Tuesday, December 21

V Woolf

Hopeful plans. Very very broke. When you walk into my room I can smell the wind in your hair and the cold on your lips. Muggins has put on weight. Hurrah.
Had a wonderful weekend. Put me in such a good mood. Was very cheerful this morning but then in micro class that scary ass worry made the most of the situation and seeing my bored and disinterested mind immediately jumped in. But now I’m feeling a lot more confident about it. Don’t see how it could have happened. Have to literally wait and watch. Though the very idea is frightening beyond words.
I met M and V. Yay : )
And I got The Waves by Virginia Woolf. I tried to tell JP what reading something by her is like for me. Reading a book by her, just the first page makes me feel like I’ve entered familiar, hospitable territory where there are fences and high hills and blue green moors and just one kind of weather.


Anonymous said...

Interesting. Out of idle curiosity, how much do the incidental details of a writer's life affect your appreciation of his/her talent? For instance, would Plath be considered as 'effective' if she'd lived a full happy life and confessed at 60 that her greatest joy was washing a BicMac down with beer and the roller coasters at Universal studios? Or did her suicide somehow give her writing credibility? Haven't read any Woolf but can the situation be applied to her as well? -Ravi

Murphy said...

I don't think it would matter all that much. Their lives matter, it helps me identify with their work at some level (major example Kafka's diaries). But that's not necessarily the case. At times you can know certain things and completely disregard them just to go ahead and perceive a particular piece the way you wish to.
Btw I do believe The Bell Jar is the most retarded piece of fiction ever and Plath was a very unfortunate example.

JP said...

Ah, good. So it isn't the suicide chic thing after all.