I felt kind of lonely at lunch today, for some reason or the other. I took a small book I got in Paris out with me -- it's actually kind of neat, a compilation of letters written by a bunch of French and American writers to their mothers. It's hilarious to read Henry James drafting a highly punctilious note to his "very dear mother," or to imagine Baudelaire sitting down and saying "I've been thinking about the combination of your imprudence and my violent nature during my childhood and I realize that we can never reconcile such huge past differences." Then there's Proust who opens every letter with the words "to my dear little mother." Lovely!
Nonetheless, it just wasn't a day to read and eat on my own. I wanted company so badly that I wandered aimlessly for ten whole minutes, retracing my steps over and over until I finally went back to my desk. Pathetic.
I'm reading Hermione Lee's autobiography of Virginia Woolf. I've been meaning to do this since February when Prof. Greenberg brought it up during the Woolf seminar, but so few libraries or even bookstores carried it and I was in an anti-Amazon.com mood. But today! I ran to the public library after work (from one sterile bookish environment to another) and pinched it off the shelves. And let me just say, it is totally worth it. I had goosebumps rising all over my arms with her opening words. I miss reading and studying Woolf, I really do. And I've wanted to read this book for so long, and it's finally here in my lap. Listen to this:
"There are many times, writing this, when I have been afraid of Virginia Woolf. I think I would have been afraid of meeting her. I am afraid of not being intelligent enough for her. Reading and writing her life, I am often afraid (or, in one of the words she used most about her mental states, "apprehensive") for her...All readers of VW's diaries (even those who have decided to dislike her) will feel an extraordinary sense of intimacy with the voice that is talking there. They will want to call her Virginia, and speak proprietorially about her life. She seems extremely near, contemporary, timeless. But she is also evasive and obscure...If you listen to the only surviving recording of her, you hear a voice from another century, which to us sounds posh, antiquated, class-bound, mannered...She is always trying to work out what happens to "myself" -- the "damned egotistical self" -- when it is alone, when it is with other people, when it is contented, excited, anxious, ill, when it is asleep or eating or walking, when it is writing. "Sydney comes & I'm Virginia; when I write I'm merely a sensibility. Sometimes I like being Virginia, but only when I'm scattered & various & gregarious.""
It's like Hermione Lee is turning a fan, and on one side Virginia Woolf is so clear and close to me, so evident in her mind and manner. On the other side, she's totally riddled with complexity, and it's like looking at someone with a million combatant reflections. The best part about reading this is that I feel like she - VW - exists only so long as the fan is in motion, shifting constantly between the clear vision and the riddle.
There were two conversations that took place tonight - one that actually transpired, and one that didn't. They were both, in their respective chattiness and silence, pretty illuminating. People - Woolf, Proust's little mother, the voice on the other end of the phone - manage to be both captivating and repellent, you know?
Reza just invented an additional $12.90 out of nowhere to tack onto my bill for this month. It's oddly similar to my feelings about dealing with people or even myself -- what's the point of asking why?
I'm reading Hermione Lee's autobiography of Virginia Woolf. I've been meaning to do this since February when Prof. Greenberg brought it up during the Woolf seminar, but so few libraries or even bookstores carried it and I was in an anti-Amazon.com mood. But today! I ran to the public library after work (from one sterile bookish environment to another) and pinched it off the shelves. And let me just say, it is totally worth it. I had goosebumps rising all over my arms with her opening words. I miss reading and studying Woolf, I really do. And I've wanted to read this book for so long, and it's finally here in my lap. Listen to this:
"There are many times, writing this, when I have been afraid of Virginia Woolf. I think I would have been afraid of meeting her. I am afraid of not being intelligent enough for her. Reading and writing her life, I am often afraid (or, in one of the words she used most about her mental states, "apprehensive") for her...All readers of VW's diaries (even those who have decided to dislike her) will feel an extraordinary sense of intimacy with the voice that is talking there. They will want to call her Virginia, and speak proprietorially about her life. She seems extremely near, contemporary, timeless. But she is also evasive and obscure...If you listen to the only surviving recording of her, you hear a voice from another century, which to us sounds posh, antiquated, class-bound, mannered...She is always trying to work out what happens to "myself" -- the "damned egotistical self" -- when it is alone, when it is with other people, when it is contented, excited, anxious, ill, when it is asleep or eating or walking, when it is writing. "Sydney comes & I'm Virginia; when I write I'm merely a sensibility. Sometimes I like being Virginia, but only when I'm scattered & various & gregarious.""
It's like Hermione Lee is turning a fan, and on one side Virginia Woolf is so clear and close to me, so evident in her mind and manner. On the other side, she's totally riddled with complexity, and it's like looking at someone with a million combatant reflections. The best part about reading this is that I feel like she - VW - exists only so long as the fan is in motion, shifting constantly between the clear vision and the riddle.
There were two conversations that took place tonight - one that actually transpired, and one that didn't. They were both, in their respective chattiness and silence, pretty illuminating. People - Woolf, Proust's little mother, the voice on the other end of the phone - manage to be both captivating and repellent, you know?
Reza just invented an additional $12.90 out of nowhere to tack onto my bill for this month. It's oddly similar to my feelings about dealing with people or even myself -- what's the point of asking why?
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