…I can’t go far wrong.
That used to be the ‘headline’ thingy on this here blog. I should know where I found that Virginia Woolf quote, best guess is one of her early years journals. It was her birthday recently, and JK and I had a little festival of fawning over Virginia. First novels we read, ones we like best, Jen’s idea that one year we should read her journals every day.
I’ve been reading a short story collection of hers, A Haunted House And Other Stories; one a night before I go to sleep. Some I’ve read before — I cannot see a mark on a wall without thinking about “The Mark on the Wall” — but some are new to me. Sometimes I feel a bit pretentious going on about how much I love Virginia Woolf, but I truly earnestly do. From the smallest word choice to the rhythm of her sentences to the unexpected turns she makes leading me to see something or feel something or recognize some bit of myself in something otherwise quite alien to me. Perfect paragraphs exist, and she wrote a good many of them.
There’s another life I used to imagine for myself: staying in university and studying Woolf, modelling myself after my excellent professor Melba Cuddy-Keane (even her name is cool!), and I could picture myself going to somewhere British and tweedy and reading and writing papers and — no, not lecturing. Too terrifying, that.
It’s nice though, having my shelf dedicated to Woolf — biographies and letters and journals and fiction and stories and essays. Two little apples, now shrivelled stolen from the orchard at Lewes by my fellow Woolf devotees, my boss Jack and Ms JK, sit on the window ledge by my desk at work.
To purple ink (her favorite), the benefits of writing every day, and the triumphant use of “higgledy piggledy,” whenever it suits.