virginia's vivid nightmares
It's far harder to kill a phantom than a reality.

London is enchanting. I step out upon a tawny coloured magic carpet, it seems, & get carried into beauty without raising a finger.
Virginia Woolf in her diary on Monday 5th May 1924 | Permalink

"Cunningham’s inventive , absorbing novel makes a sensitive reinvention of Woolf’s inner life. He has a strong idea of what made Woolf’s life heroic, of her dedication to her work in the teeth of illness, and her violent swings between moods of pleasure in life and abysses of depression.

My reservations about his re-imagining of Woolf stem from a biographer’s squeamish reluctance to see a real person made over into a fictional character, with made-up thoughts and speeches. I found it hard to accept the tone of voice of a Virginia Woolf who thinks to herself: ‘Bless you, Quentin’, or to her husband, ‘If you send Nelly in to interrupt me I won’t be responsible for my actions.’ In these invented scenes and conversations, the class details don’t always ring quite true. I can’t hear Virginia Woolf wanting to rush and ‘fix her hair’, or Vanessa Bell commenting on a ‘lovely coat for Angelica at Harrods’. (Angelica would be much more likely to be wearing a cut-down jacket of Duncan Grant’s, or a velvet cloak made out of old curtains.) But fiction, of course, is allowed to do this.”

"The rewriting of Woolf’s life and work takes a different shape again in the translation of The Hours from novel into screenplay and film. If an uncertainty of social register, a narrowing of political focus to issues of gender, and a simplifying dramatisation of Woolf’s creative processes were the weaknesses of Cunningham’s otherwise persuasive and attractive novel, the film of The Hours - if treated as a biopic - is much more vulnerable to charges of vulgarisation, inacurracy and sentimentalisation.

Certainly its presentation of the social details of the Woolfs’ lives were an irritant to this biographer. Hogarth House and Monk’s House look too grand and elegant, more like Edith Wharton or Vita Sackville-West’s house and garden than bohemian, messy colourful Bloomsbury. The servants, in their matching uniforms, are too smartly turned out (though their ongoing battle with their difficult mistress is well done), and Vanessa, in a fine spiteful performance by Miranda Richardson, is absurdly posh, a high-society lady one couldn’t possibly imagine picking up a paintbrush.”

Hermione Lee, Virginia Woolf’s Nose

1 month ago | Permalink
How dare she, how dare anyone, consider Woolf his or her “territory”? I know of no other figure who inspires such ferocious possessiveness.
Michael Cunningham writing to Hermione Lee | Permalink

postcards from the Virginia Woolf exhibition today


postcards from the Virginia Woolf exhibition today

I detest the masculine point of view. I am bored by his heroism, virtue, and honour. I think the best these men can do is not talk about themselves anymore.

Virginia Woolf

How can I cure my violent moods? I wish you’d tell me. Oh such despairs, and wooden hearted long droughts when the heart of an oak in which a toad sits imprisoned has more sap and green than my heart.
Virginia Woolf in a letter to Ethel Smith (via wavingtovirginia) | Permalink
Tavistock Square, London

Tavistock Square, London

‘I thought how unpleasant it is to be locked out; and I thought how it is worse, perhaps, to be locked in’ [VIRGINIA WOOLF]. Are the best writers outsiders?
All Souls College, Oxford. Fellowship Examination - General Paper II. September 2013 (via allsoulsoxford) | Permalink
I rise from my worst disasters, I turn, I change.
from The Waves by Virginia Woolf (via shakespearewasaunicorn) | Permalink

Woolf’s diary, 1926


Woolf’s diary, 1926

I think that when people are at their most frivolous, superficial, gregarious, and chatty is often when they are most revealing about themselves. Woolf writes very brilliantly about that. We all have different parts of ourselves, and your secret self, your solitary self, your nighttime self, your gregarious, chatty, e-mailing self are all mixed up together. They overlap.
Hermione Lee, The Paris Review no. 205 (via leopoldgursky) | Permalink