The Letters of Virginia Woolf: Volume 6, 1936-1941

Reading the volumes of letters in tandem with the diaries is absolutely essential. I finished the diary yesterday, which means I finished the letters yesterday, too, only the volume included an Appendix of dozens of letters that had been discovered too late for inclusion in the earlier volumes. And so I lingered a bit with Woolf’s ghost, reading snippets from 1903 onward, after I had already read up to the point of her death. (Like this lovely 1923 ululation during a trip to Spain that “I am reading Proust, I am reading Rimbaud. I am longing to write.”)

The letters are always chatty and entertaining, light, meandering, poetic. As Nigel Nicolson notes in the introduction, a letter “was a wine-glass to hold her delights, or a sump for her despair.”

This volume contains many examples of the unease with the coming of war, like this 1936 to Victoria Ocampo, “Here we live under the shadow of disaster. I’ve never known such a time of foreboding. Even the artists mope and pine and cant get on with their pictures.” And in Jan 1938: “Lord what a year of incessant catastrophe–but that years over, so lets hope the best for this one.” Aug 1938: “As for politics, I feel as if we were all sitting downstairs while someone slowly dies.” Feb 1941: “Did I tell you I’m reading the whole of English literature through? By the time I’ve reached Shakespeare the bombs will be falling. So I’ve arranged a very nice last scene: reading Shakespeare, having forgotten my gas mask, I shall fade far away, and quite forget…”