touching them, their touching me, they glitter with the glowed wand of creative light. It is escape that would be containment. This is where to be.
She writes:
鈥淲hat sort of diary should I like mine to be? Something loose knit yet not slovenly, so elastic that it embrace anything, solemn, slight or beautiful that comes into 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 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.鈥�
A fine thought to keep in mind when opening this diary but beware your fate may be similar to mine. There is no caution sign. Follow me. There is much to be said.
This is a collection of her entries culled from the twenty six volumes from the years 1915-1941, the year of her death, by her husband Leonard Woolf. This raises a number of issues; Virginia Woolf was clear from the beginning that no one else would be privy to this diary but herself and years ahead her elder self, therefore no reason to be anything but honest and objective. Can any one of us human critters, even the great VW, be totally free of the subconscious sway, the way we would like to see ourselves and the minute etching and scraping of events past to fit into our frame of the budding image. Then there is her husband and his unspoken agenda, possibly-probably-not known to him for the selections and their cumulative effect in presenting his picture of his deceased wife. She committed suicide. She walked out into the sea. I imagine his thoughts, memories, were quite complicated.
This is important information which I unfortunately did not include in my update status. Fortunately GR Friend Proustitute pointed this out before I rambled my merry way possibly leading others to believe this was the entire diary when only a portion. Much grateful for being rescued before walking before walking into a wall.
I believe despite its fractioned existence, the distortions, omissions, amplifications, this is a work that stands on its own. A separate collection forming a narrative around her relationship to her own work, the process she developed or was encumbered upon her through natural organic entreaties, the people she associated with including writers, painters, her conflicting relationship with the outside world as seen through the eyes of her artistic realm, scenes of that outside world and its landscapes described in the beauty of words painted, the limitations of a mental instability and physical maladies, and what she read-an influential part of her daily existence. If taken for what it is these diary excerpts form a narrative work impelling the reader within the mind of a significant writer.
Each entry, even about her commonplace day is about writing, containing her gifts with her pen, and always at work seeing her world. Every page so far contains inspiration for reading, writing. The only mar is when she feels the obligation to receive and pay visits. Otherwise her world would consist of the scenes gathering in her mind and the need and pleasure of penning them on paper.
More complicated than that. She conjures with death. Flits about hiding amongst its shadows.There is another kind of death. Does she fear looking inside to find nothing? This the reason for the continous visiting and being visited? Her fear of being alone? Yet she fills blank pages with an outpouring of her world, the world of imagination. This does not appear to be some psychological defense of projection. The world of imagination is the real world. Her real-true self resides there. Looking inside may prove fruitless but writing across the white pages, then typing what she has written, is the act of discovering and expressing the Self. She exists within the printed words, the empty spaces, accumulating into a bound manuscript. The arc of her sweated battle.
Writing is to keep living. Through form she can put the novel together as a substitute for putting her wayfaring emotions together, to put her strident inner life in order.Her writings contain her inner self which resists the tug and pull from the other side. Once the rope snaps she gushes forth. A manic romp of creativity, then sensitivity to its echoed return.
In the end this is a book of navigating the inner and outer. Is it navigation or a battle? She believes herself tied to the city life of visits and being visited upon. Her writing, no matter how well guarded is inextricably twined into the reception from friends, family, publishers. She relies on husband Leonard. Yet she is only truly herself in the solitude of writing, reading. The outer world means little until it means a lot. The world she chooses is the world of her imagination. Even out in the world beyond the borders of herself she pulls the objects, the people, into her readerly scope describing and depicting as though writing or the collecting of material within her net to be used at a later time.
The classic battle that so many of us here on GR discuss; the outside world is where life takes place and books exist to augment the experience versus the life of imagination. This is where books are the essence of living a life of meaning and that the world is there to only fulfill the necessities, having no more drama than the brushing of one鈥檚 teeth. Yes, tooth brushing is something needed to be done but conversations about it might run thin and dry. This is a choice we all make with our varying formulae to produce a unique customized balance. VW makes her battle quite clear from moment to moment and day to day, in her lyrical prose. Since writing for no one other than her older future self it appears that she thinks and therefore writes in a natural swirl of metaphor, simile, analogy. Her style may be an un-style. The flow of liquid words may be the unfolding of her mind in its continuity. Armed, this is what she goes into battle with fierce beneath the lyric path of her words.
October 3, 2016
丿乇 丌禺乇蹖賳 噩賲賱賴鈥屰� 讴鬲丕亘貙 賵蹖乇噩蹖賳蹖丕 賲蹖鈥屫堌з囏� 卮丕賲 亘倬夭丿. 賲丕賴蹖 賴丿丕讴 賵 爻賵爻蹖爻. 亘蹖爻鬲 乇賵夭 倬蹖卮 丕夭 禺賵丿讴卮蹖鈥屫ж�. 丿乇 丨丕賱蹖 讴賴 亘乇丕蹖 乇賵夭賴丕 賵 賲丕賴鈥屬囏й� 丌蹖賳丿賴鈥屫ж� 亘乇賳丕賲賴 乇蹖禺鬲賴. 诏丕賴蹖 丕賳乇跇蹖 丿丕乇丿 賵 诏丕賴蹖 亘蹖鈥屫堌蒂勝� 丕爻鬲. 丿乇爻鬲 丕爻鬲 讴賴 禺賵丿讴卮蹖 亘丕 亘毓囟蹖鈥屬囏� 賴爻鬲責
亘蹖 丌賳鈥屭┵� 倬丕蹖 賵蹖跇诏蹖 賲卮鬲乇讴蹖 賵爻胤 亘丕卮丿貙 賵蹖乇噩蹖賳蹖丕 賵賵賱賮 賲賳 乇丕 蹖丕丿 賵蹖賵蹖賳 賲丕蹖乇 賲蹖鈥屫з嗀ж�. 卮丕蹖丿 亘乇丕蹖 丌賳鈥屭┵� 賴乇 丿賵 丿乇賵賳鈥屬嗂臂� 禺丕氐蹖 丿丕卮鬲賴鈥屫з嗀� 賵 卮丕蹖丿 賴賲 亘蹖鈥屫勠屬�. 賵蹖乇噩蹖賳蹖丕 丿乇 爻乇丕爻乇 蹖丕丿丿丕鈥屫簇€屬囏й屫� 丿丕乇丿 亘丕 讴鬲丕亘鈥屬囏й屫� 丿爻鬲鈥屬堎举嗀� 賳乇賲 賲蹖鈥屭┵嗀�. 丕賵賱 丕卮鬲蹖丕賯 賳賵卮鬲賳鈥屫簇з� 乇丕 丿丕乇丿 賵 亘毓丿 丕賳诏丕乇 亘丕 丌賳鈥屬囏� 賲蹖鈥屫嗂� 噩賳诏蹖 亘乇丕蹖 卮讴賱 丿丕丿賳 亘賴 噩賲賱丕鬲 賵 乇丕賲 讴乇丿賳 讴賱賲丕鬲. 賵 亘毓丿 丿賵乇賴 讴賵鬲丕賴蹖 丕爻鬲乇丕丨鬲 賵 丿賵亘丕乇賴 讴鬲丕亘 丿蹖诏乇蹖. 丿乇 丌禺乇蹖賳 噩賲賱賴 丕夭 讴鬲丕亘貙 倬蹖卮 丕夭 丌賳鈥屭┵� 賵蹖乇噩蹖賳蹖丕 卮丕賲 亘倬夭丿貙 賲賳 丕夭 鬲賲丕賲 卮丿賳 讴鬲丕亘貙 睾賲诏蹖賳賲.
亘蹖 丌賳鈥屭┵� 倬丕蹖 賵蹖跇诏蹖 賲卮鬲乇讴蹖 賵爻胤 亘丕卮丿貙 賵蹖乇噩蹖賳蹖丕 賵賵賱賮 賲賳 乇丕 蹖丕丿 賵蹖賵蹖賳 賲丕蹖乇 賲蹖鈥屫з嗀ж�. 卮丕蹖丿 亘乇丕蹖 丌賳鈥屭┵� 賴乇 丿賵 丿乇賵賳鈥屬嗂臂� 禺丕氐蹖 丿丕卮鬲賴鈥屫з嗀� 賵 卮丕蹖丿 賴賲 亘蹖鈥屫勠屬�. 賵蹖乇噩蹖賳蹖丕 丿乇 爻乇丕爻乇 蹖丕丿丿丕鈥屫簇€屬囏й屫� 丿丕乇丿 亘丕 讴鬲丕亘鈥屬囏й屫� 丿爻鬲鈥屬堎举嗀� 賳乇賲 賲蹖鈥屭┵嗀�. 丕賵賱 丕卮鬲蹖丕賯 賳賵卮鬲賳鈥屫簇з� 乇丕 丿丕乇丿 賵 亘毓丿 丕賳诏丕乇 亘丕 丌賳鈥屬囏� 賲蹖鈥屫嗂� 噩賳诏蹖 亘乇丕蹖 卮讴賱 丿丕丿賳 亘賴 噩賲賱丕鬲 賵 乇丕賲 讴乇丿賳 讴賱賲丕鬲. 賵 亘毓丿 丿賵乇賴 讴賵鬲丕賴蹖 丕爻鬲乇丕丨鬲 賵 丿賵亘丕乇賴 讴鬲丕亘 丿蹖诏乇蹖. 丿乇 丌禺乇蹖賳 噩賲賱賴 丕夭 讴鬲丕亘貙 倬蹖卮 丕夭 丌賳鈥屭┵� 賵蹖乇噩蹖賳蹖丕 卮丕賲 亘倬夭丿貙 賲賳 丕夭 鬲賲丕賲 卮丿賳 讴鬲丕亘貙 睾賲诏蹖賳賲.
July 31, 2016
This was glorious. I鈥檝e underlined great things on nearly every page. If this is what Virginia Woolf could produce when sitting in bed and simply writing an expansive version of a 鈥榙ear diary鈥�, it tells us something about her genius (she calls it a dialogue of the soul with the soul). It is the best I鈥檝e read by Woolf so far. It is more immediate, more intimate, more relatable than what I鈥檝e read by her before. It is packed with thoughts and feelings and metaphors and meaning.
I鈥檓 slowly wading my way through Virginia Woolf鈥檚 body of work and, by extension, through the intricacies of her brain and her sensibilities. It is not an uncomplicated liaison; when I read her fiction, I occasionally glance around during the reading process, appreciating bits here, doubting other pieces there; marvelling at her imagery and insight, yet sometimes feeling frustrated at her refusal to throw me just a tiny bit of plot, just a small shard of a realistic character trait, a little something that induces me to invest in her stories. One reviewer, she admits, describes her style as 鈥榮o fluent and fluid that it runs through the mind like water鈥� 鈥� which is the closest I can come to a description of how her prose feels to me.
But when I read her non-fiction, well, I鈥檓 both in awe and a little bit in love. In this book, we are granted insight into, especially, her craft and her creative powers but also into her life, her friends and her demons, her gradual rise to fame, her own ambivalent attitude toward it, and into her final days.
She airs opinions that are sometimes unnuanced or that I humbly disagree with, e.g. that literature is not a matter of 鈥榙evelopment鈥� but of prose and poetry. I deeply appreciate a deliberate take on form, but I also prefer deliberate content and development 鈥� of story, of people; otherwise it remains poetry to me. She does admit to learning that she could do scenes but not plots. No surprise there. In this book no plot is needed. At times her sentences are shockingly profound, at other times simply gorgeous. The list of examples of the latter is endless, but here are a few to savour:
Life piles up so fast that I have no time to write out the equally fast rising mound of reflections (鈥�)
(鈥�) the creative power which bubbles so pleasantly in beginning a new book quiets down after a time, and one goes on more steadily. Doubts creep in.
But to be well and use strength to get more out of life is, surely, the greatest fun in the world.
I am laboriously dredging my mind for Mrs. Dalloway and bringing up light buckets.
Joy鈥檚 life in the doing 鈥� I murder, as usual, a quotation; I mean it鈥檚 the writing, not the being read, that excites me.
I鈥檓 the hare, a long way ahead of the hounds my critics.
What a vast fertility of pleasure books hold for me.
I was a little taken aback by her blatant disparagement of other authors (Mansfield, Joyce, James, the list goes on), but she is also critical of her own ability from time to time. And as she never criticized Forster, I didn鈥檛 care so much. In fact, she mentions him with a certain fondness every time his name crops up (鈥楳organ鈥�), and as Forster was one of my first loves in English literature, I cannot help but appreciate that tendency of hers. Her best sentence about Forster may be the following:
Morgan has the artist鈥檚 mind; he says the simple things that clever people don鈥檛 say; I find him the best of critics for that reason.
On that note, she writes that intelligent criticism is to be encouraged. Yes, I thought. That ought to be a quote on the goodreads site. Perhaps it already is. Then it deserves to be read.
There are other authors whom she expresses something like love for. I savoured and wallowed in those parts. Shakespeare takes centre stage, but there鈥檚 also a wonderful scene where she and Leonard visit Thomas Hardy. A valuable aspect of the book, indeed, is when we hear about her own reading habits, her views on contemporary literature, her comparison of Turgenev and Dostoevsky etc.
Interestingly, as her books were published by Hogarth House, the Woolfs鈥� own publishing house, her books never fell under the critical gaze of an editor. We hear of how she typed them up, how Leonard only read the books after she was completely done with them and how they themselves had x number of copies printed depending on how many were ordered.
As we progress into the second half of the book, Virginia Woolf is visited more and more by her incertitude, her ups and downs, her despair, while simultaneously being more and more in the public eye. It saddened me deeply when she muses on what exacerbated her depressions:
I think the effort to live in two spheres: the novel; and life; is a strain. (鈥�) to have to behave with circumspection and decision to strangers wrenches me into another region; hence the collapse.
I wonder if the beginning of World War II also underlined to her some of life鈥檚 enormous sadness or if it was a complete coincidence that she committed suicide in the second year of the war. The war is like a desperate illness, she wrote. The Woolfs鈥� home in London was bombed to smithereens, and so she spent the last days of her life in the country, at Monk鈥檚 House, where they could still hear the bombers and where, she wrote, we live without a future.
For readers who are interested in the writer Virginia Woolf, this is an absolute must-read. It was one of those books which made me impatient to read on and discover more and yet also stop and savour her words and her thoughts and not rush through it because there is only one first time for every book.
I鈥檓 slowly wading my way through Virginia Woolf鈥檚 body of work and, by extension, through the intricacies of her brain and her sensibilities. It is not an uncomplicated liaison; when I read her fiction, I occasionally glance around during the reading process, appreciating bits here, doubting other pieces there; marvelling at her imagery and insight, yet sometimes feeling frustrated at her refusal to throw me just a tiny bit of plot, just a small shard of a realistic character trait, a little something that induces me to invest in her stories. One reviewer, she admits, describes her style as 鈥榮o fluent and fluid that it runs through the mind like water鈥� 鈥� which is the closest I can come to a description of how her prose feels to me.
But when I read her non-fiction, well, I鈥檓 both in awe and a little bit in love. In this book, we are granted insight into, especially, her craft and her creative powers but also into her life, her friends and her demons, her gradual rise to fame, her own ambivalent attitude toward it, and into her final days.
She airs opinions that are sometimes unnuanced or that I humbly disagree with, e.g. that literature is not a matter of 鈥榙evelopment鈥� but of prose and poetry. I deeply appreciate a deliberate take on form, but I also prefer deliberate content and development 鈥� of story, of people; otherwise it remains poetry to me. She does admit to learning that she could do scenes but not plots. No surprise there. In this book no plot is needed. At times her sentences are shockingly profound, at other times simply gorgeous. The list of examples of the latter is endless, but here are a few to savour:
Life piles up so fast that I have no time to write out the equally fast rising mound of reflections (鈥�)
(鈥�) the creative power which bubbles so pleasantly in beginning a new book quiets down after a time, and one goes on more steadily. Doubts creep in.
