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  • Two roads diverged in a yellow wood and I, I took the one less travelled by, and that has made all the difference.
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on loving Woolf

I have so many thoughts swirling around about Virginia Woolf’s “A Room of One’s Own” that it will be virtually impossible to get any of them down on this page in a form where they make the least bit of sense whatsoever. I have 4 pages left to read, and I want to savor each line. I often find myself at this place at the end of an exceptionally good book – hesitant to read the last few lines and bring the reading to a close. Damned library is pushing me on, as the book is due and damn someone else for putting the book on hold and not allowing me to renew. I really must purchase this book, but have tried to save pennies by doing the library thing. Damn them.
This is quite possibly one of, or even THE best book I have ever read. I long to write as Woolf does, to lay out my thoughts with such imagery and in such a way that it hardly seems like reading at all…it is more like opening Woolf’s very own cranium and being privy to her thought processes.
There is also so much to be said about the content of this book. Women writers and the challenges they have had to overcome. Woolf longed for a time when women could write on all subjects, unencumbered and unfettered…just as writers. It was not common for women of her time, and not at all of women previously to be writers for the sake of writing…for that to be what they were instead of something they did as a passing fancy or cute idiosyncracy. I wonder what Woolf would think about women writers today. Would she believe them to have freed themselves of those fetters and difficulties that weighted the woman writer down and did not leave her free to write with passion purely as a woman, and not a woman burdened by the difficulties of her time or a woman trying to write as a man. I wonder. I am not sure of the answer. Certainly there is so much more freedom for women today, but then again, we have not freed ourselves of the responsibilities of family and social life but have rather added the responsiblity of work and the “man’s” world to the long list of distractions. Not that this is at all a bad thing. And certainly there are lots of women who write just to write. And we have the great examples of women like Woolf herself – we are no longer hampered as she said, by the lack of an example for “we think back through our mothers if we are women” and today there certainly are writers in our history.

I have more thoughts but I just stopped by for a moment and now I must get some things done.


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