ANATOMÍA DE LA INTIMIDAD literatura y espejos rotos

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)

Behind the curtain. Virginia Woolf on Roger Fry & her Bloomsbury friends

Roger died on Sunday.


Roger Fry
by Roger Fry
oil on canvas, 1930-1934
© National Portrait Gallery, London

I was glad we went to the service on Thursday. It was a very hot summers day. And all very simple & dignified. Music. Not a word spoken. We sat there, before the open doors that lead into the garden. Flowers & strollers which Roger would have liked. He lay under a red brocade with two bunches of very bright many coloured flowers. It is a strong instinct to be with ones friends. I thought of him too, at intervals. Dignified & honest & large –“large sweet soul”- something ripe & musical about him- & then the fun & the fact that he had lived with such variety & generosity & curiosity. I thought of this. Karin annoyed me coming in late, stumbling. That went off. They played Bach. Then the coffin moved slowly through the doors. They shut. They played again- Anon, I think: old music. Yes, I liked the wordlessness. Helen looking very young & blue eyed & quiet & happy. That is much to remember her for. I kissed her on the lips, in the courtyard. Then Desmond came up: said wdnt it be nice to walk in the garden? “Oh we stand on a little island” he said. But it has been very lovely I said. For the first time I laid my hand on his shoulder, & said dont die yet. Nor you either he said. We have had wonderful friends, he said.

(Entry dated Saturday 15 September 1934)

The Diary of Virginia Woolf. Volume 4. 1931-1935



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