But to be well and use strength to get more out of life is, surely, the greatest fun in the world.
I am laboriously dredging my mind for Mrs. Dalloway and bringing up light buckets.
Joy鈥檚 life in the doing 鈥� I murder, as usual, a quotation; I mean it鈥檚 the writing, not the being read, that excites me.
I鈥檓 the hare, a long way ahead of the hounds my critics.
What a vast fertility of pleasure books hold for me.
I was a little taken aback by her blatant disparagement of other authors (Mansfield, Joyce, James, the list goes on), but she is also critical of her own ability from time to time. And as she never criticized Forster, I didn鈥檛 care so much. In fact, she mentions him with a certain fondness every time his name crops up (鈥楳organ鈥�), and as Forster was one of my first loves in English literature, I cannot help but appreciate that tendency of hers. Her best sentence about Forster may be the following:
Morgan has the artist鈥檚 mind; he says the simple things that clever people don鈥檛 say; I find him the best of critics for that reason.
On that note, she writes that intelligent criticism is to be encouraged. Yes, I thought. That ought to be a quote on the goodreads site. Perhaps it already is. Then it deserves to be read.
There are other authors whom she expresses something like love for. I savoured and wallowed in those parts. Shakespeare takes centre stage, but there鈥檚 also a wonderful scene where she and Leonard visit Thomas Hardy. A valuable aspect of the book, indeed, is when we hear about her own reading habits, her views on contemporary literature, her comparison of Turgenev and Dostoevsky etc.
Interestingly, as her books were published by Hogarth House, the Woolfs鈥� own publishing house, her books never fell under the critical gaze of an editor. We hear of how she typed them up, how Leonard only read the books after she was completely done with them and how they themselves had x number of copies printed depending on how many were ordered.
As we progress into the second half of the book, Virginia Woolf is visited more and more by her incertitude, her ups and downs, her despair, while simultaneously being more and more in the public eye. It saddened me deeply when she muses on what exacerbated her depressions:
I think the effort to live in two spheres: the novel; and life; is a strain. (鈥�) to have to behave with circumspection and decision to strangers wrenches me into another region; hence the collapse.
I wonder if the beginning of World War II also underlined to her some of life鈥檚 enormous sadness or if it was a complete coincidence that she committed suicide in the second year of the war. The war is like a desperate illness, she wrote. The Woolfs鈥� home in London was bombed to smithereens, and so she spent the last days of her life in the country, at Monk鈥檚 House, where they could still hear the bombers and where, she wrote, we live without a future.
For readers who are interested in the writer Virginia Woolf, this is an absolute must-read. It was one of those books which made me impatient to read on and discover more and yet also stop and savour her words and her thoughts and not rush through it because there is only one first time for every book.
July 23, 2023
"The truth is that writing is the profound pleasure and being read the superficial."
Could one put a rating on someone's diary? Is it even appropriate to do so? Should one be saying things like 'you have a nice, organized thoughts', 'you keep a very thorough, meticulous and systematical diary', 'clear and very well-written', as though diary/ journal is written for someone else's eyes other than the writer's. Therefore, this rating is reserved for how meaningful the experience of perusing through Virginia Woolf's journal to me.
I have a confession to make. I, with the fiber of my being, worship Virginia Woolf. One of my regret is that I've found her late in my life stages, and from the first time I opened the page to A Room of One's Own, she has always been my hero ever since. Thus, I was daunted to read her personal journal, because as the saying goes, never meet your hero. To my enormous relief, seeing, listening and reading her makes me love her in a similar and different way. She felt like an intimate friend, whose voice and thoughts resonated in me, not as a writer of course, but as a person who inspired and comforted me with her passion, honesty and brilliant courage.
She's an inventor who always strove to create new forms, new styles of writing, of life-telling. She's a visionary who aimed for something greater and deeper, meaningful.
"I enjoy almost everything. Yet I have some restless searcher in me. Why is there not a discovery in life? Something one can lay hands on and say 'This is it'? My depression is a harassed feeling. I鈥檓 looking: but that鈥檚 not it 鈥� that鈥檚 not it. What is it? And shall I die before I find it? Then (as was walking through Russell Square last night) I see the mountains in the sky: the great clouds; and the moon which is risen over Persia; I have a great and astonishing sense of something there, which is 'it'. It is not exactly beauty that I mean. It is that the thing is in itself enough: satisfactory; achieved. A sense of my own strangeness, walking on the earth is there too: of the infinite oddity of the human position; trotting along Russell Square with the moon up there and those mountain clouds. Who am I, what am I, and so on: these questions are always floating about in me: and then I bump against some exact fact 鈥� a letter, a person, and come to them again with a great sense of freshness. And so it goes on. But on this showing, which is true, I think, I do fairly frequently come upon this 'it'; and then feel quite at rest."
Often time, it feels as though she is obsessing over glory or fame, but in fact what she craves for is respect and connection. She might be judgmental and critical on other people, but never more than on herself. She was a very harsh judge on herself, demanded perfection to her works. She's vain but oddly humble, never aim of being great writer, only an interesting one. She wrote but never preached, which was one of the reason I admired her so much. "Art is being rid of all preaching: thing in themselves: the sentence is beautiful: multitudinous seas; daffodils that come before the swallow dares."
The devotion and determination to her books was breathtaking. In her life, she focused to be her own self, refusing to be controlled, hated dominion or imposition of will over others. She would not lose her identity, sticking bravely to her aesthetic, using the sheer defiance of 'I write for myself' as her fighting pose every single time. "I will not be 'famous', 'great'. I will go on adventuring, changing, opening my mind my eyes, refusing to be stamped and stereotyped. The thing is to free one's self: to let it find its dimensions, not be impeded" And she was brilliant enough to find a way to be financially fulfilled but still able to write whatever the hell she wanted, instead of marketing herself to the satisfaction of public. "I am an outsider. I can take my way: experiment with my own imagination in my own way. The pack may howl, but it shall never catch me."
But even still, she wanted to do her own share for humanity. "I want to give the whole world of the present society--nothing less: facts as well as the vision." This contradiction became a continuous struggle, entangled with her war with self-worth, old age, and deaths of her friends, acquaintances, the rake of raw emotions that easily overwhelmed her, and the battles of depression.
From her journal, it could be seen how writing was a core need to her being, it how she came alive, she stated how she couldn't stop, or she would fall into a state of depression. If she didn't has anything to engage her brain: reading or writing, it was as though the inactiveness would force her to stare into the meaningless void of existence. "Wonder how a year or so perhaps is to be endured. Think, yet people do live; can't imagine what goes on behind faces. All is surface hard; myself only an organ that takes blows, one after another; the horror of the hard raddled faces in the flower show yesterday: the inane pointlessness of all this existence; hatred of my own brainlessness and indecision; the old treadmill feeling, of going on an on and on, for no reason."
Virginia Woolf was a gifted thinker, a born writer who was plagued by constant, continuous self-doubt, uncertainty and depression her whole life, but kept galloping courageously, floundering and stumbling in her search for truth and her own personal voice, but always transforming. Reading her writing process, her creative-always-changing journey had moved and touched me in an inexplicably profound level.
"I saw all the violence and unreason crossing in the air: ourselves small; a tumult outside."
Could one put a rating on someone's diary? Is it even appropriate to do so? Should one be saying things like 'you have a nice, organized thoughts', 'you keep a very thorough, meticulous and systematical diary', 'clear and very well-written', as though diary/ journal is written for someone else's eyes other than the writer's. Therefore, this rating is reserved for how meaningful the experience of perusing through Virginia Woolf's journal to me.
I have a confession to make. I, with the fiber of my being, worship Virginia Woolf. One of my regret is that I've found her late in my life stages, and from the first time I opened the page to A Room of One's Own, she has always been my hero ever since. Thus, I was daunted to read her personal journal, because as the saying goes, never meet your hero. To my enormous relief, seeing, listening and reading her makes me love her in a similar and different way. She felt like an intimate friend, whose voice and thoughts resonated in me, not as a writer of course, but as a person who inspired and comforted me with her passion, honesty and brilliant courage.
She's an inventor who always strove to create new forms, new styles of writing, of life-telling. She's a visionary who aimed for something greater and deeper, meaningful.
"I enjoy almost everything. Yet I have some restless searcher in me. Why is there not a discovery in life? Something one can lay hands on and say 'This is it'? My depression is a harassed feeling. I鈥檓 looking: but that鈥檚 not it 鈥� that鈥檚 not it. What is it? And shall I die before I find it? Then (as was walking through Russell Square last night) I see the mountains in the sky: the great clouds; and the moon which is risen over Persia; I have a great and astonishing sense of something there, which is 'it'. It is not exactly beauty that I mean. It is that the thing is in itself enough: satisfactory; achieved. A sense of my own strangeness, walking on the earth is there too: of the infinite oddity of the human position; trotting along Russell Square with the moon up there and those mountain clouds. Who am I, what am I, and so on: these questions are always floating about in me: and then I bump against some exact fact 鈥� a letter, a person, and come to them again with a great sense of freshness. And so it goes on. But on this showing, which is true, I think, I do fairly frequently come upon this 'it'; and then feel quite at rest."
Often time, it feels as though she is obsessing over glory or fame, but in fact what she craves for is respect and connection. She might be judgmental and critical on other people, but never more than on herself. She was a very harsh judge on herself, demanded perfection to her works. She's vain but oddly humble, never aim of being great writer, only an interesting one. She wrote but never preached, which was one of the reason I admired her so much. "Art is being rid of all preaching: thing in themselves: the sentence is beautiful: multitudinous seas; daffodils that come before the swallow dares."
The devotion and determination to her books was breathtaking. In her life, she focused to be her own self, refusing to be controlled, hated dominion or imposition of will over others. She would not lose her identity, sticking bravely to her aesthetic, using the sheer defiance of 'I write for myself' as her fighting pose every single time. "I will not be 'famous', 'great'. I will go on adventuring, changing, opening my mind my eyes, refusing to be stamped and stereotyped. The thing is to free one's self: to let it find its dimensions, not be impeded" And she was brilliant enough to find a way to be financially fulfilled but still able to write whatever the hell she wanted, instead of marketing herself to the satisfaction of public. "I am an outsider. I can take my way: experiment with my own imagination in my own way. The pack may howl, but it shall never catch me."
But even still, she wanted to do her own share for humanity. "I want to give the whole world of the present society--nothing less: facts as well as the vision." This contradiction became a continuous struggle, entangled with her war with self-worth, old age, and deaths of her friends, acquaintances, the rake of raw emotions that easily overwhelmed her, and the battles of depression.
From her journal, it could be seen how writing was a core need to her being, it how she came alive, she stated how she couldn't stop, or she would fall into a state of depression. If she didn't has anything to engage her brain: reading or writing, it was as though the inactiveness would force her to stare into the meaningless void of existence. "Wonder how a year or so perhaps is to be endured. Think, yet people do live; can't imagine what goes on behind faces. All is surface hard; myself only an organ that takes blows, one after another; the horror of the hard raddled faces in the flower show yesterday: the inane pointlessness of all this existence; hatred of my own brainlessness and indecision; the old treadmill feeling, of going on an on and on, for no reason."
Virginia Woolf was a gifted thinker, a born writer who was plagued by constant, continuous self-doubt, uncertainty and depression her whole life, but kept galloping courageously, floundering and stumbling in her search for truth and her own personal voice, but always transforming. Reading her writing process, her creative-always-changing journey had moved and touched me in an inexplicably profound level.
"I saw all the violence and unreason crossing in the air: ourselves small; a tumult outside."
June 6, 2016
噩賲毓賴貙 30 丌賵乇賷賱 1926
... 丿賷乇賵夭 亘禺卮 丕賵賱 亘賴 爻賵賷 賮丕賳賵爻 丿乇賷丕賷賷 乇丕 鬲賲丕賲 讴乇丿賲貙 賵 丕賲乇賵夭 亘禺卮 丿賵賲 乇丕 卮乇賵毓 讴乇丿賲. 賴賷趩 賳賲賷鈥屫堌з嗁� 爻乇 丿乇 亘賷丕賵乇賲. 賷讴賷 丕夭 丿卮賵丕乇鬲乇賷賳 賵 賲噩乇丿鬲乇賷賳 倬丕乇賴 丕夭 丕孬乇 丿乇爻鬲 賴賲賷賳 丕爻鬲 讴賴 亘丕 丌賳 乇賵亘乇賵賷賲. 亘丕賷丿 亘賴 鬲乇爻賷賲 賷讴 禺丕賳賴 禺丕賱賷 亘倬乇丿丕夭賲貙 亘賷 賵噩賵丿 賴賷趩 卮禺氐賷鬲賷 丕夭 賴賷趩 讴爻賷貙 賵 诏匕卮鬲 夭賲丕賳貙 賵 賴賲賴 讴賵乇 賵 賮丕賯丿 賴乇 賵賷跇诏賷貙 亘賷鈥屬堌堌� 賴賷趩 趩賷夭賷 讴賴 亘鬲賵丕賳 丿乇 丌賳 趩賳诏 丕賳丿丕禺鬲貨 禺賵亘貙 亘丕 卮鬲丕亘 賲賷鈥屬嗁堎娯迟呚� 賵 鬲丕 趩卮賲 亘賴 賴賲 亘夭賳賷 丿賵氐賮丨丞 鬲賲丕賲 爻賷丕賴 讴乇丿賴鈥屫з�. 丌賷丕 賲夭禺乇賮賳丿責 丌賷丕 毓丕賱賷賳丿責 趩乇丕 丕賷賳鈥屫焚堌辟� 賵丕跇賴 亘丕乇丕賳 賲賷鈥屫促堎呚� 丌賳賴賲 馗丕賴乇丕賻 鬲丕 丕賷賳 丨丿 丌夭丕丿 讴賴 賴乇 趩賴 丿賱賲 賲賷鈥屫堌з囏� 丿賯賷賯丕賻 賴賲丕賳 亘讴賳賲. 賵賯鬲賷 賷讴 讴賲賷 丕夭 丌賳 乇丕 賲賷鈥屫堌з嗁呚� 亘賴 賳馗乇賲 賲賷鈥屫必池� 丕賳诏丕乇 禺賷賱賷 賴賲 夭賳丿賴 賵 倬乇 鬲倬卮 丕夭 讴丕乇 丿乇丌賲丿賴 丕爻鬲貨 賮賯胤 賷讴 讴賲賷 亘丕賷丿 賮卮乇丿賴鈥屫必� 讴乇丿貨 丿賷诏乇 賴賷趩 趩賷夭賷 賱丕夭賲 賳丿丕乇丿. 丕賷賳 乇賵丕賳賷 趩卮賲诏賷乇 爻禺賳 乇丕 亘丕 賵囟毓賷 亘爻賳噩 讴賴 丿乇 賲賵乇丿芦 禺丕賳賲 丿丕賱賵賵賷禄 倬賷卮 丌賲丿( 噩夭貙 丕賱亘鬲賴貙 丿乇 丕賵丕禺乇 丌賳) . 丕賷賳 賷讴賷 爻丕禺鬲诏賷 賳賷爻鬲貨 賵丕賯毓賷鬲 賲丨囟 丕爻鬲.
