we're not kids anymore.
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Andulka
Not today Justin
YOU ARE THE REASON
Discoholic 🪩
One Nice Bug Per Day
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Product Placement
Game of Thrones Daily
noise dept.
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let's talk about Bridgerton tea, my ask is open
Kiana Khansmith
Show & Tell
ellievsbear
d e v o n
Fai_Ryy
oozey mess
seen from United States
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@vwvw
Wow! Virginia Woolf’s Reading Notebooks now online for free
Wow! Virginia Woolf’s Reading Notebooks are now available online for free
An invaluable resource I have often consulted but have always had to borrow from the library is now available online for free. Brenda Silver’s Virginia Woolf’s Reading Notebooks (1983) is now available in multiple digital formats, including PDF, Kindle and EPub. Download it at this link.
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My dear Virginia Woolf, for years in Minnesota, in Illinois, I have been writing you letters in my mind. ... I think of you...within walls - receding deeper and deeper into the background of whatever room you inhabit, and of that room of your own, and defining each mutation of the atmosphere as you move. ... I often try to picture the house you live in: I can see you so vividly as you live at certain moments. Never in the morning, somehow, but in the afternoon or evening. Over and over I have imagined having tea with you. ... There are so many things I want to ask you. But I recall Pound's doleful "I had over-prepared the event," and content myself with awaiting your next book, knowing that I shall meet you fully there while you could never meet me freely anywhere.
reader Isabel Forbes Milton writing to Virginia Woolf in 1935
One note I will add to show once more how human she was. Her French wasn't good, although she could read it easily and had walked round and round Tavistock Square, practising aloud the conversation she was learning by gramophone records. In France with me she had refused to utter a word, and the only phrase I ever heard came to my ears when it wasn't meant to. It was on the boat as we put out from Dieppe to Newhaven. Rather apprehensively she had approached a sailor: 'Est ce que la mer est brusque?'
Vita Sackville-West
Then we went on to VĂ©zelay and stayed there. You know all about VĂ©zelay; Pater wrote about it. He is too wordy, as usual, too elaborately wordy; but when he calls VĂ©zelay 'this iron place', and describes its church as 'a long massive chest there, heavy above you', he comes somewhere near to a true picture. In this iron place we stayed, hanging above the vineyards and the valley of the Cure. Virginia liked sitting among the vines or going for walks among the unfamiliar French lanes, but what I remember most vividly is one night when a superb thunderstorm broke over VĂ©zelay and we sat in darkness while the flashes intermittently lit up her face. She was, I think, a little frightened, and perhaps that drove her to speak, with a deeper seriousness than I had ever heard her use before, of immortality and personal survival after death.
Vita Sackville-West
Virginia depended only on the stimulation which her own mind supplied. She was very temperate in her outward life. She liked wine, but drank it seldom; she liked it chiefly for its romantic quality, for its colour held up to the light; and for the heightening she so infrequently allowed it to give to her sensibilities. She used to come and stay with me in an old cottage where the beams were already on the slant. I would give her a glass of Spanish wine the colour of red amber, and she would pretend that the beams went even more crooked after she had drunk it. It fitted in with her imagination to see things aslant rather than dully straight.
Vita Sackville-West
Siegfried Sassoon’s meeting with Virginia and Leonard Woolf.
I have never known anyone work with more intense, more indefatigable concentration than Virginia. This was particularly the case when she was writing a novel. . . . It was this intense absorbtion which made writing so exhausting mentally for her.
Leonard Woolf
Just consider: it’s the beginning of the twentieth century, and until a few years ago no woman had ever come out by herself and said things at all. There it was going on in the background, for all those thousands of years, this curious silent unrepresented life.
 Virginia Woolf, The Voyage Out
Many were in cap and gown; some had tufts of fur on their shoulders; others were wheeled in bath-chairs; others, though not past middle age, seemed creased and crushed into shapes so singular that one was reminded of those giant crabs and crayfish who heave with difficulty across the sand of an aquarium. As I leant against the wall the University indeed seemed a sanctuary in which are preserved rare types which would soon be obsolete if left to fight for existence on the pavement of the Strand.
Virginia Woolf, A Room of One's Own
Bloomsbury in Sussex: Virginia Woolf's Monk's House | Snapshots
a very great profession, nicola beauman, p.28
Virginia Woolf’s corrected proofs for To The Lighthouse, at the Smith College Rare Book Room
Pools lie on the other side of the world reflecting marble columns. The swallow dips her wing in dark pools. But here the door opens and people come; they come towards me. Throwing faint smiles to mask their cruelty, their indifference, they seize me. The swallow dips her wings; the moon rides though blue seas alone. I must take his hand; I must answer. But what answer shall I give? I am thrust back to stand burning in this clumsy, this ill-fitting body to receive the shafts of his indifference and his scorn, I who long for marble columns and pools on the other side of the world where the swallow dips her wings.
Virginia Woolf, The Waves
An immense pressure is on me. I cannot move without dislodging the weight of centuries.
Virginia Woolf, The Waves
I feel a thousand capacities spring up in me. I am arch, gay, languid, melancholy by turns. I am rooted, but I flow. All gold, flowing that way, I say to this one, "Come". Rippling black, I say to that one, "No". One breaks off from his station under the glass cabinet. He approaches. He makes towards me. This is the most exciting moment I have ever known. I flutter. I ripple. I stream like a plant in the river, flowing this way, flowing that way, but rooted, so that he may come to me. "Come," I say, "come." Pale, with dark hair, the one who is coming is melancholy, romantic. And I am arch and fluent and capricious; for he is melancholy, he is romantic.
Virginia Woolf, The Waves
