I was reading Virginia's last letter to Carrington (this was just before Carrington's suicide) and I cried. Just bawled. Who knew that a letter could convey such depths, but then it was Virginia Woolf writing, so that would explain it.
Lytton Strachey had just died and Carrington was unravelling...she was in some ways already dead.
Somehow, in her letter, Virginia managed to capture that sense of loss and futility, reaching out to someone, your arms closing over nothing, the emptiness washing over you, bottomless, irreversible.
And stale platitudes are less than useless, except for the vague sense of someone out there attempting to reach out a hand and comfort you.
But goodness knows, blind as I am, I know all day long whatever I'm doing, what you're suffering. And no one can help you...
3 comments:
Virginia writes beautifully and does capture everything, but I can't quite accept her total loss of hope. Even at my most depressed, I refuse to give up.
Flash 55 - Blue Gill
A few days before she killed herself she walked through the ruins of London and it broke her already broken heart. When you read her letters and her diary you will that despite the moods, and the madness, she was actually a joyous creature. And she lived about 30 years after from the time of the first madness and she produced so much, read so much, filled her days with beauty, gossip, companionship. I am glad I read this book - it gives a more balanced view of who she was. The Hours (the movie) simply focussed on her depression...
I will have to check it out more closely.
Long Overdue
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