... 丿賷乇賵夭 亘禺卮 丕賵賱 亘賴 爻賵賷 賮丕賳賵爻 丿乇賷丕賷賷 乇丕 鬲賲丕賲 讴乇丿賲貙 賵 丕賲乇賵夭 亘禺卮 丿賵賲 乇丕 卮乇賵毓 讴乇丿賲. 賴賷趩 賳賲賷鈥屫堌з嗁� 爻乇 丿乇 亘賷丕賵乇賲. 賷讴賷 丕夭 丿卮賵丕乇鬲乇賷賳 賵 賲噩乇丿鬲乇賷賳 倬丕乇賴 丕夭 丕孬乇 丿乇爻鬲 賴賲賷賳 丕爻鬲 讴賴 亘丕 丌賳 乇賵亘乇賵賷賲. 亘丕賷丿 亘賴 鬲乇爻賷賲 賷讴 禺丕賳賴 禺丕賱賷 亘倬乇丿丕夭賲貙 亘賷 賵噩賵丿 賴賷趩 卮禺氐賷鬲賷 丕夭 賴賷趩 讴爻賷貙 賵 诏匕卮鬲 夭賲丕賳貙 賵 賴賲賴 讴賵乇 賵 賮丕賯丿 賴乇 賵賷跇诏賷貙 亘賷鈥屬堌堌� 賴賷趩 趩賷夭賷 讴賴 亘鬲賵丕賳 丿乇 丌賳 趩賳诏 丕賳丿丕禺鬲貨 禺賵亘貙 亘丕 卮鬲丕亘 賲賷鈥屬嗁堎娯迟呚� 賵 鬲丕 趩卮賲 亘賴 賴賲 亘夭賳賷 丿賵氐賮丨丞 鬲賲丕賲 爻賷丕賴 讴乇丿賴鈥屫з�. 丌賷丕 賲夭禺乇賮賳丿責 丌賷丕 毓丕賱賷賳丿責 趩乇丕 丕賷賳鈥屫焚堌辟� 賵丕跇賴 亘丕乇丕賳 賲賷鈥屫促堎呚� 丌賳賴賲 馗丕賴乇丕賻 鬲丕 丕賷賳 丨丿 丌夭丕丿 讴賴 賴乇 趩賴 丿賱賲 賲賷鈥屫堌з囏� 丿賯賷賯丕賻 賴賲丕賳 亘讴賳賲. 賵賯鬲賷 賷讴 讴賲賷 丕夭 丌賳 乇丕 賲賷鈥屫堌з嗁呚� 亘賴 賳馗乇賲 賲賷鈥屫必池� 丕賳诏丕乇 禺賷賱賷 賴賲 夭賳丿賴 賵 倬乇 鬲倬卮 丕夭 讴丕乇 丿乇丌賲丿賴 丕爻鬲貨 賮賯胤 賷讴 讴賲賷 亘丕賷丿 賮卮乇丿賴鈥屫必� 讴乇丿貨 丿賷诏乇 賴賷趩 趩賷夭賷 賱丕夭賲 賳丿丕乇丿. 丕賷賳 乇賵丕賳賷 趩卮賲诏賷乇 爻禺賳 乇丕 亘丕 賵囟毓賷 亘爻賳噩 讴賴 丿乇 賲賵乇丿芦 禺丕賳賲 丿丕賱賵賵賷禄 倬賷卮 丌賲丿( 噩夭貙 丕賱亘鬲賴貙 丿乇 丕賵丕禺乇 丌賳) . 丕賷賳 賷讴賷 爻丕禺鬲诏賷 賳賷爻鬲貨 賵丕賯毓賷鬲 賲丨囟 丕爻鬲.
December 4, 2014
賴賵卮 亘丕賱丕 賵賯鬲蹖 亘丕 噩夭卅蹖鈥屬嗂臂� 夭賳丕賳賴 鬲乇讴蹖亘 賲蹖卮賴 鬲亘丿蹖賱 亘賴 蹖賴 鬲噩乇亘賴鈥屰� 噩匕丕亘 賵 氐丿 丕賱亘鬲賴 賵蹖乇丕賳鈥屭� 賲蹖卮賴. 賵蹖乇丕賳鈥屭必� 丕夭 賴賵卮 賲乇丿丕賳賴. 馗乇丕賮鬲 胤亘毓 賵蹖乇噩蹖賳蹖丕 賵賵賱賮 乇賵 賲蹖卮賴 鬲賵 賱丕亘賴鈥屬勜й� 氐賮丨丕鬲 丕蹖賳 讴鬲丕亘 丿蹖丿. 蹖丕丿丿丕卮鬲鈥屬囏й� 賵賵賱賮 丌蹖乇賵賳蹖鈥屬堌ж必з嗁�! 丕夭 爻丕賱 1918 (爻丕賱 噩賳诏 亘夭乇诏) 鬲丕 1941 (賲蹖丕賳賴鈥屬囏й� 噩賳诏 毓丕賱賲鈥屭屫� 丿賵賲) 乇賵 卮丕賲賱 賲蹖卮賴
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賴賲賴鈥屰� 噩匕丕亘蹖鬲 丕蹖賳 讴鬲丕亘 亘乇賲蹖鈥屭必� 亘賴 丿蹖丿 夭丿賳 丨丕賱丕鬲 乇賵丨蹖 蹖賴 賳賵蹖爻賳丿賴 鬲賵蹖 蹖賴 诏爻鬲乇賴鈥屰� 夭賲丕賳蹖 亘蹖爻鬲 賵 趩賳丿 爻丕賱賴. 賵賵賱賮 丕賵丕蹖賱 讴鬲丕亘 亘爻蹖丕乇 丨爻丕爻 賴爻鬲 賵 亘蹖 丕毓鬲賲丕丿 亘賴 賳賮爻. 丿賵賳賴 丿賵賳賴鈥屰� 賳賯丿賴丕蹖蹖 讴賴 乇賵蹖 讴丕乇賴丕卮 賲蹖 賳賵蹖爻賳丿 乇賵卮 鬲丕孬蹖乇 賲蹖鈥屭柏ж辟�. 丕賲丕 乇賮鬲賴 乇賮鬲賴 賵賵賱賮 禺賵丿卮 乇賵 倬蹖丿丕 賲蹖鈥屭┵嗁�. 鬲賵蹖 賴賲蹖賳 讴鬲丕亘 賴賲 賲蹖鈥屫ㄛ屬嗃屬� 讴賴 賵賵賱賮 賲賵賯毓 賳賵卮鬲賳 禺蹖夭丕亘鈥屬囏� (讴賴 馗丕賴乇丕 亘賴鬲乇蹖賳 讴鬲丕亘卮 賴爻鬲) 禺賵丿卮 賴賲 丕夭 賳馗乇 乇賵丨蹖 毓丕賱蹖 賵 鬲賵蹖 丕賵噩 賴爻鬲 賵 亘毓丿 丕夭 賴賲蹖賳 乇賲丕賳 賴爻鬲 讴賴 丌乇賵賲 丌乇賵賲 亘丕夭 賴賲 丕毓鬲賲丕丿 亘賴 賳賮爻 丕蹖賳 亘丕賳賵蹖 亘夭乇诏 鬲丨賱蹖賱 賲蹖乇賴 鬲丕 噩賳诏 卮乇賵毓 亘卮賴. 噩賳诏 乇賵蹖 賵賵賱賮 鬲丕孬蹖乇 毓賲蹖賯蹖 賲蹖鈥屭柏ж辟�. 亘賵蹖 賲乇诏 乇賵 賲蹖卮賴 丕夭 氐賮丨賴鈥屬囏й� 丌禺乇 丕蹖賳 讴鬲丕亘 卮賳賮鬲. 卮丕蹖丿 噩賳诏 丕诏乇 讴賲蹖 夭賵丿鬲乇 鬲賲賵賲 賲蹖鈥屫簇� 賵蹖乇噩蹖賳蹖丕 賵賵賱賮 賴賲 亘蹖卮鬲乇 毓賲乇 賲蹖鈥屭┴必�
賵 賮賯胤 卮丕蹖丿
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乇丕爻鬲蹖 賳讴鬲賴鈥屰� 噩丕賱亘 丕蹖賳 蹖丕丿丿丕卮鬲鈥屬囏� 丕蹖賳 亘賵丿 讴賴 賵賵賱賮 亘毓丿 丕夭 鬲賲賵賲 讴乇丿賳 賴乇 讴鬲丕亘 丕賵賳 乇賵 賲蹖丿賴 亘賴 賱卅賵賳丕乇丿 (卮賵賴乇卮) 鬲丕 亘禺賵賳賴 賵 賳馗乇 亘丿賴. 賱卅賵賳丕乇丿 鬲賵 賴賲賴鈥屰� 丕蹖賳 爻丕賱鈥屬囏� 賴賲蹖卮賴 賳馗乇卮 乇賵 亘賴 丕蹖賳鈥屫焚堌� 丕亘乇丕夭 賲蹖鈥屭┴必�: 亘賴鬲乇 丕夭 讴丕乇 賯亘賱蹖鬲賴. 丕賲丕 丿乇 賲賵乇丿 禺蹖夭丕亘鈥屬囏� 亘乇賲蹖鈥屭必� 賵 賲蹖诏賴: 丕蹖賳 蹖賴 卮丕賴讴丕乇賴. 賵 丿乇 賲賵乇丿 讴鬲丕亘 亘毓丿蹖 賵賵賱賮 賲蹖诏賴 亘賴 禺賵亘蹖 讴丕乇賴丕蹖 賯亘賱蹖鬲 賴爻鬲. 馗乇丕賮鬲 丕蹖賳 賲乇丿 爻鬲賵丿賳蹖 賴爻鬲
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賴賲賴鈥屰� 噩匕丕亘蹖鬲 丕蹖賳 讴鬲丕亘 亘乇賲蹖鈥屭必� 亘賴 丿蹖丿 夭丿賳 丨丕賱丕鬲 乇賵丨蹖 蹖賴 賳賵蹖爻賳丿賴 鬲賵蹖 蹖賴 诏爻鬲乇賴鈥屰� 夭賲丕賳蹖 亘蹖爻鬲 賵 趩賳丿 爻丕賱賴. 賵賵賱賮 丕賵丕蹖賱 讴鬲丕亘 亘爻蹖丕乇 丨爻丕爻 賴爻鬲 賵 亘蹖 丕毓鬲賲丕丿 亘賴 賳賮爻. 丿賵賳賴 丿賵賳賴鈥屰� 賳賯丿賴丕蹖蹖 讴賴 乇賵蹖 讴丕乇賴丕卮 賲蹖 賳賵蹖爻賳丿 乇賵卮 鬲丕孬蹖乇 賲蹖鈥屭柏ж辟�. 丕賲丕 乇賮鬲賴 乇賮鬲賴 賵賵賱賮 禺賵丿卮 乇賵 倬蹖丿丕 賲蹖鈥屭┵嗁�. 鬲賵蹖 賴賲蹖賳 讴鬲丕亘 賴賲 賲蹖鈥屫ㄛ屬嗃屬� 讴賴 賵賵賱賮 賲賵賯毓 賳賵卮鬲賳 禺蹖夭丕亘鈥屬囏� (讴賴 馗丕賴乇丕 亘賴鬲乇蹖賳 讴鬲丕亘卮 賴爻鬲) 禺賵丿卮 賴賲 丕夭 賳馗乇 乇賵丨蹖 毓丕賱蹖 賵 鬲賵蹖 丕賵噩 賴爻鬲 賵 亘毓丿 丕夭 賴賲蹖賳 乇賲丕賳 賴爻鬲 讴賴 丌乇賵賲 丌乇賵賲 亘丕夭 賴賲 丕毓鬲賲丕丿 亘賴 賳賮爻 丕蹖賳 亘丕賳賵蹖 亘夭乇诏 鬲丨賱蹖賱 賲蹖乇賴 鬲丕 噩賳诏 卮乇賵毓 亘卮賴. 噩賳诏 乇賵蹖 賵賵賱賮 鬲丕孬蹖乇 毓賲蹖賯蹖 賲蹖鈥屭柏ж辟�. 亘賵蹖 賲乇诏 乇賵 賲蹖卮賴 丕夭 氐賮丨賴鈥屬囏й� 丌禺乇 丕蹖賳 讴鬲丕亘 卮賳賮鬲. 卮丕蹖丿 噩賳诏 丕诏乇 讴賲蹖 夭賵丿鬲乇 鬲賲賵賲 賲蹖鈥屫簇� 賵蹖乇噩蹖賳蹖丕 賵賵賱賮 賴賲 亘蹖卮鬲乇 毓賲乇 賲蹖鈥屭┴必�
賵 賮賯胤 卮丕蹖丿
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乇丕爻鬲蹖 賳讴鬲賴鈥屰� 噩丕賱亘 丕蹖賳 蹖丕丿丿丕卮鬲鈥屬囏� 丕蹖賳 亘賵丿 讴賴 賵賵賱賮 亘毓丿 丕夭 鬲賲賵賲 讴乇丿賳 賴乇 讴鬲丕亘 丕賵賳 乇賵 賲蹖丿賴 亘賴 賱卅賵賳丕乇丿 (卮賵賴乇卮) 鬲丕 亘禺賵賳賴 賵 賳馗乇 亘丿賴. 賱卅賵賳丕乇丿 鬲賵 賴賲賴鈥屰� 丕蹖賳 爻丕賱鈥屬囏� 賴賲蹖卮賴 賳馗乇卮 乇賵 亘賴 丕蹖賳鈥屫焚堌� 丕亘乇丕夭 賲蹖鈥屭┴必�: 亘賴鬲乇 丕夭 讴丕乇 賯亘賱蹖鬲賴. 丕賲丕 丿乇 賲賵乇丿 禺蹖夭丕亘鈥屬囏� 亘乇賲蹖鈥屭必� 賵 賲蹖诏賴: 丕蹖賳 蹖賴 卮丕賴讴丕乇賴. 賵 丿乇 賲賵乇丿 讴鬲丕亘 亘毓丿蹖 賵賵賱賮 賲蹖诏賴 亘賴 禺賵亘蹖 讴丕乇賴丕蹖 賯亘賱蹖鬲 賴爻鬲. 馗乇丕賮鬲 丕蹖賳 賲乇丿 爻鬲賵丿賳蹖 賴爻鬲
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June 30, 2024
Wat had ik tijdens het lezen van deze door Leonard Woolf geselecteerde dagboeknotities van Virginia Woolf graag nog eens gegrasduind door mijn verloren GR-reviews bij haar meesterwerken. Op en na, heb ik ze de voorbije jaren allemaal in het Engels gelezen. Nog meer dan de inspanning die dat soms vergde, was er telkens opnieuw dat gevoel beloond te worden door de onvergelijkbare literaire rijkdom waarin ze je als lezer onderdompelt. Haar eigen, meerstemmige variatie op de stream of consciousness.
In deze dagboeken leerde ik haar eigen(zinnige) stem kennen. En die verveelde geen seconde. Weloverwogen, maar tegelijk heel vrij schrijft ze over wat zich in haar binnenste roert. De selectie die Leonard Woolf maakte is dan wel gericht op notities die de ontstaansgeschiedenis van haar werk illustreren, toch laat de auteur, net als in haar boeken, heel wat meer meevloeien met die literaire onderstroom. Het enige frustrerende eraan vond ik misschien dat er naast de welbekende Britse tijdgenoten, net iets te veel personen in vernoemd, beschreven en geciteerd werden uit Virginia Woolfs kringen die ik niet kon thuisbrengen. Maar dat stond het leesgenot niet in de weg.
De onderstroom van typische schrijversbesognes zoals twijfels, werklust, timing, redactie, revisie, meer twijfels, frustraties, het moeilijk maar dapper omgaan met kritieken, inspiratie, schrappen, nog meer twijfels, gelukzaligheid, trots, opluchting, (on)geduld enz. passeren stuk voor stuk de revue. Bij elke roman wil Virginia zichzelf als het ware opnieuw uitvinden. Streng voor zichzelf en sterk in haar zelfreflectie ontvouwt zich in deze dagboeknotities een leven in functie van het schrijven dat vaak op het scherpst van de snee geleefd wordt, inclusief de mentale en soms ook fysieke balans die Virginia Woolf voor zichzelf moest zien te bewaren. Iets wat niet altijd lukte, ook al vielen er best wel wat momenten van oprecht geluk en tevredenheid op te tekenen.
