Wednesday, April 25, 2018

Letters : Virginia Woolf & Lytton Strachey



This book and I are the same age. And although we’re both battered,
it’s a heck of a lot mustier than I am.





3 comments:

*** said...

When earthiness is not pleasantness?

Should we add it to Posthumous Keats on the used bookstore run?

William Michaelian said...

This one drifted in from Connecticut, a little place called Mystic. I’ve read fifty pages of it today. If I hold it just far enough away, I’m only slightly distracted by its smell. And yet it’s such that every so often I have to hold it up to my nose, “just to be sure.” It’s not disagreeable. And it’s certainly familiar. It’s not good either, except that it is. Garage, basement, who knows.

William Michaelian said...

A quick follow-up note: I finished the book this morning. It was interesting, and went well with the Virginia Woolf biography I’m still reading. Their correspondence ended in 1931. Strachey died of stomach cancer (I see on Wikipedia) in 1932, aged 51. The letters of both, especially as time went on, were full of wit and humor. And each valued the other’s insights into their writing. They understood each other’s pains and aspirations.