I’m reading To The Lighthouse again. The story opens in mid September. Woolf’s representation of thinking and interiority is exactly why I read novels.

proustitute:

Virginia Woolf’s Italian manuscript notebook, June 7, 1916. Smith College.

(via thebloomsburygroup

(Source: )

proustitute:

awritersruminations:

Virginia Woolf’s last letter to her husband, Leonard.

It reads:


Tuesday.

Dearest,

I feel certain that I am going mad again. I feel we can’t go through another of those terrible times. And I shan’t recover this time. I begin to hear voices, and I can’t concentrate. So I am doing what seems the best thing to do. You have given me the greatest possible happiness. You have been in every way all that anyone could be. I don’t think two people could have been happier till this terrible disease came. I can’t fight any longer. I know that I am spoiling your life, that without me you could work. And you will I know. You see I can’t even write this properly. I can’t read. What I want to say is I owe all the happiness of my life to you. You have been entirely patient with me and incredibly good. I want to say that - everybody knows it. If anybody could have saved me it would have been you. Everything has gone from me but the certainty of your goodness. I can’t go on spoiling your life any longer.

I don’t think two people could have been happier than we have been.

V.

On 28 March 1941, seventy years ago today, Woolf committed suicide. Celebrate her live by reading her work.