Dat geluk kon zowel veroorzaakt worden door schrijfplezier, door het los kunnen laten van een roman na de laatste revisie (bij 'The Years', waar ze het langst over deed, heb ik echter vaak gedacht: 'Kap ermee, Virginia!') als door het wandelen in de natuur rond hun buitenhuis in Rodmell of door haar geliefde thuisstad Londen. Met mensen had ze het moeilijker, maar ook daarover schrijft en denkt ze zo genuanceerd, dat er zelden een zwartwit-portret ontstaat. In alles wat ze schrijft zoekt ze naar lagen, details, verbindingen tussen wat er zich aan de oppervlakte roert en wat er daaronder loert. Dat is misschien wel de essentie van Woolfs queeste als kunstenaar: het combineren van zulke dualiteiten.
Daarnaast werpt dit boek ook een rijk geschakeerd tijdsbeeld op van het interbellum zoals dat in Britse kunstenaarskringen geleefd en beleefd werd. De dagboeken lopen van 1918 tot 1941. Naar het eind toe, van zodra de naam Hitler valt, lees je hoe na jaren van nieuwe vooruitzichten en mogelijkheden de dreiging van een nieuwe oorlog zich aandient en hoe die op Brits grondgebied, met o.a. de luchtaanvallen op Londen, ook Virginia Woolfs leven binnenvalt en wellicht mede verantwoordelijk is voor haar su茂cide.
Ik veronderstel dat je haar complete verzameling dagboeknotities moet lezen om ook haar mentale evolutie beter te kunnen duiden en de zelfmoord op late leeftijd beter te begrijpen. Daar zal ik me ooit nog wel eens aan wagen, in het Engels dan wellicht, want dit las verbazingwekkend vlot weg. Ook haar vroege, kortere romans en verhalen wil ik nu verder ontdekken. Want voor mij is Virginia Woolf zonder enig voorbehoud een van de allergrootsten uit de literatuur. Haar romans klinken zo uniek en zijn zo prachtig gecomponeerd (ja, als muziek) dat ik er een leven lang naar terug zal grijpen. Deze dagboeken hebben dat verlangen alleen maar aangezwengeld. 4,5*
In deze dagboeken leerde ik haar eigen(zinnige) stem kennen. En die verveelde geen seconde. Weloverwogen, maar tegelijk heel vrij schrijft ze over wat zich in haar binnenste roert. De selectie die Leonard Woolf maakte is dan wel gericht op notities die de ontstaansgeschiedenis van haar werk illustreren, toch laat de auteur, net als in haar boeken, heel wat meer meevloeien met die literaire onderstroom. Het enige frustrerende eraan vond ik misschien dat er naast de welbekende Britse tijdgenoten, net iets te veel personen in vernoemd, beschreven en geciteerd werden uit Virginia Woolfs kringen die ik niet kon thuisbrengen. Maar dat stond het leesgenot niet in de weg.
De onderstroom van typische schrijversbesognes zoals twijfels, werklust, timing, redactie, revisie, meer twijfels, frustraties, het moeilijk maar dapper omgaan met kritieken, inspiratie, schrappen, nog meer twijfels, gelukzaligheid, trots, opluchting, (on)geduld enz. passeren stuk voor stuk de revue. Bij elke roman wil Virginia zichzelf als het ware opnieuw uitvinden. Streng voor zichzelf en sterk in haar zelfreflectie ontvouwt zich in deze dagboeknotities een leven in functie van het schrijven dat vaak op het scherpst van de snee geleefd wordt, inclusief de mentale en soms ook fysieke balans die Virginia Woolf voor zichzelf moest zien te bewaren. Iets wat niet altijd lukte, ook al vielen er best wel wat momenten van oprecht geluk en tevredenheid op te tekenen.
Dat geluk kon zowel veroorzaakt worden door schrijfplezier, door het los kunnen laten van een roman na de laatste revisie (bij 'The Years', waar ze het langst over deed, heb ik echter vaak gedacht: 'Kap ermee, Virginia!') als door het wandelen in de natuur rond hun buitenhuis in Rodmell of door haar geliefde thuisstad Londen. Met mensen had ze het moeilijker, maar ook daarover schrijft en denkt ze zo genuanceerd, dat er zelden een zwartwit-portret ontstaat. In alles wat ze schrijft zoekt ze naar lagen, details, verbindingen tussen wat er zich aan de oppervlakte roert en wat er daaronder loert. Dat is misschien wel de essentie van Woolfs queeste als kunstenaar: het combineren van zulke dualiteiten.
Daarnaast werpt dit boek ook een rijk geschakeerd tijdsbeeld op van het interbellum zoals dat in Britse kunstenaarskringen geleefd en beleefd werd. De dagboeken lopen van 1918 tot 1941. Naar het eind toe, van zodra de naam Hitler valt, lees je hoe na jaren van nieuwe vooruitzichten en mogelijkheden de dreiging van een nieuwe oorlog zich aandient en hoe die op Brits grondgebied, met o.a. de luchtaanvallen op Londen, ook Virginia Woolfs leven binnenvalt en wellicht mede verantwoordelijk is voor haar su茂cide.
Ik veronderstel dat je haar complete verzameling dagboeknotities moet lezen om ook haar mentale evolutie beter te kunnen duiden en de zelfmoord op late leeftijd beter te begrijpen. Daar zal ik me ooit nog wel eens aan wagen, in het Engels dan wellicht, want dit las verbazingwekkend vlot weg. Ook haar vroege, kortere romans en verhalen wil ik nu verder ontdekken. Want voor mij is Virginia Woolf zonder enig voorbehoud een van de allergrootsten uit de literatuur. Haar romans klinken zo uniek en zijn zo prachtig gecomponeerd (ja, als muziek) dat ik er een leven lang naar terug zal grijpen. Deze dagboeken hebben dat verlangen alleen maar aangezwengeld. 4,5*
November 16, 2023
'A very good summer, this, for all my shying and jibbing, my tremors this morning. Beautifully quiet, airy, powerful. I believe I want this more humane existence for my next鈥攖o spread carelessly among one's friends鈥攖o feel the width and amusement of human life: not to strain to make a pattern just yet: to be made supple, and to let the juice of usual things, talk, character, seep through me, quietly, involuntarily, before I say Stop and take out my pen.'
December 11, 2018
Che mente straordinaria, non trovo altre parole!
November 9, 2020
"I enjoy almost everything. Yet I have some restless searcher in me. Why is there not a discovery in life? Something one can lay hands on and say 鈥淭his is it鈥�? My depression is a harassed feeling. I鈥檓 looking: but that鈥檚 not it 鈥� that鈥檚 not it. What is it? And shall I die before I find it?鈥�
I normally avoid diaries that weren't published directly by author but this woman is too cool not to be in hell. The book suffers typical limitations of diary - written in certain moods, without desire of being understood always present (sometimes Woolf just throws a word stream instead of sentences) and not much focused on being eloquent. Woolf was full of ideas what forms literature could take and this book is full of such ideas. Another way a person interested in mind of a writer or art of writing might gain insights is how she has to go through spells of depression, writer's block, insecurities about her writings etc. Than there are all writers impressed her (to impress someone like her should be a real milestone). There are a number of beautiful passages I collected - more than I ever expect to from reading someone's personal diary.
I normally avoid diaries that weren't published directly by author but this woman is too cool not to be in hell. The book suffers typical limitations of diary - written in certain moods, without desire of being understood always present (sometimes Woolf just throws a word stream instead of sentences) and not much focused on being eloquent. Woolf was full of ideas what forms literature could take and this book is full of such ideas. Another way a person interested in mind of a writer or art of writing might gain insights is how she has to go through spells of depression, writer's block, insecurities about her writings etc. Than there are all writers impressed her (to impress someone like her should be a real milestone). There are a number of beautiful passages I collected - more than I ever expect to from reading someone's personal diary.
March 27, 2025
賴蹖趩 卮讴蹖 丿乇 丕蹖賳 賳蹖爻鬲 讴賴 賵蹖乇噩蹖賳蹖丕 賵賵賱賮 蹖讴蹖 丕夭 亘夭乇诏鬲乇蹖賳 賵 "鬲賵丕賳丕鬲乇蹖賳" 賳賵蹖爻賳丿賴鈥屬囏ж池� 賵 賳賯卮蹖 讴賴 鬲賵蹖 丕丿亘蹖丕鬲 丿丕卮鬲賴 亘蹖鈥屬嗀港屫� 賵 噩爻賵乇丕賳賴鈥屫池�.
賵蹖乇噩蹖賳蹖丕 賵賵賱賮 賳賵蹖爻賳丿賴鈥屫й屬� 讴賴 賴賲蹖卮賴 亘乇丕蹖 夭賳丿诏蹖 爻乇丕爻乇 倬乇 丕夭 乇賳噩卮 睾氐賴 賲蹖鈥屫堌辟� 賵 亘賴 賳馗乇賲 賱蹖丕賯鬲 丿丕卮鬲賳 夭賳丿诏蹖 禺蹖賱蹖 亘賴鬲乇 賵 卮丕丿蹖 丿丕卮鬲 :(((
賵蹖乇噩蹖賳蹖丕 亘蹖卮鬲乇 丕夭 賴乇 趩蹖夭蹖 鬲賵蹖 夭賳丿诏蹖卮貙 亘賴 賳賵卮鬲賳 賵 爻亘讴 賳诏丕乇卮蹖鈥屫� 丕賴賲蹖鬲 賲蹖鈥屫ж� 賵 亘乇丕蹖 丕蹖賳讴賴 鬲丿丕賵賲 丿丕卮鬲賴 亘丕卮賴貙 賴乇 乇賵夭 亘賴 毓賳賵丕賳 鬲賲乇蹖賳 鬲賵蹖 丿賮鬲乇卮 蹖丕丿丿丕卮鬲 賲蹖鈥屭┴必�.
蹖丕丿丿丕卮鬲鈥屬囏ж� 賲噩賲賵毓蹖 丕夭 丕鬲賮丕賯丕鬲 乇賵夭賲乇賴貙 诏賮鬲诏賵賴丕貙 讴丕乇賴丕蹖蹖 讴賴 亘丕蹖丿 丕賳噩丕賲 亘丿賴貙 賳卮丕賳賴鈥屬囏й� 丕賮爻乇丿诏蹖 賵 亘蹖賲丕乇蹖鈥屫簇� 賳馗乇卮 丿乇亘丕乇賴 賳賯丿賴丕蹖蹖 讴賴 丕夭 讴鬲丕亘鈥屬囏ж� 賲蹖卮丿賴貙 賲禺鬲氐乇蹖 丕夭 賳馗乇丕鬲 賵 賳賯丿賴丕蹖蹖 讴賴 亘乇丕蹖 讴鬲丕亘鈥屬囏й� 丿蹖诏乇丕賳 賲蹖鈥屬嗁堌簇囏� 亘乇賳丕賲賴鈥屫� 亘乇丕蹖 賳賵卮鬲賳 讴鬲丕亘鈥屬囏й� 噩丿蹖丿 賵 賳馗乇卮 乇丕噩毓 亘賴 爻亘讴 讴鬲丕亘 噩丿蹖丿卮 賵.... 丕爻鬲. 蹖毓賳蹖 氐乇賮丕 賲蹖鈥屫堌ж池� 亘賳賵蹖爻賴.
賲賳 亘丕 賴丿賮 丌卮賳丕蹖蹖 亘蹖卮鬲乇 亘丕 賵锟斤拷賱賮貙 爻乇丕睾 讴鬲丕亘 乇賮鬲賲 賵賱蹖 丿乇 胤賵賱 禺賵賳丿賳卮 丨爻 亘丿蹖 丿丕卮鬲賲 趩賵賳 禺賵賳丿賳卮 賲孬賱 爻乇讴 讴卮蹖丿賳 鬲賵蹖 丿賮鬲乇 禺丕胤乇丕鬲 丿蹖诏乇丕賳 賲蹖鈥屬呝堎嗁�.
亘丕 丕蹖賳讴賴 賵賵賱賮 賳賵蹖爻賳丿賴鈥屰� 禺蹖賱蹖 禺賵亘蹖賴 賵賱蹖 賯乇丕乇 賳蹖爻鬲 丕夭 禺賵賳丿賳 丕蹖賳 蹖丕丿丿丕卮鬲鈥屬囏� 卮诏賮鬲鈥屫藏� 亘卮蹖賳 賵 賳亘丕蹖丿 丿賳亘丕賱 趩蹖夭 禺丕氐蹖 亘丕卮蹖賳. 氐乇賮丕 蹖讴 爻乇蹖 乇賵夭丕賳賴鈥屬嗁堐屫驰� 賵 亘賴 賯賱賲 丌賵乇丿賳 丕賮讴丕乇 乇賵夭賲乇賴鈥屫池� 讴賴 亘賴 賳馗乇賲 賴賲爻乇卮 賳亘丕蹖丿 賲賳鬲卮乇卮賵賳 賲蹖鈥屭┴必� 趩賵賳 讴丕乇 丿乇爻鬲蹖 賳蹖爻鬲.
倬爻 丕氐賱丕 賳丕乇丕丨鬲 賳亘丕卮蹖賳 讴賴 趩丕倬 讴鬲丕亘 鬲賲賵賲 卮丿賴 賵 賳賲蹖鈥屫堎嗃屬� 亘禺賵賳蹖賳卮. 趩蹖夭蹖 丕夭 丿爻鬲 賳丿丕丿蹖賳.
賵蹖乇噩蹖賳蹖丕 賵賵賱賮 賳賵蹖爻賳丿賴鈥屫й屬� 讴賴 賴賲蹖卮賴 亘乇丕蹖 夭賳丿诏蹖 爻乇丕爻乇 倬乇 丕夭 乇賳噩卮 睾氐賴 賲蹖鈥屫堌辟� 賵 亘賴 賳馗乇賲 賱蹖丕賯鬲 丿丕卮鬲賳 夭賳丿诏蹖 禺蹖賱蹖 亘賴鬲乇 賵 卮丕丿蹖 丿丕卮鬲 :(((
賵蹖乇噩蹖賳蹖丕 亘蹖卮鬲乇 丕夭 賴乇 趩蹖夭蹖 鬲賵蹖 夭賳丿诏蹖卮貙 亘賴 賳賵卮鬲賳 賵 爻亘讴 賳诏丕乇卮蹖鈥屫� 丕賴賲蹖鬲 賲蹖鈥屫ж� 賵 亘乇丕蹖 丕蹖賳讴賴 鬲丿丕賵賲 丿丕卮鬲賴 亘丕卮賴貙 賴乇 乇賵夭 亘賴 毓賳賵丕賳 鬲賲乇蹖賳 鬲賵蹖 丿賮鬲乇卮 蹖丕丿丿丕卮鬲 賲蹖鈥屭┴必�.
蹖丕丿丿丕卮鬲鈥屬囏ж� 賲噩賲賵毓蹖 丕夭 丕鬲賮丕賯丕鬲 乇賵夭賲乇賴貙 诏賮鬲诏賵賴丕貙 讴丕乇賴丕蹖蹖 讴賴 亘丕蹖丿 丕賳噩丕賲 亘丿賴貙 賳卮丕賳賴鈥屬囏й� 丕賮爻乇丿诏蹖 賵 亘蹖賲丕乇蹖鈥屫簇� 賳馗乇卮 丿乇亘丕乇賴 賳賯丿賴丕蹖蹖 讴賴 丕夭 讴鬲丕亘鈥屬囏ж� 賲蹖卮丿賴貙 賲禺鬲氐乇蹖 丕夭 賳馗乇丕鬲 賵 賳賯丿賴丕蹖蹖 讴賴 亘乇丕蹖 讴鬲丕亘鈥屬囏й� 丿蹖诏乇丕賳 賲蹖鈥屬嗁堌簇囏� 亘乇賳丕賲賴鈥屫� 亘乇丕蹖 賳賵卮鬲賳 讴鬲丕亘鈥屬囏й� 噩丿蹖丿 賵 賳馗乇卮 乇丕噩毓 亘賴 爻亘讴 讴鬲丕亘 噩丿蹖丿卮 賵.... 丕爻鬲. 蹖毓賳蹖 氐乇賮丕 賲蹖鈥屫堌ж池� 亘賳賵蹖爻賴.
