I have an old habit of keeping a book of quotations that interest me and I just came across this one from Virginia Woolf from her diary of 31st May 1933:
I thought, driving through Richmond last night, something very profound about the synthesis of my being: how only writing composes it: how nothing makes a whole unless I am writing; now I have forgotten what seemed to be so profound.
I can't say why I find such observations so arresting but, whatever you think of the antics of the Bloomsbury group, there is something remarkable about her.
1 comment:
I like this one very much: ”Arrange whatever pieces come your way.” (Virginia Woolf)
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