Virginia Woolf was born on this day in 1882. She was born into a family of wealth, social standing, with a rich intellectual and literary life. Famous as a novelist, for such works as Mrs Dalloway (1925), To the Lighthouse (1927), Orlando (1928), andA Room of One’s Own (1929), which she may have been best known for expressing her belief that, ” A woman must have money and a room of her own if she is to write fiction.” Woolf also found infamy as a member of the ‘Bloomsbury Group: writers, intellectuals, and artists whose work influenced modern attitudes on feminism, sexuality, literature, and criticisam. In addition to her published writings, Woolf was also known for keeping a journal, writing, as many of us do, about the daily happenings of her life. Early in World War II, on March 8, 1941 she wrote:
“And now with some pleasure I find that it’s seven; and must cook dinner. Haddock and sausage meat. I think it is true that one gains a certain hold on sausage and haddock by writing them down.”
Sadly, Woolf’s life was to end as a tragic story. Less than three weeks later, on March 28, fearful of the return of mental illness which had plagued her all her life, she loaded up her pockets with stones and drowned herself in the river Ouse near her Sussex home.
She left a suicide note for her husband, though I have always thought of this note more a love letter than suicide note:
“I feel certain that I am going mad again. I feel we can’t go through another of those terrible times. And I can’t recover this time. I begin to hear voices, and I can’t concentrate. So I am doing what seems the best thing to do. You have given me the greatest possible happiness. You have been in every way all that anyone could be. I don’t think two people could have been happier ’til this terrible disease came. I can’t fight any longer. I know that I am spoiling your life, that without me you could work. And you will I know. You see I can’t even write this properly. I can’t read. What I want to say is I owe all the happiness of my life to you. You have been entirely patient with me and incredibly good. I want to say that — everybody knows it. If anybody could have saved me it would have been you. Everything has gone from me but the certainty of your goodness. I can’t go on spoiling your life any longer. I don’t think two people could have been happier than we have been. V”
There are many references to food in Virginia Woolf’s diaries, which makes me think she found much pleasure in the simple act of cooking, and being able to write about it. Even though she noted the pleasant anticipation of cooking her wartime dinner, perhaps her diary entry also tells of her awareness of her fragile hold on day-to-day things. Or perhaps it is only through the awareness a writer has to recognize we only begin to understand what we do not know when we begin to write it down.
