Virginia Woolf died.
I know more about her life and death via Vita Sackville-West than through her literature, A Room of One's Own being the only work of hers I've completed. Orlando and Flush I've begun many times yet they remain unfinished. I'll work harder this year. Secretly, I wonder if she represents that part of the canon more readers claim to have read than have actually done so. Is that a male point of view, or just plain stupid. I'd admit to either, and would appreciate a guiding light.
Knowing you're becoming unhinged is a terrible cross to bear.
In her last note to her husband she wrote:
| 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 'til 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. |
Virginia then put on her overcoat, filled the pockets with stones and walked into the nearby River Ouse. Her body wasn't recovered for 3 weeks. Hopefully, she found the peace she searched so long for.
Toad
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