Flying Sheets of Paper | Virginia Woolf: A Matter of Hours, Minutes, Seconds… – El Sol de México

On March 28, 1941, he wrote: “I feel like I’m going crazy again. I don’t think we can live through one of those terrible times again. And this time I can’t recover. I start hearing voices and can’t concentrate. So I’ll do what I think is the best I can.

“You gave me the greatest happiness possible. You have been in every way all that anyone can be. I don’t think two people could be happier until this terrible disease came. I can’t fight anymore. I know I’m ruining your life, that you’ll be able to function without me. You will, I know.

“You see I can’t even spell that right. I can `t read. What I mean is that I owe all the happiness in my life to you. You were completely patient with me and incredibly kind.

“I mean everybody knows it. If anyone could save me, it would be you. I have lost everything except confidence in your goodness. I can’t keep ruining your life anymore. I don’t think two people could be happier than you and me.”

Signed by the English writer Virginia Woolf. This is the last letter addressed to her husband, Leonard Wolfe. That cloudy and wet morning he left the house; headed for the River Ouse, near Lewes, in East Sussex, UK. He wore a long coat with huge bags which he filled with large stones. He dove into the water and allowed himself to be swept away to his death. I couldn’t take it anymore. He couldn’t do it anymore.

Author of seminal works of English and world literature; of modern literature and a harbinger of modern literature in the world. He worked for many years in building new ways of expressing the world and, above all, the individuality of each of his characters.

He builds his work word by word, detail by detail, spaces, pauses, emotions, intensity: everything in an artistic way. Her characters, one by one, were the work of her creation and imagination, but also of reality: she was in many of them, her sorrows, her sorrows, her happy moments, her aspirations, but also the great disappointment of what was happening and for what he saw and experienced.

He lived 59 years, and much of it was immersed in individual conflicts of enormous intensity; he was a witness and victim of the First World War, and between the wars he tried to catch up by gathering talents around the ideal of modernity and freedom.

Above all, her work revolves around the values ​​of women and the obstacles to being them and nothing more than them in a world where women’s values ​​and human qualities, as well as responsibilities, are stripped away. This was his constant claim. And it’s in every one of his books.

This was an example of that freedom he demanded of women. An exceptional woman. Self-taught and creative. Always active and willing to express themselves and express their ideas even against the current.

With her husband she formed Bloomsbury Group which included great English intellectuals of the time such as E. M. Forster, the economist J. M. Keynes and the philosophers Bertrand Russell and Ludwig Wittgenstein… And with Leonard he founded in 1917 the famous publishing house Hogarth Presswhich edited her work and that of other famous writers, including Katherine Mansfield, TS Eliot, Sigmund Freud, Laurens van der Post, and others.

Above all, she was a writer. He spent months, days, hours, minutes and seconds writing. He did it all the time. Under any circumstances. It was the food he needed every day. His emotional outlet; and it was his way of expressing his own cry to the world, that of his life always on the edge.

And, of course, she was a tireless reader. i read everything. He highlighted the great classical and modern authors. She was strict in her observations, but she also wanted to drink the best of everything. In fact, his work was influenced by two great authors whom he read with mistrust, with emotion, with doubts, with criticism, but above all with admiration: James Joyce and Marcel Proust.

But just as Joyce is difficult to read and Proust requires a lot of emotion to read, so the works of Virginia Woolf can seem difficult to read. It’s not easy. It is a type of art that challenges the intelligence and emotion of its reader. The work of art is created to enter the soul of man because it is the essence of other human beings as seen by themselves.

Herein lies the complexity, but also the greatness, of Virginia Woolf. It is not a work written lightly. It does not resort to linear times or to a literature of romantic emotions, it is not configured to deal with a single story: it is a symphony of characters, intimacies and liberties. It speaks, without exclamation marks, of human contradictions, of sexual ambivalence; the stream of consciousness and emotional motivations of the characters.

She is the author of enormous works of worship today: “to the lighthouse“, “Orlando“, “Waves“, “Mrs. Dalloway“Y”own room”, written in 1929 and in which he published his famous sentence “A woman must have money and a room of her own if she is going to write”. And many others…

The new thing is that everything seems to be part of a series of circumstances that slide one by one as if nothing happened. The story it tells is important, but not as important as the reflection of each of them on what is happening. The moments of introspection are many. The characters don’t interact as much one-on-one. But they are in the thought of each one of them. This is what’s new.

As well as the novelty of giving a critical meaning to the social mores of the time. The insolence, the hypocrisy, the lies, the vanity, the lack of human solidarity of an English society bathed in forms, customs and ways that hide the true essence of being English, as seen by Virginia Woolf.

It wasn’t for the underdogs. Adeline Virginia Stephen was born in London on January 25, 1882. Her father was the writer, historian, essayist, biographer and mountaineer Sir Leslie Stephen. His mother Julia Stephen was born in India.

Virginia Woolf’s parents were married before their marriage and were widowed. So the family has descendants from all three marriages. Virginia was educated by her parents at their home in Hyde Park Gate, Kensington, where visitors such as Alfred Tennyson, Thomas Hardy, Henry James and Edward Burne-Jones attended.

He didn’t go to school. He received further education from private tutors. In fact, she prided herself on being self-taught, as her reading and decision to write were of her own volition. And he met and lived with the best of English society, which he observed in his bowels.

But tragedies soon struck that transformed her life and defined her complex existence: the death of her mother on May 5, 1895, when Virginia was only thirteen years old; that of his half-sister Stella two years later, and his father’s death from cancer in 1905. During a bombing raid on London, his house was destroyed.

All this provoked an anxiety attack in her, for which she was briefly hospitalized for psychological help. Her nervous breakdowns and subsequent periods of depression, according to her biographers, including her nephew Quentin Bell, were also influenced by the sexual abuse she and her sister Vanessa suffered from their half-siblings. (Which she suggests in her autobiographical essays “A sketch from the past“Y”22 Hyde Park Gate“).

From now on he will suffer from recurring depressions; of anxiety attacks and what today would be called ‘bipolar disorder’. At times she was calm, although suddenly she found herself absorbed in herself and her worries… Her only alternative was to write-write-write. But the moment came when it no longer made sense to her… And she made the final decision.

He inherits a magnum opus. A huge contribution to world thought. A form of creativity built from freedom and art. The woman who protected woman and who influenced her to embark on the path of her emancipation which is not yet complete…

“Each had their past locked up within them, like the pages of a book they had learned by heart; and his friends could only read the title.

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