Somewhere along life’s way I fell captive to Virginia Woolf, or perhaps more precisely the ‘idea’ of a Virginia Woolf that I had constructed for myself – through my own reading of her own ‘life’ writing, and that ‘life’ as it is related by others. As I say; a construction. But, nevertheless, one that continues to have a significant effect upon this very unremarkable life of my own.
Houghton Library, Harvard University
Reflecting now upon my long ago reading of Woolf’s first novel, The Voyage Out, then not very long later To the Lighthouse, I cannot help but wonder how much I took – or rather didn’t take – from those early readings; dependent as they were upon my own youthful, inexperienced version of the world, coupled with an ignorance of that in which Woolf lived and worked and was formed by. And, I ask of myself now: to what extent did I appreciate the finely wrought inner person and the voice with which she spoke in those novels. And the answer is: clearly, to not a great degree.
Certainly, though, the writer Virginia Woolf impressed me enough that I sought out the historical person. Some sense of that person I found in (her nephew) Quentin Bell’s 1972 biography; quite uncritically digested by me I now suppose – captivated (again, I’m held captive!) as I was by all that told, and not questioning that which was not – but nevertheless a terrific read (and, I should say, a re-reading is long over due!). Later in the nineties, that version of a life was complimented by Hermione Lee’s wonderful, enlightening (and free of familial loyalties and obligations) biography; by which time a generation (of readers, critics, academics) had commended Woolf into the league of the most important writers of the first half of the twentieth century, and as one who played a significant role in ushering in literary modernism.
It was at about this time, I think, that I came upon the first volume of Woolf’s diary; in the knowledge that it had been an important source for Lee’s book. Enthralled, I read; recognising now the fictional voice, that I had long appreciated, as being very much entwined with the personal – but, I thought, too: What a so and so you are, Virginia Woolf! What a snob! What damaged goods! Nevertheless, I was able to acquire the entire collection as affordable paperbacks (a rarity these days!), and I read on – each volume, one after another, after another (five volumes) – and despite her prejudices and imperfections, and absolutely because of how engrossing it was to follow this life, to share in her days – scribbled down with such originality, such wit, and sometimes under duress – turning all the chatter and clutter of a brilliant life into her very own words, words, words … And, then, always this persistent feeling of their author hovering in the near; amused at all the fuss being made over her, over her words – in death as it was in life…
Now, more years than I would gladly admit to have passed, and I have read all Virginia Woolf’s novels – and they number not many and are mostly as slight in body as they are dense in unsaid meaning, many of her short stories and essays, and I continue to rediscover her through re-reading and new readings, and through an abundance of secondary literature. Of course, none of this makes me in any way an expert, and god knows there are enough Woolf scholars in the big wide world; rather, I count myself as just one (more) “common reader” – and of this I imagine she would approve.
So, it will be as such, just another common reader, that I will be writing here from time to time; reflecting on Virginia Woolf, on her work and on the times in which she lived, on the society she kept and on her relevance today. The latter, I think, is particularly important. Given the hypercritical nature of literary appraisal these days, it is essential to consider Woolf’s body of work from of its origins through to its reception in a contemporary context, and what that reveals about her, but also about the abiding human condition with all its virtues and imperfections.
The material may be somewhat “all over the place” and irregularly posted; to be accepted for what it is and is worth, being very much a labour of love on my part. (The content may be accessed either from the main menu at the top of the page or from the sidebar.)
Following, is what is claimed to be the complete bibliography of Woolf’s writing – from Wikipedia in pdf format. I can’t be certain of its absolute rectitude but it must surely be close.