I should like it to resemble some deep old desk, or capacious hold-all, in which one flings a mass of odds and ends without looking them through. (Virginia Woolf) We become ourselves through others, and the self is a porous thing, not a sealed container (Siri Hustvedt) En vez de mirarme en mi espejo quiero que mi espejo se mire en mí (Alejandra Pizarnik)
Poor Tom- a true poet, I think; what they will call in a hundred years a man of genius: & this is his life. I stand for half an hour listening while he says that Vivien cant walk. Her legs have gone. But whats the matter? No one knows. And so she lies in bed –cant put a shoe on. And they have difficulties, humiliations, with servants. And alter endless quibbling about visiting-which he cant do these 8 weeks, swing to moving house & 15 first cousins come to England, suddenly he appears overcome, moved, tragic, unhappy, broken down, because I offer to come to tea on Thrusday. Oh but we don’t dare ask our friends, he said. We have been deserted. Nobody has been to see us for weeks. Would you really come-all this way? To see us? Yes I said. But what a vision of misery, imagined, but real too. Vivien with her foot on a stool, in bed all day; Tom hurrying back lest she abuse him: this is our man of genius.
(The Diary of Virginia Woolf, Volume 3, 1925-1030)