Reading notes

Re-reading Hermione Lee’s biography of Virginia Woolf in preparation for a get together with friends to talk about Woolf’s work—and Lee’s, for all that, for the bio, Virginia Woolf, A Life, is an incredible achievement. Lee is tremendously thorough and she writes so well. But aside from that it is a true work of love, not only of the life of its subject but of the collective life of “dear Reader”. Philo-sophy in its widest sense.

Here, for example, is an aspect of Woolf through Lee,

Painting overlaps with remembering in To the Lighthouse, and Virginia Woolf—like Lily Briscoe redoing her painting in the Ramsays’ house and garden—spent a lifetime making her own ‘views’ of St Ives [Wales] [….] When [Woolf] comes to [inventing] Mrs Ramsay […] she has given herself plenty of practice:

For the great plateful of blue water was before her, the hoary Lighthouse, distant, austere, in the midst; and on the right, as far as the eye could see, fading and falling, in soft low pleats, the green sand dunes with the wild flowing grasses on them, which always seemed to be running away into some moon country, uninhabited of men.

When Virginia Woolf describes Talland House [in St Ives] in her memoirs she does it like a picture: she says it looked ‘like a child’s drawing of a house, remarkable only for its flat roof, and the crisscrossed railing that ran round the roof, again, like something that a child draws’.

Lee’s comments, I should add, come from the second chapter of her book, titled ‘Houses.’ The main theme at that point is to look into ways in which Woolf remembered her rich and very active childhood and ways in which she wrote about those experiences. An interesting reading, I think, for those in search of green sand dunes and platefuls of blue water.

in progress...

A parsnip, a sweet potato, on the kitchen table.

New double glazed windows in the living room make for quieter space.

Perhaps more slowly one signs from echoing voices,

musical shards, a sense of darkness, or of light.

The streets and their stable of cars brim with piles of yellowing leaves.

Unless the street cleaners have been by.

Autumn's end

Autumn’s end

Sharp gain in the dry

elm leaves. We look up, listening—

cicadasong.

sky,

sky,

green

sea—

rope trailing

waves,