The best part about today was taking the long way home down dirt roads lined with pine trees and lakes, marshes and creeks, past old cabins and miles of nothing but bright blue sky and unadulterated nature...then getting home and tromping out into the woods with a cup of tea (spilled only half of it) and the dogs, getting to the middle of one of my favorite stands of poplars and laying down with sun shining and happy animals to do my Virginia Woolf reading. I was out there for an hour or so and reluctantly returned with my hair full of twigs and leaves. But I could have stayed forever. This time of year I find myself tempted to never return from the woods. I was imagining myself living out there, roaming the ridge, sleeping under sun or stars. Only to return to the house when I need a new book. If it rained my book would get wet and I wouldn't care.
But as for Virginia Woolf, I hate to admit it, but I am sick to death of her. Maybe it is the cause of reading 400 pages in 3 (too short) days. Or maybe it is this particular story, which although I like it very much, is once again depressing. The Years is about a whole bunch of characters whose lives braid in out of one another, each connected by family or society's circles... and everyone of them is (for the most part) miserably unhappy. The years pass until eventually they find themselves old and asking themselves if they ever really lived. Granted, I haven't finished the book yet and maybe there will be an uplifting twist to the story... but after a semester's worth of reading-- I doubt it.
Ok, I'm being unfair. The Years is really an excellent story. I think it's just me. I've moved on. Or at least... I'm ready to move on. The other thing is that I am really irritated by aspects British culture. And unfortunately they are many of the aspects that Woolf focuses on. I think it's safe to say that she was irritated too. But she was so much a part of the society that I speak of that it's hard to forgive her for it. I'm reading The Years and remembering my time spend in England (about 5 years ago). They seemed to me, a nosy, gossipy bunch. Oh, the airs they had about them. No, not all. I don't mean to generalize. There are a few British folks who I am always glad to hear from or see. But all I remember is how glad I was to leave the country. And I have no desire to go back. Everyone was nice on the outside, but it all seemed like such a facade. Needless to say, France was a relief. I remember getting on the bus in London and thinking: good riddens England! Uh. I fell in love with irritable French waiters.
What am I talking about? I don't know. I'm just not as swept away by the romanticism of British culture as some. Virginia is becoming one of those haggard characters in her novel. Has she lost the excitement of writing, of creating worlds with words? Where has the magic gone?
Alright, it's not Virginia. It's me. It's not her fault that I want to rip her books in two and watch the pages go fluttering across the room (or the woods). It's just me. I want to read something else for no other reason than because I want to read something else.
The frogs have hatched. I feel alive. But man, V.W. is bringing me down. She filled her pockets with stones and drowned herself. Meanwhile I am feeling alive and well. I have issues with depression. I get tired of it.
Anyway, high-society England is boring. Yes, I'm starting to feel like I should join the Outsiders Society. I admit, I prefer the more exotic. I prefer third-world. I prefer real problems over emotional ones.
Blah blah blah.... I'm just complaining. Sorry. Please ignore this post. Virginia Woolf is amazing. She's a genius. And I'm not being sarcastic. I truly think she is. But I still just want her to go away. At least for a little while.
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