"Chloe liked Olivia," I read. And then it struck me how immense a change was there. Chloe liked Olivia perhaps for the first time in literature.
Virginia Woolf, A room of one's own, 1929
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05. July
My bestie recommanded and borrowed me this book. Finished it in two days. Five stars. (also reading someones else's annotated books >>>>>) Slowely I am getting out of my reading slump.
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Lock up your libraries if you like; but there is no gate, no lock, no bolt, that you can set upon the freedom of my mind.
- Virginia Woolf, “A Room of Ones Own”
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"For masterpieces are not single and solitary births they are the outcome of many years of thinking in common, of thinking by the body of the people, so that the experience of the mass is behind the single voice"
-- virginia woolf, a room of one's own
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ao3 celebrates their 15th anniversary this october and the 14th anniversary of their open beta on nov 14 this year, with the popularity of classics substacks, it’d be cool if someone threw together a Room of One’s Own substack where you got emailed each of the six chapters of Virginia Woolf’s essay in the week leading up to the anniversary
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The mute piano and the window opening like an orange and the Polish notebook I had brought to Majorca with me were connected to my unpublished novel, Swimming Home. I realized that the question I had asked myself while writing this book was (as surgeons say) very close to the bone: "What do we do with knowledge that we cannot bear to live with? What do we do with the things we do not want to know?'
I did not know how to get the work, my writing, into the world. I did not know how to open the window like an orange. If anything, the window had closed like an axe on my tongue. If this was to be my reality, I did not know what to do with it.
As I watched the snow gather on the fronds of the palm tree in Maria's garden, I asked myself another question. Should I accept my lot? If I was to buy a ticket and travel all the way to acceptance, if I was to greet it and shake its hand, if I was to entwine my fingers with acceptance and walk hand in hand with acceptance every day, what would that feel like? After a while I realized I could not accept my question. A female writer cannot afford to feel her life too clearly. If she does, she will write in a rage when she should write calmly.
She will write in a rage when she should write calmly. She will write foolishly where she should write wisely. She will write of herself where she should write of her characters. She is at war with her lot.
Virginia Woolf, A Room of One's Own (1929)
Deborah Levy / Things I Don’t Want to Know, 2013 / pp. 160-161
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Virginia Woolf, from A Room of One's Own
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Virginia Woolf, from A Room of One’s Own
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everyone makes fun of soap when they find out how many hair and skin products he keeps on hand. the cabinet in his bathroom is filled to bursting and he always keeps travel sized bottles on him on missions
when soldiers outside the 141 find out, they call him precious and self-obsessed, a vain pretty boy too preoccupied with his reflection to focus on the enemy. no wonder how he got his callsign. price has given up telling him to leave them on base and just teaches him to individually wrap them so they don’t rattle against each other and give himself away
what they don’t know is that each product contains an ingredient that when mixed with any number of the others, creates potent chemical bombs. he was caught unarmed once, he won’t let it happen again
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