賲賳 亘丕 賴丿賮 丌卮賳丕蹖蹖 亘蹖卮鬲乇 亘丕 賵锟斤拷賱賮貙 爻乇丕睾 讴鬲丕亘 乇賮鬲賲 賵賱蹖 丿乇 胤賵賱 禺賵賳丿賳卮 丨爻 亘丿蹖 丿丕卮鬲賲 趩賵賳 禺賵賳丿賳卮 賲孬賱 爻乇讴 讴卮蹖丿賳 鬲賵蹖 丿賮鬲乇 禺丕胤乇丕鬲 丿蹖诏乇丕賳 賲蹖鈥屬呝堎嗁�.
亘丕 丕蹖賳讴賴 賵賵賱賮 賳賵蹖爻賳丿賴鈥屰� 禺蹖賱蹖 禺賵亘蹖賴 賵賱蹖 賯乇丕乇 賳蹖爻鬲 丕夭 禺賵賳丿賳 丕蹖賳 蹖丕丿丿丕卮鬲鈥屬囏� 卮诏賮鬲鈥屫藏� 亘卮蹖賳 賵 賳亘丕蹖丿 丿賳亘丕賱 趩蹖夭 禺丕氐蹖 亘丕卮蹖賳. 氐乇賮丕 蹖讴 爻乇蹖 乇賵夭丕賳賴鈥屬嗁堐屫驰� 賵 亘賴 賯賱賲 丌賵乇丿賳 丕賮讴丕乇 乇賵夭賲乇賴鈥屫池� 讴賴 亘賴 賳馗乇賲 賴賲爻乇卮 賳亘丕蹖丿 賲賳鬲卮乇卮賵賳 賲蹖鈥屭┴必� 趩賵賳 讴丕乇 丿乇爻鬲蹖 賳蹖爻鬲.
倬爻 丕氐賱丕 賳丕乇丕丨鬲 賳亘丕卮蹖賳 讴賴 趩丕倬 讴鬲丕亘 鬲賲賵賲 卮丿賴 賵 賳賲蹖鈥屫堎嗃屬� 亘禺賵賳蹖賳卮. 趩蹖夭蹖 丕夭 丿爻鬲 賳丿丕丿蹖賳.
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October 9, 2015Woolf. I can鈥檛 say as I get her yet, but I鈥檓 trying, in fits and starts. A Writer鈥檚 Diary has sat by my bed for a good few months now, at times (during the sections on To the Lighthouse, The Waves, The Years) leaping into the foreground of my thoughts, but mostly providing a fallback when I wanted to snatch a quick paragraph or two of something that wouldn鈥檛 get its hooks in me. And no, at no point did it really get those hooks in, whether through discussion of craft (which I would have loved, but there was little, it seemed, of any deep detail) or lyricism (it was there but I was as inclined to skip as savour it, finding it at times laboured and at times mundane, and never as potent (need this be said?) as in the fiction) or everyday life (this I quickly tired of; I keep a journal too, have done for half my life, and it may be some things are common to all journals; at any rate much here was familiar and slightly crushing 鈥� the grind, the frustration, the grey bafflement by routine). That said, there were parts that took some kind of hold of me, Woolf鈥檚 struggle over The Years being maybe most compelling: a nerve-shredding cyclical lurching from confidence to dismay and back again and a cautionary tale for those of us prone to obsessive redrafting. Good to see some glimpse of her process, of her perfectionism. Good to witness her doubts, to know she lived them and still finished and moved on. Good to share in any revelations concerning her work. (Even those constant plans and timelines, composed in vain, were reassuring.)
As to my experience of her fiction, it鈥檚 been half enjoyable. Mrs Dalloway, years ago, seemed fussy and banal and I left it half-finished. Orlando I put down after a chapter though without malice. To the Lighthouse I read last year to its end; though the reading was a chore at times, images stuck with me (or one image, from multiple angles: the view across the bay, the lighthouse as if shining on one consciousness after another). Also 鈥淭ime Passes鈥�, I thought, was great. But overall the fussiness, to me, persisted 鈥� a skilful engraving but too static, mechanical, or at any rate not quite alive (but no, in retrospect it鈥檚 alive; at the time it seemed choked almost, gasping for breath, the grip of Woolf鈥檚 style too tight, rigid, close-clutched; though now I wonder if that very rigidity fuelled explosive movement when 鈥� as happened at key points, 鈥淭ime Passes鈥� being one of them 鈥� it softened). And most recently The Waves, which I鈥檝e put on hold after 50 pages and may have to start again when I feel like diving in, but which the diary intimates I may like best, for Woolf鈥檚 having bent her mind and will to it with such force, in the full flush of confidence, before the torture of The Years, with a sense of both its unique limitations and its power. Whether I鈥檒l ever get over the fussiness I tend to doubt, but that (I hope) I鈥檒l learn to filter it while heeding the full-flowing wellspring beneath is what keeps me going, slowly, at a rate perhaps analogous to Woolf鈥檚 own writing habits, which, judging by her diary, were never quite as fast as she kept hoping.
As to my experience of her fiction, it鈥檚 been half enjoyable. Mrs Dalloway, years ago, seemed fussy and banal and I left it half-finished. Orlando I put down after a chapter though without malice. To the Lighthouse I read last year to its end; though the reading was a chore at times, images stuck with me (or one image, from multiple angles: the view across the bay, the lighthouse as if shining on one consciousness after another). Also 鈥淭ime Passes鈥�, I thought, was great. But overall the fussiness, to me, persisted 鈥� a skilful engraving but too static, mechanical, or at any rate not quite alive (but no, in retrospect it鈥檚 alive; at the time it seemed choked almost, gasping for breath, the grip of Woolf鈥檚 style too tight, rigid, close-clutched; though now I wonder if that very rigidity fuelled explosive movement when 鈥� as happened at key points, 鈥淭ime Passes鈥� being one of them 鈥� it softened). And most recently The Waves, which I鈥檝e put on hold after 50 pages and may have to start again when I feel like diving in, but which the diary intimates I may like best, for Woolf鈥檚 having bent her mind and will to it with such force, in the full flush of confidence, before the torture of The Years, with a sense of both its unique limitations and its power. Whether I鈥檒l ever get over the fussiness I tend to doubt, but that (I hope) I鈥檒l learn to filter it while heeding the full-flowing wellspring beneath is what keeps me going, slowly, at a rate perhaps analogous to Woolf鈥檚 own writing habits, which, judging by her diary, were never quite as fast as she kept hoping.
December 9, 2017
Camera con vista.
[correva l'anno 2008]
Cosa dire di nuovo oltre tutto quello che abbiamo gi脿 detto nel gruppo di lettura?
In questo diario c'猫 tutta Virginia Woolf, nonostante i tagli effettuati dal marito Leonard rispetto alla vita privata, quella pi霉 intima e quella pubblica. C'猫 la Virginia Woolf scrittrice, sempre in cerca di approvazione e recensioni ai suoi scritti (ma anche orgogliosamente disinteressata alle critiche e ai giudizi negativi), c'猫 la Virginia Woolf critica letteraria, spietata, attenta, spigolosa, studiosa e meticolosa e infine c'猫 la Virginia Woolf donna, fragile e insicura e allo stesso tempo determinata, acuta osservatrice, sensibile e sempre in bilico tra felicit脿 e depressione. Tutte queste Virginia, imprescindibili l'una dall'altra, sono un tutto indivisibile attraverso le quali seguire, tra gli alti e i bassi del suo genio e della sua umanit脿, la genesi delle sue opere, tra mille emozioni, dolori, attese e ripensamenti, dei suoi articoli letterari, delle sue biografie e quel lento e inesorabile declino che la porter脿 a togliersi la vita.
Il diario si ferma quattro giorni prima della sua morte e dopo averla seguita nell'arco di ventiquattro anni, dal 1918 al 1941, si resta senza fiato, annichiliti, con la sensazione, ma anche con la speranza, di poterla ritrovare in altre pagine a scrivere della guerra in corso, della primavera a Monk's House, dell'acquisto di nuove tende per la casa di citt脿 o delle copie vendute del suo ultimo romanzo, con una tazza di t猫 in mano o a passeggio per le campagne inglesi.
Mi chiedo: sar貌 mai capace di rileggerlo? Verr脿 mai un tempo in cui regger貌 alla lettura di un mio scritto stampato senza arrossire, senza rabbrividire, senza il bisogno di cercare riparo?
(pag. 38)
[(credo proprio che mi piacer脿)
gruppo di lettura
inizio 31 ottobre]
[oggi, 9 dicembre 2017]
Forse uno dei miei primi gruppi di lettura (virtuale) su Anobii, sicuramente uno di quelli che ricordo meglio: perch茅 partecip貌 anche mia sorella Silvia (anche Francesca, ma lei 猫 sempre stata la sorella colta, quella che a dieci anni andava a dormire portandosi a letto la Divina Commedia), solitamente dedita a letture di tutt'altro genere: Stephen King, Ken Follett, Fred Vargas, Massimo Carlotto; ma partecip貌 lo stesso perch茅 sapeva che mi avrebbe fatta felice, perch茅 questo gruppo che riuniva idealmente gli autori morti suicidi (nato all'indomani della morte di David Foster Wallace), era una mia creatura, una creatura a cui tenevo molto.
Queste furono le sue riflessioni, a diario non finito, che mi colpirono moltissimo allora, ancora di pi霉 rileggendole dopo molto tempo.
.......Gruppo di lettura......intanto visto che la mia lettura procede lentamente, riporto i miei primi commenti:
Virginia Woolf, in prima analisi, non risulta propriamente simpatica, appare dotata di un perfezionismo che sembra sconfinare spesso in una sorte di saccenza.
Sicuramente 猫 critica non solo nei confronti degli altri ma anche e soprattutto con se stessa, ma nonostante possa risultare dotata di un carattere forte, avverto in questa continua ricerca di approvazione e di bisogno di confrontarsi con gli altri, un profondo senso di inadeguatezza e di insicurezza.
A volte ho la sensazione che la sua ricerca della forma letteraria perfetta le faccia dimenticare ci貌 che 猫 l鈥檈ssenza dell鈥檃rte, ossia il comunicare........ qualcosa di non perfettamente scritto ma che comunichi intensamente pu貌 essere pi霉 arte di un testo tecnicamente perfetto...."Il mio dubbio 猫 fino a che punto racchiuder脿 il cuore umano. Sono abbastanza padrona dei miei dialoghi per imprigionarcelo dentro?"....o forse 猫 il dilemma di ogni scrittore, la paura di non esser riusciti a tradurre in parole quello che il cuore trasmette.
I segni di un profondo senso di inadeguatezza li avverto ovunque nel suo scrivere, la differenza sta solo nel suo modo di affrontarlo, a volte con forza e voglia di vincerlo a volte con rassegnazione e senso d'oblio...."Perch茅 猫 cos矛 tragica la vita; cos矛 simile a una striscia di marciapiede che costeggia un abisso .Guardo gi霉; ho le vertigini; mi chiedo come far貌 ad arrivare alla fine....E' una sensazione di impotenza; di non fare nessun effetto...." fare nessun effetto sembra una frase poco profonda che usiamo spesso nel linguaggio parlato....eppure nel suo modo di viverla e di intenderla assume per me quello che 猫 uno dei suoi tormenti, il terrore di non lasciar traccia, la paura che il tempo le "svolazzi intorno battendo le ali" ed allora lo scrivere diventa la sua salvezza ed il suo tormento perch茅 la fa sentire meglio al momento, ma 猫 in fase di rilettura e di autocritica a posteriori, che tutti i suoi dubbi ed incertezze riaffiorano violentemente, il suo bisogno di perfezione e di autoaffermazione le impedisce di trarre una gioia completa dalla sua arte e diventa invece un elemento di ulteriore insicurezza.
........"L'opinione generale sar脿 che mi sto innamorando del suono della mia voce e non abbastanza di ci貌 che scrivo; indecorosamente affettata; una donna antipatica",.... trovo inquietante l'essere inclusa in quella che lei definisce "opinione generale" e nonostante confermi la mia prima impressione, ho voglia di andare pi霉 a fondo e provare a vedere se 猫 a me che sfugge qualcosa, ma l'analisi attenta di ogni cosa che scrive, il segnare puntualmente qualcosa che avvalori o meno ci貌 che credo di aver capito, mi fa in un certo senso avvicinare di pi霉 al suo modo di lavorare ed essere quindi meno drastica nel giudizio....se io posso leggere utilizzando contemporaneamente passione ed analisi, razionalit脿 ed istinto, perch茅 mai Virgina Woolf non potrebbe usare anch'essa nello scrivere una fusione di cuore e cervello?perch茅 uno dei due dovrebbe necessariamente avere il sopravvento e non convivere in perfetta sinergia?
"Voglio trovarmi lontana dagli spruzzi e nuotare di nuovo in acque tranquille"..... non 猫 un pensiero che esprime un profondo equilibrio tra l'agitato mare interno e la ricerca di un approdo e della calma razionalit脿?E non 猫 forse di noi tutti questo tormento e questa ricerca?
E' strano, o forse non lo 猫 perch茅 猫 cos矛 che deve essere, ma pi霉 la leggi 猫 pi霉 la comprendi, ti sembra di entrare anche tu nel suo "meccanismo" mentale, hai come la sensazione di riuscire ad afferrare quel qualcosa ed in un attimo lo hai perso, 猫 come se a tratti riuscissi a passare per "le stanze illuminate del suo cervello" per ritrovarti poco dopo nei suoi corridoi.
Trovo splendidi alcuni passaggi di questi anni, la sua riflessione su Proust "quello che che ha Proust 猫 l'unione dell'estrema sensibilit脿 con l'estrema tenacia. Esamina quelle sfumature di farfalla sino all'ultima venatura. E' resistente come il filo per sutura ed evanescente come la polvere d'oro di una farfalla.", ed 猫 pura poesia ...."A proposito, perch茅 la poesia 猫 per forza un interesse da persone anziane?...Ora 猫 la poesia che voglio, cos矛 mi pento come un marinaio sbronzo di fronte a un 'osteria....", ed in questo devo darle torto, credo che la ricerca e la comprensione della "poesia" non sia prerogativa di un'et脿 ma di uno stato d'animo, quando sei in "quell'attimo" la riconosci e te ne nutri.
Trovo splendida anche la capacit脿 di descrizione della Woolf..."A la Ciotat grandi barche arancioni sorgevano dall'acqua blu della piccola baia. Queste baie sono tutte perfettamente circolari e orlate (un termine che trovo delizioso!) dalle casette intonacate a colori pallidi, molto alte, con le persiane chiuse, scorticate e rattoppate, ora con un vaso e qualche ciuffo di verde, ora con panni al sole; ora con una vecchia che guarda. Sulla collina, che 猫 petrosa come un deserto, asciugavano le reti; e poi, nella strada, bambine e ragazze ciarlavano e vagabondavano, tutte con scialli luminosi e teneri abiti di cotone, mentre gli uomini picconavano la terra dalla piazza per farne un cortile selciato".... sembra di trovarsi dentro la scena, di sentire il chiacchiericcio delle ragazze, il rumore del piccone, la brezza del mare mitigata da un sole che non scalda ma ne da l'impressione, sto apprezzando mano a mano che procede la lettura, una notevole capacit脿 descrittiva della Woolf.
E' molto interessante anche l'accenno che fa in riferimento al tema della morte, "E tuttavia non me la sento di inchinarmi al cospetto della morte. Mi piace l'idea di varcare la soglia mentre parlo, con una frase qualunque interrotta sulle labbra....niente commiati, niente sottomissione, solo una persona che fa un passo fuori verso il buio..." se si analizzano con attenzione le parole, 猫 strano ma non trovo nulla della donna insicura e fragile che spesso fa capolino tra le righe, 猫 una donna forte che aderisce pienamente e coscientemente alla versione di Montaigne, "E' la vita che conta".
