Category: literary criticism
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A Ghost Addresses Mrs Cherry Clinton
This is not a warning. It is a blessing disguised as discomfort.
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“Echoes in the Cave: A Letter Exchange on Forster, Faith, and Fissures from the correspondence of Lillian Hartley and Sylvia Moon
I knew it was from you the moment I saw the cover. Only you would think to tuck existential despair between the poetry shelves — or was that Edward’s mischief? He does so love a theatrical gesture.
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December 25th: Morning Tea, A Postcard, and The Portrait of a Lady
Sylvia blamed the cat. We haven’t had a cat in years.
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The Door Has Always Been Open
I tried the Virginia Woolf route. Everyone else seemed to find some holy map between her pages — Sylvia and Lillian, with their candlelit arguments and mystical comparisons. But for me?
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Sunset, Memory, and Other Silly Things
Let’s get one thing clear: I don’t like Woolf. I didn’t like her at school, and I haven’t warmed to her in exile. The only thing that ever lingered was Orlando — not because I admired it, but because it annoyed me so thoroughly that it stuck.
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A Room of One’s Own — and Nowhere to Go
In A Room of One’s Own, Woolf argued that creative power needs space and independence to flourish. But she also said — and I’ve always remembered this — that even if Shakespeare’s sister had been born with talent, the world would not have let her survive it. Not then.
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A Lighthouse Seen from Exile: Veronica on Woolf, Stillness, and the Spaces Between
Maybe the lighthouse isn’t a destination.
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Storm in a Teacup, or the Weight of a Day? Sylvia and Lillian Read Mrs Dalloway
“One woman worrying about gloves and seating plans, a man flinging himself out the window. Sounds like a waste of a day.”
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“These Fragments I Have Shored Against My Ruins”
And isn’t that what The Waste Land was always about? Not war or ruin or post-war disillusionment, not really—but the terrible fact that intimacy is not a cure.
