Having finished the Virginia Woolf biography, as noted earlier today, it would probably have made sense to dive into The Mrs. Dalloway Reader. Instead, I started the first volume of four of Hours in a Library, a collection of essays about books and writers by Leslie Stephen, Virginia Woolf’s father. That also makes sense. The first essay is called “De Foe’s Novels.” So far, so good.
None of this, of course, is as important as what happened after lunch. I was starting out on a short walk when I met the neighbors next door, who were only too pleased to introduce me to their sleeping twelve-day-old daughter, Stella, who is six pounds two ounces of perfection. Her tiny fingers and bare toes — I nearly wept when I saw them, so beautiful they are. And her face — if she were a doll, she would inspire little girls and little boys to play house the world over. Her brother, too, was thrilled — couldn’t resist tickling those toes. “She sleeps all the time,” he wanted me to know. And of course I did know, and do.