E' un continuo altalenarsi di concretezza e consapevolezza, con irrequietezza e "zampilli di pensiero che roteano nella sua mente" e se da un lato ha la maturit脿 letteraria di comprendere che la sua verit脿 猫 quella del piacere profondo di scrivere e non di quello superficiale di essere letti, dall'altro avverti un percorso di sottile ed inarrestabile isolamento della sua persona...."E io non amo il prossimo. Li detesto tutti. Li rasento appena .Lascio che si rompano su di me come pioggia sporca.".... trovo quest'ultima frase agghiacciante e meravigliosa allo stesso tempo, perch茅 ha la capacit脿 di racchiudere in cos矛 poche parole, uno stato d'animo in cui spesso ci si pu貌 trovare e ci si trova e che da semplice profana non saprei esprimere in modo pi霉 profondo e pi霉 vero.
芦E io non amo il prossimo. Li detesto tutti. Li rasento appena. Lascio che si rompano su di me come pioggia sporca.禄
[correva l'anno 2008]
Cosa dire di nuovo oltre tutto quello che abbiamo gi脿 detto nel gruppo di lettura?
In questo diario c'猫 tutta Virginia Woolf, nonostante i tagli effettuati dal marito Leonard rispetto alla vita privata, quella pi霉 intima e quella pubblica. C'猫 la Virginia Woolf scrittrice, sempre in cerca di approvazione e recensioni ai suoi scritti (ma anche orgogliosamente disinteressata alle critiche e ai giudizi negativi), c'猫 la Virginia Woolf critica letteraria, spietata, attenta, spigolosa, studiosa e meticolosa e infine c'猫 la Virginia Woolf donna, fragile e insicura e allo stesso tempo determinata, acuta osservatrice, sensibile e sempre in bilico tra felicit脿 e depressione. Tutte queste Virginia, imprescindibili l'una dall'altra, sono un tutto indivisibile attraverso le quali seguire, tra gli alti e i bassi del suo genio e della sua umanit脿, la genesi delle sue opere, tra mille emozioni, dolori, attese e ripensamenti, dei suoi articoli letterari, delle sue biografie e quel lento e inesorabile declino che la porter脿 a togliersi la vita.
Il diario si ferma quattro giorni prima della sua morte e dopo averla seguita nell'arco di ventiquattro anni, dal 1918 al 1941, si resta senza fiato, annichiliti, con la sensazione, ma anche con la speranza, di poterla ritrovare in altre pagine a scrivere della guerra in corso, della primavera a Monk's House, dell'acquisto di nuove tende per la casa di citt脿 o delle copie vendute del suo ultimo romanzo, con una tazza di t猫 in mano o a passeggio per le campagne inglesi.
Mi chiedo: sar貌 mai capace di rileggerlo? Verr脿 mai un tempo in cui regger貌 alla lettura di un mio scritto stampato senza arrossire, senza rabbrividire, senza il bisogno di cercare riparo?
(pag. 38)
[(credo proprio che mi piacer脿)
gruppo di lettura
inizio 31 ottobre]
[oggi, 9 dicembre 2017]
Forse uno dei miei primi gruppi di lettura (virtuale) su Anobii, sicuramente uno di quelli che ricordo meglio: perch茅 partecip貌 anche mia sorella Silvia (anche Francesca, ma lei 猫 sempre stata la sorella colta, quella che a dieci anni andava a dormire portandosi a letto la Divina Commedia), solitamente dedita a letture di tutt'altro genere: Stephen King, Ken Follett, Fred Vargas, Massimo Carlotto; ma partecip貌 lo stesso perch茅 sapeva che mi avrebbe fatta felice, perch茅 questo gruppo che riuniva idealmente gli autori morti suicidi (nato all'indomani della morte di David Foster Wallace), era una mia creatura, una creatura a cui tenevo molto.
Queste furono le sue riflessioni, a diario non finito, che mi colpirono moltissimo allora, ancora di pi霉 rileggendole dopo molto tempo.
.......Gruppo di lettura......intanto visto che la mia lettura procede lentamente, riporto i miei primi commenti:
Virginia Woolf, in prima analisi, non risulta propriamente simpatica, appare dotata di un perfezionismo che sembra sconfinare spesso in una sorte di saccenza.
Sicuramente 猫 critica non solo nei confronti degli altri ma anche e soprattutto con se stessa, ma nonostante possa risultare dotata di un carattere forte, avverto in questa continua ricerca di approvazione e di bisogno di confrontarsi con gli altri, un profondo senso di inadeguatezza e di insicurezza.
A volte ho la sensazione che la sua ricerca della forma letteraria perfetta le faccia dimenticare ci貌 che 猫 l鈥檈ssenza dell鈥檃rte, ossia il comunicare........ qualcosa di non perfettamente scritto ma che comunichi intensamente pu貌 essere pi霉 arte di un testo tecnicamente perfetto...."Il mio dubbio 猫 fino a che punto racchiuder脿 il cuore umano. Sono abbastanza padrona dei miei dialoghi per imprigionarcelo dentro?"....o forse 猫 il dilemma di ogni scrittore, la paura di non esser riusciti a tradurre in parole quello che il cuore trasmette.
I segni di un profondo senso di inadeguatezza li avverto ovunque nel suo scrivere, la differenza sta solo nel suo modo di affrontarlo, a volte con forza e voglia di vincerlo a volte con rassegnazione e senso d'oblio...."Perch茅 猫 cos矛 tragica la vita; cos矛 simile a una striscia di marciapiede che costeggia un abisso .Guardo gi霉; ho le vertigini; mi chiedo come far貌 ad arrivare alla fine....E' una sensazione di impotenza; di non fare nessun effetto...." fare nessun effetto sembra una frase poco profonda che usiamo spesso nel linguaggio parlato....eppure nel suo modo di viverla e di intenderla assume per me quello che 猫 uno dei suoi tormenti, il terrore di non lasciar traccia, la paura che il tempo le "svolazzi intorno battendo le ali" ed allora lo scrivere diventa la sua salvezza ed il suo tormento perch茅 la fa sentire meglio al momento, ma 猫 in fase di rilettura e di autocritica a posteriori, che tutti i suoi dubbi ed incertezze riaffiorano violentemente, il suo bisogno di perfezione e di autoaffermazione le impedisce di trarre una gioia completa dalla sua arte e diventa invece un elemento di ulteriore insicurezza.
........"L'opinione generale sar脿 che mi sto innamorando del suono della mia voce e non abbastanza di ci貌 che scrivo; indecorosamente affettata; una donna antipatica",.... trovo inquietante l'essere inclusa in quella che lei definisce "opinione generale" e nonostante confermi la mia prima impressione, ho voglia di andare pi霉 a fondo e provare a vedere se 猫 a me che sfugge qualcosa, ma l'analisi attenta di ogni cosa che scrive, il segnare puntualmente qualcosa che avvalori o meno ci貌 che credo di aver capito, mi fa in un certo senso avvicinare di pi霉 al suo modo di lavorare ed essere quindi meno drastica nel giudizio....se io posso leggere utilizzando contemporaneamente passione ed analisi, razionalit脿 ed istinto, perch茅 mai Virgina Woolf non potrebbe usare anch'essa nello scrivere una fusione di cuore e cervello?perch茅 uno dei due dovrebbe necessariamente avere il sopravvento e non convivere in perfetta sinergia?
"Voglio trovarmi lontana dagli spruzzi e nuotare di nuovo in acque tranquille"..... non 猫 un pensiero che esprime un profondo equilibrio tra l'agitato mare interno e la ricerca di un approdo e della calma razionalit脿?E non 猫 forse di noi tutti questo tormento e questa ricerca?
E' strano, o forse non lo 猫 perch茅 猫 cos矛 che deve essere, ma pi霉 la leggi 猫 pi霉 la comprendi, ti sembra di entrare anche tu nel suo "meccanismo" mentale, hai come la sensazione di riuscire ad afferrare quel qualcosa ed in un attimo lo hai perso, 猫 come se a tratti riuscissi a passare per "le stanze illuminate del suo cervello" per ritrovarti poco dopo nei suoi corridoi.
Trovo splendidi alcuni passaggi di questi anni, la sua riflessione su Proust "quello che che ha Proust 猫 l'unione dell'estrema sensibilit脿 con l'estrema tenacia. Esamina quelle sfumature di farfalla sino all'ultima venatura. E' resistente come il filo per sutura ed evanescente come la polvere d'oro di una farfalla.", ed 猫 pura poesia ...."A proposito, perch茅 la poesia 猫 per forza un interesse da persone anziane?...Ora 猫 la poesia che voglio, cos矛 mi pento come un marinaio sbronzo di fronte a un 'osteria....", ed in questo devo darle torto, credo che la ricerca e la comprensione della "poesia" non sia prerogativa di un'et脿 ma di uno stato d'animo, quando sei in "quell'attimo" la riconosci e te ne nutri.
Trovo splendida anche la capacit脿 di descrizione della Woolf..."A la Ciotat grandi barche arancioni sorgevano dall'acqua blu della piccola baia. Queste baie sono tutte perfettamente circolari e orlate (un termine che trovo delizioso!) dalle casette intonacate a colori pallidi, molto alte, con le persiane chiuse, scorticate e rattoppate, ora con un vaso e qualche ciuffo di verde, ora con panni al sole; ora con una vecchia che guarda. Sulla collina, che 猫 petrosa come un deserto, asciugavano le reti; e poi, nella strada, bambine e ragazze ciarlavano e vagabondavano, tutte con scialli luminosi e teneri abiti di cotone, mentre gli uomini picconavano la terra dalla piazza per farne un cortile selciato".... sembra di trovarsi dentro la scena, di sentire il chiacchiericcio delle ragazze, il rumore del piccone, la brezza del mare mitigata da un sole che non scalda ma ne da l'impressione, sto apprezzando mano a mano che procede la lettura, una notevole capacit脿 descrittiva della Woolf.
E' molto interessante anche l'accenno che fa in riferimento al tema della morte, "E tuttavia non me la sento di inchinarmi al cospetto della morte. Mi piace l'idea di varcare la soglia mentre parlo, con una frase qualunque interrotta sulle labbra....niente commiati, niente sottomissione, solo una persona che fa un passo fuori verso il buio..." se si analizzano con attenzione le parole, 猫 strano ma non trovo nulla della donna insicura e fragile che spesso fa capolino tra le righe, 猫 una donna forte che aderisce pienamente e coscientemente alla versione di Montaigne, "E' la vita che conta".
E' un continuo altalenarsi di concretezza e consapevolezza, con irrequietezza e "zampilli di pensiero che roteano nella sua mente" e se da un lato ha la maturit脿 letteraria di comprendere che la sua verit脿 猫 quella del piacere profondo di scrivere e non di quello superficiale di essere letti, dall'altro avverti un percorso di sottile ed inarrestabile isolamento della sua persona...."E io non amo il prossimo. Li detesto tutti. Li rasento appena .Lascio che si rompano su di me come pioggia sporca.".... trovo quest'ultima frase agghiacciante e meravigliosa allo stesso tempo, perch茅 ha la capacit脿 di racchiudere in cos矛 poche parole, uno stato d'animo in cui spesso ci si pu貌 trovare e ci si trova e che da semplice profana non saprei esprimere in modo pi霉 profondo e pi霉 vero.
芦E io non amo il prossimo. Li detesto tutti. Li rasento appena. Lascio che si rompano su di me come pioggia sporca.禄
November 10, 2021
脟ok g眉zel kitap. Woolf鈥檜n g眉ncelerinden se莽ilmi艧 par莽alardan olu艧an bu kitab谋 sadece Woolf鈥檒a ili艧kisini derinle艧tirmek isteyenlere de臒il, yazmak 眉zerine kafa yoran ve yazmay谋 deneyen herkese tavsiye edece臒im. Bir yazar谋n g眉nl眉k rutinleri, kendisiyle kavgalar谋, eserleriyle gel-gitli ili艧kilerine dair 莽ok ilgin莽 i莽 g枚r眉ler var i莽inde. Bir yandan da Woolf鈥檜n yava艧 yava艧 depresyonuna yenik d眉艧眉艧眉n izlerini, kendi mutsuzlu臒uyla m眉cadele edi艧ini izliyoruz ki bu a莽谋dan da olduk莽a h眉z眉nl眉 bir okumayd谋. (Woolf鈥檃 y枚neltti臒im 鈥渒arakterlerini derinle艧tiremiyor鈥� ele艧tirisinin ta 100 y谋l 枚nce, kendisi hayattayken de yap谋ld谋臒谋n谋 da bu kitaptan 枚臒rendim, ilgin莽ti.) Velhas谋l 莽ok be臒endim, arz ederim.
April 2, 2017
this isn't exactly prying. leonard woolf presents a very distilled version of her mind. for the public, for her readers and fans, with a clear focus on anything literary, her criticisms, fears, disappointments, perpetual feelings of failure: all in relation to her writing.
but, as with all her autobiographical works, there is the impending date of doom at the end of March, 1941.
but, as with all her autobiographical works, there is the impending date of doom at the end of March, 1941.
January 10, 2018
Full of Virginia Woolf's typical incredible insights, also a really interesting look at the books she was both reading and writing, her process as a writer, and her reaction to the reactions her books received.
July 2, 2018
Surprisingly as tough and true as its subtitle implies, this paperback has indeed started as my long journey of reading it since 1994, the year I bought its paperback copy (HarperCollins, 1978) in which I browsed off and on once in a while with inadequate motive and left it (at p. 260) on the shelf till I came across this Harcourt edition with larger fonts early this month in the Booklovers Bookshop on Rambutri Lane, next to Khaosan Road, Banglampoo in Bangkok. Delighted to have a more handsome copy with larger-type pages, that is, more reader-friendly than the old one, I eventually resumed reading it once more, feeling grateful to Leonard Woolf, her husband, who in 1953 edited her 26-volume diary and told us on how he worked by means of his three principles in his preface:
Therefore, its readers couldn't help feeling obliged to his strategy and the narrative diary entries effectively extracted in which we can find them enjoyably readable to the extent that reading this A Writer's Diary is like reading Virginia Woolf herself but in a smaller scale. If you would like to try reading her formidable full-scale diary, there has long been a five-volume paperback set entitled The Diary of Virginia Woolf Volumes 1-5: 1918-1941 (Penguin, 1982) edited by Anne Oliver Bell; vaguely, I recalled coming across the set in the Asia Books Branches in Bangkok and only browsed some pages during my college years since I had rarely known her and never read her works.
For instance:
Monday, October 2nd (1933)
It's October now; and we have to go to Hastings Conference to morrow and Wednesday, to Vita, then back to London. I opened this in order to make one of my self-admonishments previous to publishing a book. Flush will be out on Thursday and I shall be very much depressed, I think, by the kind of praise. They'll say it's "charming," delicate, ladylike. And it will be popular. Well now I must let this slip over me without paying it any attention. . . . (p. 205)
Thursday, August 2nd (1934)
I'm worried too with my last chapters. Is it all too shrill and voluble? And then the immense length, and the perpetual ebbs and flows of invention. So divinely happy one day; so jaded the next. (p. 213)
Wednesday, March 27th (1935)
I see I am becoming a regular diariser. The reason is that I cannot make the transition from Pargiters to Dante without some bridge. And this cools my mind. I am rather worried about the raid chapter: afraid if I compress and worry that I shall spoil. Never mind. Forge ahead and see what comes next.
Yesterday we went to the Tower, which is an impressive murderous bloody grey raven haunted military barrack prison dungeon place; like the prison of English splendour; the reformatory at the back of history; where we shot and tortured and imprisoned. . . . (pp. 233-4)
and so on and so forth.
