Yesterday, I'm sitting in my backyard, it's my 47th summer, 47th time around the sun, right, and I take out my notebooks, a big glass of ice water, and also, Virginia Woolf's, A Writer's Diary. Which had called to me from the shelf somehow. I'm nearing the end of one book, and so I'm just daydreaming the next. Hoping to daydream the next book. Anyway, the first page I open the Woolf book to has this underlined (I have a habit of underlining favourite passages):
"Really these premonitions of a book - states of soul in creating - are very queer and little apprehended.
And then I am 47: yes; and my infirmities will of course increase."
- Virginia Woolf
A few pages later, she is now 48.
"To lie on the sofa for a week."
"If I could stay in bed another fortnight (but there is no chance of that) I believe I could see the whole of The Waves."
- V. Woolf
She has been talking about a book she wishes to write, The Moth. Which turns into The Waves, as she's planning, dreaming it out.
Oh, I'm not Virginia Woolf. Who is, really. But I've begun having premonitions.
The Waves, is to me, the most miraculous book. It took me quite a while before I could come to it with any understanding. I circled around that book for years.
It's too bad anyway, that you can't get a grant to lie on the sofa for a fortnight. To daydream a book, to attempt to see things whole.