“Dearest Honey, It gets worse steadily—your being away. All the sleeping draughts and the irritants have worn off, and I’m settling down to wanting you, doggedly, dismally, faithfully—I hope that pleases you. It’s damned unpleasant for me, I can assure you. I had a sort of idea that I’d cheat the devil, and put my head under my wing and think of nothing. But it won’t work—not at all.”
— Virginia Woolf, in a letter to Vita Sackville-West, Saturday, 5th Feb 1927

