In short, those diary entries in this book should be taken account as something essential to our background especially for some Virginia Woolf newcomers who have never read her or have just been fledgling ones so that they can understand what might cause trouble in her mind, how she coped with literary snags, why she kept writing, etc. as the foundation of her literary legacy to posterity. Interestingly, there have long been numerous versions of her biography; one being on Virginia Woolf in Professor John Sutherland's Lives of the Novelists (Profile Books, 2011) in which I came across Professor Hermione Lee's quote, "Virginia Woolf was a sane woman who had an illness." (p. 323) as an optimistically verdict-like revelation.
. . . I have included also three other kinds of extract. The first consists of a certain number of passages in which she is obviously using the diary as a method of practising or trying out the art of writing. The second consists of a few passages which, though not directly or indirectly concerned with her writings, I have deliberately selected because they give the reader an idea of the direct impact upon her mind of scenes and persons, i.e. of the raw materials of her art. Thirdly, I have included a certain number of passages in which she comments upon the books she was reading. (pp. viii-ix)
Therefore, its readers couldn't help feeling obliged to his strategy and the narrative diary entries effectively extracted in which we can find them enjoyably readable to the extent that reading this A Writer's Diary is like reading Virginia Woolf herself but in a smaller scale. If you would like to try reading her formidable full-scale diary, there has long been a five-volume paperback set entitled The Diary of Virginia Woolf Volumes 1-5: 1918-1941 (Penguin, 1982) edited by Anne Oliver Bell; vaguely, I recalled coming across the set in the Asia Books Branches in Bangkok and only browsed some pages during my college years since I had rarely known her and never read her works.
For instance:
Monday, October 2nd (1933)
It's October now; and we have to go to Hastings Conference to morrow and Wednesday, to Vita, then back to London. I opened this in order to make one of my self-admonishments previous to publishing a book. Flush will be out on Thursday and I shall be very much depressed, I think, by the kind of praise. They'll say it's "charming," delicate, ladylike. And it will be popular. Well now I must let this slip over me without paying it any attention. . . . (p. 205)
Thursday, August 2nd (1934)
I'm worried too with my last chapters. Is it all too shrill and voluble? And then the immense length, and the perpetual ebbs and flows of invention. So divinely happy one day; so jaded the next. (p. 213)
Wednesday, March 27th (1935)
I see I am becoming a regular diariser. The reason is that I cannot make the transition from Pargiters to Dante without some bridge. And this cools my mind. I am rather worried about the raid chapter: afraid if I compress and worry that I shall spoil. Never mind. Forge ahead and see what comes next.
Yesterday we went to the Tower, which is an impressive murderous bloody grey raven haunted military barrack prison dungeon place; like the prison of English splendour; the reformatory at the back of history; where we shot and tortured and imprisoned. . . . (pp. 233-4)
and so on and so forth.
In short, those diary entries in this book should be taken account as something essential to our background especially for some Virginia Woolf newcomers who have never read her or have just been fledgling ones so that they can understand what might cause trouble in her mind, how she coped with literary snags, why she kept writing, etc. as the foundation of her literary legacy to posterity. Interestingly, there have long been numerous versions of her biography; one being on Virginia Woolf in Professor John Sutherland's Lives of the Novelists (Profile Books, 2011) in which I came across Professor Hermione Lee's quote, "Virginia Woolf was a sane woman who had an illness." (p. 323) as an optimistically verdict-like revelation.
January 14, 2022
讴鬲丕亘 诏夭蹖丿賴 丕蹖 丕夭 蹖丕丿丿丕卮鬲賴丕蹖 賵蹖乇噩蹖賳蹖丕 賵賵賱賮 丕夭 爻丕賱 郾酃郾鄹 丕賱蹖 郾酃鄞郾 賴爻鬲 貙胤亘賯 诏賮鬲賴 賱卅賵賳丕乇丿(賴賲爻乇 賵蹖乇噩蹖賳蹖丕 賵 賳丕卮乇 讴鬲丕亘) 丿乇 賲賯丿賲賴 讴鬲丕亘 貙 賵蹖乇噩蹖賳蹖丕 丕夭 爻丕賱 郾酃郾鄣 賳賵卮鬲賳 禺丕胤乇丕鬲 乇賵夭丕賳賴 乇丕 卮乇賵毓 讴乇丿 賵 鄞 乇賵夭 賯亘賱 丕夭 賲乇诏卮 丿乇 爻丕賱 郾酃鄞郾 丨丿賵丿 鄄鄱 噩賱丿 丕夭 丕蹖賳 蹖丕丿丿丕卮鬲 賴丕 亘賴 噩丕 诏匕丕卮鬲.
诏乇趩賴 丕蹖賳 讴鬲丕亘 賮賯胤 诏夭蹖丿賴 丕蹖 丕夭 鄄鄱 爻丕賱 蹖丕丿丿丕卮鬲 賴丕蹖 乇賵夭丕賳賴 賴爻鬲 賵賱蹖 亘賴 禺賵亘蹖 賳卮丕賳 丿賴賳丿賴 爻蹖乇 夭賳丿诏蹖 賵 賳賵卮鬲賳 讴鬲丕亘賴丕蹖卮 乇丕 賳卮丕賳 賲蹖 丿賴丿.
賳賵卮鬲賴 賴丕蹖 乇賵夭丕賳賴 丕賵 亘賴 禺賵亘蹖 賳卮丕賳 賲蹖 丿賴丿 讴賴 丿乇 丕賵丕蹖賱 賳賵蹖爻賳丿诏蹖 賵 丕賳鬲卮丕乇 讴鬲丕亘 賴丕蹖卮 睾乇賵乇 禺丕氐蹖 丿丕乇丿 賵 乇诏賴 賴丕蹖蹖 丕夭 賮賲蹖賳爻賲 賴賲 丿乇 丕鬲賮丕賯丕鬲 賵 诏夭丕乇卮丕鬲 乇賵夭丕賳賴 丕卮 丿蹖丿賴 賲蹖 卮賵丿.
丿乇 禺賱丕賱 丕蹖賳 蹖丕丿丿丕卮鬲賴丕 亘賴 亘蹖賲丕乇蹖 禺賵丿卮 讴賴 丕夭 賳賵噩賵丕賳蹖 賵 倬爻 丕夭 賲乇诏 倬丿乇卮 賴賲乇丕賴卮 亘賵丿賴 丕卮丕乇丕鬲蹖 丿丕乇丿貙賴賲趩賳蹖賳 丕夭 鬲亘毓蹖囟 亘蹖賳 賲乇丿丕賳 賵 夭賳丕賳 賵 賳丕夭丕 亘賵丿賳 禺賵丿卮.
賴乇 趩賴 亘賴 倬丕蹖丕賳 賳夭丿蹖讴 鬲乇 賲蹖卮賵蹖賲 丨丕賱鬲 爻乇禺賵乇丿诏蹖 乇賵丨蹖 賵 禺爻鬲诏蹖 丕卮 亘蹖卮鬲乇 丿乇 蹖丕丿丿丕卮鬲賴丕 亘賴 趩卮賲 賲蹖 丌蹖丿.讴賴 丕蹖賳 爻乇禺賵乇丿诏蹖 倬爻 丕夭 丌睾丕夭 噩賳诏 噩賴丕賳蹖 丿賵賲 亘賴 丕賵噩 賲蹖 乇爻丿.賲爻賱賲丕 乇賵丨蹖賴 囟毓蹖賮 賵 馗乇蹖賮卮 胤丕賯鬲 賵蹖乇丕賳蹖 賴丕 賵 讴卮鬲丕乇 乇賵夭丕賳賴 乇丕 賳丿丕乇丿.
鬲乇噩賲賴 讴鬲丕亘 禺賵亘 賵 乇賵丕賳 丕爻鬲 亘賴 睾蹖乇 丕夭 氐 郾鄯郾 讴賴 亘賴 賳馗乇 丕卮鬲亘丕賴 鬲丕蹖倬蹖 亘丕卮丿 丌賳噩丕 讴賴 賲蹖 賳賵蹖爻丿:
丿賵卮賳亘賴 鄄鄱 跇丕賳賵蹖賴 郾酃鄢郾
卮讴乇 禺丿丕 丕賲乇賵夭 讴賴 鄞鄱 爻丕賱賴 卮丿賲..
讴賴 亘丕 鬲賵噩賴 亘賴 爻丕賱 鬲賵賱丿 賵蹖乇丨蹖賳蹖丕 賵賵賱賮 丿乇 郾鄹鄹鄄 賲蹖賱丕丿蹖 丿乇 丌賳 乇賵夭 鄞酃 爻丕賱 卮丿賴 丕爻鬲.
丿乇 倬丕蹖丕賳 賴賲 诏夭蹖丿賴 丕蹖 丕夭 蹖丕丿丿丕卮鬲 賴丕 亘賴 賳賯賱 丕夭 讴鬲丕亘:
芦賵賯鬲蹖 賲蹖 賳賵蹖爻賲 讴賲鬲乇 丕丨爻丕爻 睾賲 賲蹖 讴賳賲 .倬爻 趩乇丕 亘蹖卮鬲乇 丌賳 乇丕 乇賵蹖 讴丕睾匕 賳賲蹖 丌賵乇賲責禺亘貙睾乇賵乇 亘賴 丌丿賲 丕蹖賳 丕噩丕夭賴 乇丕 賳賲蹖 丿賴丿.賲蹖 禺賵丕賴賲 亘賴 賳馗乇 賲賵賮賯 噩賱賵賴 讴賳賲貙丨鬲蹖 亘賴 賳馗乇 禺賵丿賲 .亘丕 賵噩賵丿 丕蹖賳 鬲丕 丕賳鬲賴丕蹖 丌賳 倬蹖卮 賳賲蹖 乇賵賲.賲賵囟賵毓 亘趩賴 賳丿丕卮鬲賳 丕爻鬲貙丿賵乇 夭賳丿诏蹖 讴乇丿賳 丕夭 丿賵爻鬲丕賳貙賳丕鬲賵丕賳蹖 丿乇 禺賵亘 賳賵卮鬲賳貙亘爻蹖丕乇 亘乇丕蹖 禺賵乇丕讴 賴夭蹖賳賴 讴乇丿賳 賵 倬蹖乇 卮丿賳 丕爻鬲.禄
丿賵卮賳亘賴 鄄鄣 丕讴鬲亘乇郾酃鄄郯
芦乇丕賴 亘丕夭诏卮鬲 亘賴 賳賵卮鬲賳 丕蹖賳 丕爻鬲:丕賵賱 丕賳噩丕賲 鬲賲乇蹖賳 賴丕蹖 爻亘讴 賵 賳卮丕胤 丌賵乇 貙 丿賵賲 禺賵丕賳丿賳 丌孬丕乇 禺賵亘 丕丿亘蹖.丕蹖賳 讴賴 賮讴乇 讴賳蹖賲 丕丿亘蹖丕鬲 乇丕 賲蹖 鬲賵丕賳 丕夭 趩蹖夭賴丕蹖 禺丕賲 鬲賵賱蹖丿 讴乇丿 貙 丕卮鬲亘丕賴 丕爻鬲.禄
爻賴 卮賳亘賴 鄄鄄 丕賵鬲 郾酃鄄鄄
芦丕賲丕 賲賳 讴丕賲賱丕賸 丿乇 禺蹖丕賱 夭賳丿诏蹖 賲蹖 讴賳賲貙亘賴 丕蹖丿賴 賴丕蹖 賳丕诏賴丕賳蹖 賵 噩乇賯賴 賴丕蹖 賮讴乇蹖 賲鬲讴蹖 賴爻鬲賲貙讴賴 賴賳诏丕賲 賯丿賲 夭丿賳 蹖丕 賳卮爻鬲賳 亘賴 爻乇丕睾賲 賲蹖 丌蹖賳丿貨賴賲賴 趩蹖夭 丿乇 匕賴賳賲 趩乇禺 賲蹖夭賳丿 賵 賳賲丕蹖卮蹖 丿丕卅賲蹖 賲蹖 丌賮乇蹖賳丿 讴賴 亘丕蹖丿 賲丕蹖賴 禺賵卮亘禺鬲蹖 丕賲 亘丕卮丿.禄
蹖讴卮賳亘賴 鄯 爻倬鬲丕賲亘乇 郾酃鄄鄞
芦 丿乇 倬蹖 賲丕噩乇丕蹖 囟毓賮 讴乇丿賳貙睾丕賱亘丕 趩蹖夭蹖 丿乇 爻乇賲 賲蹖 讴賵亘丿貙蹖丕 趩賳蹖賳 亘賴 賳馗乇 賲蹖 丌蹖丿.賳丕诏賴丕賳 丕賳丿讴蹖 亘賴 蹖丕丿 賲乇诏 賲蹖 丕賮鬲賲 賵 亘賴 賮讴乇 賮乇賵 賲蹖 乇賵賲貙亘丕 禺賵丿 賲蹖 诏賵蹖賲 禺亘 倬爻 亘乇賵貙亘禺賵乇貙亘賳賵卮貙亘禺賳丿 賵 亘賴 賲丕賴蹖 賴丕 睾匕丕 亘丿賴貙丕蹖賳 讴賴 丌丿賲 賲乇诏 乇丕 丕丨賲賯丕賳賴 賲蹖 丿丕賳丿 趩賯丿乇 毓噩蹖亘 丕爻鬲.禄
卮賳亘賴 鄄郯 丕賵鬲 郾酃鄢鄄
噩賲毓賴 鄄鄞 丿蹖 郾鄞郯郯
诏乇趩賴 丕蹖賳 讴鬲丕亘 賮賯胤 诏夭蹖丿賴 丕蹖 丕夭 鄄鄱 爻丕賱 蹖丕丿丿丕卮鬲 賴丕蹖 乇賵夭丕賳賴 賴爻鬲 賵賱蹖 亘賴 禺賵亘蹖 賳卮丕賳 丿賴賳丿賴 爻蹖乇 夭賳丿诏蹖 賵 賳賵卮鬲賳 讴鬲丕亘賴丕蹖卮 乇丕 賳卮丕賳 賲蹖 丿賴丿.
賳賵卮鬲賴 賴丕蹖 乇賵夭丕賳賴 丕賵 亘賴 禺賵亘蹖 賳卮丕賳 賲蹖 丿賴丿 讴賴 丿乇 丕賵丕蹖賱 賳賵蹖爻賳丿诏蹖 賵 丕賳鬲卮丕乇 讴鬲丕亘 賴丕蹖卮 睾乇賵乇 禺丕氐蹖 丿丕乇丿 賵 乇诏賴 賴丕蹖蹖 丕夭 賮賲蹖賳爻賲 賴賲 丿乇 丕鬲賮丕賯丕鬲 賵 诏夭丕乇卮丕鬲 乇賵夭丕賳賴 丕卮 丿蹖丿賴 賲蹖 卮賵丿.
丿乇 禺賱丕賱 丕蹖賳 蹖丕丿丿丕卮鬲賴丕 亘賴 亘蹖賲丕乇蹖 禺賵丿卮 讴賴 丕夭 賳賵噩賵丕賳蹖 賵 倬爻 丕夭 賲乇诏 倬丿乇卮 賴賲乇丕賴卮 亘賵丿賴 丕卮丕乇丕鬲蹖 丿丕乇丿貙賴賲趩賳蹖賳 丕夭 鬲亘毓蹖囟 亘蹖賳 賲乇丿丕賳 賵 夭賳丕賳 賵 賳丕夭丕 亘賵丿賳 禺賵丿卮.
