Essays Of Virginia Woolf, Vol. 1 Book

4.5/5 A writer is a writer from [their] cradle; in [their] dealings with the world, in [their] affections, in [their] attitude to the thousand small things that happen between dawn and sunset, [they] show[] the same point of view as that which [they] elaborate[] afterwards with a pen in [their] hand. It is more fragmentary and incoherent, but it is also more intense. This is the ninth book of Woolf I've read to conclusion. I've another five or six on my shelves, judging by the intro and backflap, I could have a further 17 to indulge in , a borderline obscene amount of material which I may very well indulge in, depending on how my tastes strengthen or flag in the coming years. While I'm pretty sure I only purchased this only because it was a Woolf I hadn't yet encountered, I surprisingly found it more of a pleasure than, say, Jacob's Room, or Lee's titular biography. I've engaged with essays before, but when the writing is Woolf's and the perspective is focused on a timeline when certain names surface that, near forgotten today, have at that time not yet been artificially and violently suppressed, it is oftentimes a gratifying journey. Surprisingly enjoyable as well was Woolf's commentary on the US in various articles, as I can't recall ever having had her biting wit and refreshingly original gaze turned in my country's direction. None of her observations are as useful as the ones I prefer to imbibe these days, but the work Woolf did, if unconsciously, in bringing certain women to a new light, in addition to generally good viewpoints on more rhapsodized upon males, made for a veritably worthwhile reading. There are many other illustrations of the same genius for organisation, and of the peculiar nature of American charity, which is not satisfied with relieving suffering, but must find out and, if possible, eliminate the cause of it. Elizabeth Robins, Vernon Lee, and Margaret Cavendish, here introduced as Margaret Lucas, "not happy in Court[,] often lost in thought[:] Have snails got teeth? Do hogs have the measles? Why do dogs that rejoice swing their tails? It was a bad habit in the eyes of the French ladies." One I've read, one I have down as to read, and one I've heard much of in reference to the owner of the title of the first science fiction writer and The Blazing World as the first science fiction work (in English, at any rate). The first two aren't as auspicious as the last, but all deserve to be far better known than they currently are, involved as these women were in politics, queerness, philosophy, artistic criticism, and a host of other creative concerns long before the mainstream permitted such demographically involved names to arise in fields outside the home. It warms the cockles of my hear that Woolf found Robins in particular of such quality, not in any undiscriminating sense, but in a way that acknowledged the important work Robins had to do, and how it, despite conformist pretenses, could be melded with story and result in what could well be called a good piece of literature. Less of what I know of Lee shines through Woolf's essay, but Woolf does have a measure of praise for this writer as well, enough for the average reader to substantiate further interest. There were many other essays, of course, and some have the kind of choice bits of writing that, ironically, would apply to Woolf once she had expanded her bibliography to its fullest length, but these pieces of solidarity are what shown out to me among the Gissing and H. James and Wordsworth. These are three out of a good seventy or eighty pieces, of which I picked up intriguing glimpses of "street" music, Wagner, women translating 17th c. German nonfiction, female actor's memoirs, old names out of a GRE English Subject Test study manual, new names that, not always unjustly, lost the battle against time, and other instances of a broad selection within a very narrow early 20th Anglo point of view. It was hard going at times, but I found enough to merit acquiring Essays Vol 2 should I ever come across it. Her head was conquered, and that...was the only way to her heart. There have been times when I've thought that I'd moved past my enamorment with Woolf and would leave her, much as I've left many a TV series or fandom behind as a period which did me more good than harm but has overtipped the scales in the long run. I wouldn't be stocking up on the other 17 works this book mentions anytime soon, but it will be a singular pleasure to track Woolf through the years of grappling with critique of various cultural edifices and distinguished humans, especially when she comes across those worthy women whom I've previously devoted some time to unburying. I'm sure there are may more, as neither A Room of One's Own nor Three Guineas fell from the sky. They are only novels. It seems that there is genuine cause for shuddering when one's work takes this form. Dead leaves cannot be more brittle or more worthless than things faintly imagined ' and that the fruit of one's life should be twelve volumes of dead leaves! We have one moment of such panic before the novels of [Virginia Woolf], and then we rise again. Not in our time will they be found worthless.