賴乇 趩賴 亘賴 倬丕蹖丕賳 賳夭丿蹖讴 鬲乇 賲蹖卮賵蹖賲 丨丕賱鬲 爻乇禺賵乇丿诏蹖 乇賵丨蹖 賵 禺爻鬲诏蹖 丕卮 亘蹖卮鬲乇 丿乇 蹖丕丿丿丕卮鬲賴丕 亘賴 趩卮賲 賲蹖 丌蹖丿.讴賴 丕蹖賳 爻乇禺賵乇丿诏蹖 倬爻 丕夭 丌睾丕夭 噩賳诏 噩賴丕賳蹖 丿賵賲 亘賴 丕賵噩 賲蹖 乇爻丿.賲爻賱賲丕 乇賵丨蹖賴 囟毓蹖賮 賵 馗乇蹖賮卮 胤丕賯鬲 賵蹖乇丕賳蹖 賴丕 賵 讴卮鬲丕乇 乇賵夭丕賳賴 乇丕 賳丿丕乇丿.
鬲乇噩賲賴 讴鬲丕亘 禺賵亘 賵 乇賵丕賳 丕爻鬲 亘賴 睾蹖乇 丕夭 氐 郾鄯郾 讴賴 亘賴 賳馗乇 丕卮鬲亘丕賴 鬲丕蹖倬蹖 亘丕卮丿 丌賳噩丕 讴賴 賲蹖 賳賵蹖爻丿:
丿賵卮賳亘賴 鄄鄱 跇丕賳賵蹖賴 郾酃鄢郾
卮讴乇 禺丿丕 丕賲乇賵夭 讴賴 鄞鄱 爻丕賱賴 卮丿賲..
讴賴 亘丕 鬲賵噩賴 亘賴 爻丕賱 鬲賵賱丿 賵蹖乇丨蹖賳蹖丕 賵賵賱賮 丿乇 郾鄹鄹鄄 賲蹖賱丕丿蹖 丿乇 丌賳 乇賵夭 鄞酃 爻丕賱 卮丿賴 丕爻鬲.
丿乇 倬丕蹖丕賳 賴賲 诏夭蹖丿賴 丕蹖 丕夭 蹖丕丿丿丕卮鬲 賴丕 亘賴 賳賯賱 丕夭 讴鬲丕亘:
芦賵賯鬲蹖 賲蹖 賳賵蹖爻賲 讴賲鬲乇 丕丨爻丕爻 睾賲 賲蹖 讴賳賲 .倬爻 趩乇丕 亘蹖卮鬲乇 丌賳 乇丕 乇賵蹖 讴丕睾匕 賳賲蹖 丌賵乇賲責禺亘貙睾乇賵乇 亘賴 丌丿賲 丕蹖賳 丕噩丕夭賴 乇丕 賳賲蹖 丿賴丿.賲蹖 禺賵丕賴賲 亘賴 賳馗乇 賲賵賮賯 噩賱賵賴 讴賳賲貙丨鬲蹖 亘賴 賳馗乇 禺賵丿賲 .亘丕 賵噩賵丿 丕蹖賳 鬲丕 丕賳鬲賴丕蹖 丌賳 倬蹖卮 賳賲蹖 乇賵賲.賲賵囟賵毓 亘趩賴 賳丿丕卮鬲賳 丕爻鬲貙丿賵乇 夭賳丿诏蹖 讴乇丿賳 丕夭 丿賵爻鬲丕賳貙賳丕鬲賵丕賳蹖 丿乇 禺賵亘 賳賵卮鬲賳貙亘爻蹖丕乇 亘乇丕蹖 禺賵乇丕讴 賴夭蹖賳賴 讴乇丿賳 賵 倬蹖乇 卮丿賳 丕爻鬲.禄
丿賵卮賳亘賴 鄄鄣 丕讴鬲亘乇郾酃鄄郯
芦乇丕賴 亘丕夭诏卮鬲 亘賴 賳賵卮鬲賳 丕蹖賳 丕爻鬲:丕賵賱 丕賳噩丕賲 鬲賲乇蹖賳 賴丕蹖 爻亘讴 賵 賳卮丕胤 丌賵乇 貙 丿賵賲 禺賵丕賳丿賳 丌孬丕乇 禺賵亘 丕丿亘蹖.丕蹖賳 讴賴 賮讴乇 讴賳蹖賲 丕丿亘蹖丕鬲 乇丕 賲蹖 鬲賵丕賳 丕夭 趩蹖夭賴丕蹖 禺丕賲 鬲賵賱蹖丿 讴乇丿 貙 丕卮鬲亘丕賴 丕爻鬲.禄
爻賴 卮賳亘賴 鄄鄄 丕賵鬲 郾酃鄄鄄
芦丕賲丕 賲賳 讴丕賲賱丕賸 丿乇 禺蹖丕賱 夭賳丿诏蹖 賲蹖 讴賳賲貙亘賴 丕蹖丿賴 賴丕蹖 賳丕诏賴丕賳蹖 賵 噩乇賯賴 賴丕蹖 賮讴乇蹖 賲鬲讴蹖 賴爻鬲賲貙讴賴 賴賳诏丕賲 賯丿賲 夭丿賳 蹖丕 賳卮爻鬲賳 亘賴 爻乇丕睾賲 賲蹖 丌蹖賳丿貨賴賲賴 趩蹖夭 丿乇 匕賴賳賲 趩乇禺 賲蹖夭賳丿 賵 賳賲丕蹖卮蹖 丿丕卅賲蹖 賲蹖 丌賮乇蹖賳丿 讴賴 亘丕蹖丿 賲丕蹖賴 禺賵卮亘禺鬲蹖 丕賲 亘丕卮丿.禄
蹖讴卮賳亘賴 鄯 爻倬鬲丕賲亘乇 郾酃鄄鄞
芦 丿乇 倬蹖 賲丕噩乇丕蹖 囟毓賮 讴乇丿賳貙睾丕賱亘丕 趩蹖夭蹖 丿乇 爻乇賲 賲蹖 讴賵亘丿貙蹖丕 趩賳蹖賳 亘賴 賳馗乇 賲蹖 丌蹖丿.賳丕诏賴丕賳 丕賳丿讴蹖 亘賴 蹖丕丿 賲乇诏 賲蹖 丕賮鬲賲 賵 亘賴 賮讴乇 賮乇賵 賲蹖 乇賵賲貙亘丕 禺賵丿 賲蹖 诏賵蹖賲 禺亘 倬爻 亘乇賵貙亘禺賵乇貙亘賳賵卮貙亘禺賳丿 賵 亘賴 賲丕賴蹖 賴丕 睾匕丕 亘丿賴貙丕蹖賳 讴賴 丌丿賲 賲乇诏 乇丕 丕丨賲賯丕賳賴 賲蹖 丿丕賳丿 趩賯丿乇 毓噩蹖亘 丕爻鬲.禄
卮賳亘賴 鄄郯 丕賵鬲 郾酃鄢鄄
噩賲毓賴 鄄鄞 丿蹖 郾鄞郯郯
February 28, 2022
Vypo膷ut茅 na Vltave ako audio, v媒borne na膷铆tala Ta钮jana Medveck谩.
Ve木mi osobn茅 (pochopite木ne), ve木mi zvierav茅, intenz铆vne. Pozoruhodn媒 vh木ad do tvorby diela VW, ktorej repetit铆vnos钮 a zacyklenos钮 v 煤zkostiach, nad拧eniach, obav谩ch a apatii prezr谩dza, ako ve木mi 钮a啪ko asi bolo pre VW 啪i钮 a tvori钮 - aj to, ako ve木mi nemohla inak, a啪 k媒m u啪 nemohla v么bec.
Po膷煤va钮 v t媒chto d艌och, ako z谩vere膷n茅 z谩pisky 煤stia vo vojne, je navy拧e vskutku siln媒 z谩啪itok.
Ve木mi osobn茅 (pochopite木ne), ve木mi zvierav茅, intenz铆vne. Pozoruhodn媒 vh木ad do tvorby diela VW, ktorej repetit铆vnos钮 a zacyklenos钮 v 煤zkostiach, nad拧eniach, obav谩ch a apatii prezr谩dza, ako ve木mi 钮a啪ko asi bolo pre VW 啪i钮 a tvori钮 - aj to, ako ve木mi nemohla inak, a啪 k媒m u啪 nemohla v么bec.
Po膷煤va钮 v t媒chto d艌och, ako z谩vere膷n茅 z谩pisky 煤stia vo vojne, je navy拧e vskutku siln媒 z谩啪itok.
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March 12, 2011Ah, Virginia. I feel that I know you, although I know that I do not.
I like reading about your struggles and realizing just how much you leave out (this book is excerpts from a much longer diary). I like that you are human, worried, fallible. I want to jump though the pages of time to reassure you that your writing, your reputation and your beautiful works of art will survive. I love you Virginia. How very presumptuous of me.
I like reading about your struggles and realizing just how much you leave out (this book is excerpts from a much longer diary). I like that you are human, worried, fallible. I want to jump though the pages of time to reassure you that your writing, your reputation and your beautiful works of art will survive. I love you Virginia. How very presumptuous of me.
May 28, 2021
鈥濫ste adev膬rat c膬 despre suflet nu po葲i s膬 scrii f膬葲i葯. C芒nd 卯l prive葯ti, dispare; dar prive葯te plafonul sau prive葯te-l pe Grizzle [c芒inele Virginiei Woolf], prive葯te animalele mai pu葲in nobile din Gr膬dina Zoologic膬 expuse vederii celor care se plimb膬 卯n Regent's Park, 葯i iat膬 c膬 sufletul se ive葯te pe nesim葲ite.鈥�
鈥瀃...] ceea ce numesc eu 'realitate': un lucru pe care-l v膬d 卯naintea mea, ceva abstract, dar const芒nd totu葯i din coline, din cer albastru 葯i pe l芒ng膬 care nimic altceva nu are importan葲膬, ceva 卯n care 卯mi voi afla odihna 葯i voi continua s膬 exist.鈥�
鈥濩u cuvintele nu-i de glumit, e un lucru care nu se face, mai ales c芒nd ele trebuie s膬 dureze 'pentru totdeauna'. [...] Ah, s膬 fiu liber膬 , cufundat膬 卯n roman, imagin芒nd din nou scene, oric芒t de discret.鈥�
鈥濪ar c芒t de familiar mi s-a p膬rut s膬 bat drumul cu ideile negre 葯i durerea ce-mi str芒ngea inima, 葯i dorin葲a de moarte, ca alt膬dat膬, 葯i toate acestea din cauza a doua cuvinte rostite, cred, la 卯nt芒mplare.鈥�
鈥濩芒nd scriu cu randament deplin, nu vreau dec芒t s膬 m膬 plimb 葯i s膬 duc o via葲膬 copil膬reasc膬, perfect spontan膬 卯mpreun膬 cu Leonard 葯i tot ceea ce 卯mi este familiar. Faptul c膬 trebuie s膬 m膬 port circumspect 葯i hot膬r芒t fa葲膬 de str膬ini m膬 azv芒rle 卯ntr-o alt膬 sfer膬: de aici pr膬bu葯irea.鈥�
鈥濩e ar 卯nsemna un nou r膬zboi? 脦ntuneric, spaim膬, precum 葯i riscul de a ne pierde via葲a. 葮i toate nenorocirile ce i-ar lovi pe prieteni. 葮i toate s膬 depind膬 de mintea acelui omule葲 ridicol de dincolo de mare. De ce ridicol? Pentru c膬 nimic din toate acestea nu are noim膬, nu con葲ine nici cea mai mic膬 realitate. Moartea, r膬zboiul, tenebrele nu reprezint膬 nimic de care s膬-i pese c芒tu葯i de pu葲in oric膬rei fiin葲e omene葯ti, 卯ncep芒nd cu m膬celarul 葯i termin芒nd cu primul ministru. Nici libertate, nici via葲膬. Ci doar visul unei cameriste鈥� (1938)
鈥瀃...] ceea ce numesc eu 'realitate': un lucru pe care-l v膬d 卯naintea mea, ceva abstract, dar const芒nd totu葯i din coline, din cer albastru 葯i pe l芒ng膬 care nimic altceva nu are importan葲膬, ceva 卯n care 卯mi voi afla odihna 葯i voi continua s膬 exist.鈥�
鈥濩u cuvintele nu-i de glumit, e un lucru care nu se face, mai ales c芒nd ele trebuie s膬 dureze 'pentru totdeauna'. [...] Ah, s膬 fiu liber膬 , cufundat膬 卯n roman, imagin芒nd din nou scene, oric芒t de discret.鈥�
鈥濪ar c芒t de familiar mi s-a p膬rut s膬 bat drumul cu ideile negre 葯i durerea ce-mi str芒ngea inima, 葯i dorin葲a de moarte, ca alt膬dat膬, 葯i toate acestea din cauza a doua cuvinte rostite, cred, la 卯nt芒mplare.鈥�
鈥濩芒nd scriu cu randament deplin, nu vreau dec芒t s膬 m膬 plimb 葯i s膬 duc o via葲膬 copil膬reasc膬, perfect spontan膬 卯mpreun膬 cu Leonard 葯i tot ceea ce 卯mi este familiar. Faptul c膬 trebuie s膬 m膬 port circumspect 葯i hot膬r芒t fa葲膬 de str膬ini m膬 azv芒rle 卯ntr-o alt膬 sfer膬: de aici pr膬bu葯irea.鈥�
鈥濩e ar 卯nsemna un nou r膬zboi? 脦ntuneric, spaim膬, precum 葯i riscul de a ne pierde via葲a. 葮i toate nenorocirile ce i-ar lovi pe prieteni. 葮i toate s膬 depind膬 de mintea acelui omule葲 ridicol de dincolo de mare. De ce ridicol? Pentru c膬 nimic din toate acestea nu are noim膬, nu con葲ine nici cea mai mic膬 realitate. Moartea, r膬zboiul, tenebrele nu reprezint膬 nimic de care s膬-i pese c芒tu葯i de pu葲in oric膬rei fiin葲e omene葯ti, 卯ncep芒nd cu m膬celarul 葯i termin芒nd cu primul ministru. Nici libertate, nici via葲膬. Ci doar visul unei cameriste鈥� (1938)
October 25, 2016
Diario de una escritora, publicado por vez primera en 1953, re煤ne aquellas entradas de los diarios de Virginia Woolf escritos entre 1915 y 1941 que se ocupan de la literatura: el proceso creativo, la preocupaci贸n constante por la cr铆tica, la dificultad para poder conjugar la vida cotidiana y la escritura, las lecturas que adora y las que le provocan cierto rechazo鈥� La selecci贸n la realiz锟斤拷 el marido de Virginia, Leonard Woolf, tal como informa 茅l mismo en el pr贸logo. Compagin茅 esta lectura con la de Diario 铆ntimo I (1915-1923) editado por Grijalbo Mondadori y publicado en 1992, que no es m谩s que una traducci贸n de la edici贸n a cargo de Anne Olivier Bell, y que consiste en una versi贸n abreviada de los diarios de Virginia Woolf, publicados 铆ntegramente entre 1977 y 1984. La lectura paralela de ambos libros (dejando para m谩s adelante los que todav铆a me quedan) resulta deliciosa, pues mientras entramos en la mente de la Virginia Woolf escritora, somos conocedores, de forma muy detallada, de otros aspectos de su vida: las mudanzas, sus paseos por Londres, ciudad que amaba, las actividades pol铆ticas de Leonard en el partido laborista y la fundaci贸n junto a 茅l de la editorial Hogarth Press con los quebraderos de cabeza que les supuso o las relaciones afectivo-intelectuales que mantuvo con los dem谩s miembros del grupo de Bloomsbury. Ello nos permite forjarnos, como lectores, una imagen muy completa de Woolf surgida de su propia pluma. Un lujo.
Aqu铆 el art铆culo que Mu帽oz Molina dedic贸 a los diarios de Virginia Woolf, publicado en El Pa铆s el d铆a 10 de febrero de 2012:
Aqu铆 el art铆culo que Mu帽oz Molina dedic贸 a los diarios de Virginia Woolf, publicado en El Pa铆s el d铆a 10 de febrero de 2012:
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