Mostrando postagens com marcador Virginia Woolf. Mostrar todas as postagens
Mostrando postagens com marcador Virginia Woolf. Mostrar todas as postagens

quarta-feira, 7 de agosto de 2013

Os dois se surpreenderam. Cachos pesados pendiam das laterais do rosto da Senhorita Barrett; grandes olhos espertos brilhavam; uma grande boca sorria. Orelhas pesadas pendiam das laterais do rosto de Flush; seus olhos também eram grandes e inteligentes; sua boca estava aberta. Havia algo de comum entre os dois. Enquanto encaravam um ao outro, pensaram: aqui estou eu. Então, sentiram: mas que diferente! O rosto dela era pálido, de uma inválida, afastado do ar, da luz, da liberdade. O dele era o rosto saudável e afetuoso de um animal jovem; cheio de saúde e de energia. Separados violentamente, apesar de originados no mesmo molde, será que um completava o que estava latente no outro? Ela realmente poderia ser tudo aquilo, mas ele... não. Entre os dois existia o maior abismo que pode separar um ser do outro. Ela falava. Ele era mudo. Ela era uma mulher; ele era um cão. Assim, intimamente ligados; assim, imensamente separados, um encarava o outro. Então, de um salto, Flush subiu no sofá e se acomodou no lugar em que permaneceria para todo o sempre — sobre a manta aos pés da Senhorita Barrett.

Flush, Virginia Woolf

quarta-feira, 11 de abril de 2012

Killing the Angel

And the phantom was a woman, and when I came to know her better I called her after the heroine of a famous poem, The Angel in the House. (...) I will describe her as shortly as I can. She was intensely sympathetic. She was immensely charming. She was utterly unselfish. She excelled in the difficult arts of family life. She sacrificed herself daily. If there was chicken, she took the leg; if there was a draught she sat in it—in short she was so constituted that she never had a mind or a wish of her own, but preferred to sympathize always with the minds and wishes of others. Above all—I need not say it—–she was pure. (...) And when I came to write I encountered her with the very first words. The shadow of her wings fell on my page; I heard the rustling of her skirts in the room. Directly, that is to say, I took my pen in my hand to review that novel by a famous man, she slipped behind me and whispered: “My dear, you are a young woman. You are writing about a book that has been written by a man. Be sympathetic; be tender; flatter; deceive; use all the arts and wiles of our sex. Never let anybody guess that you have a mind of your own. Above all, be pure.” (...) I turned upon her and caught her by the throat. I did my best to kill her. My excuse, if I were to be had up in a court of law, would be that I acted in self–defence. Had I not killed her she would have killed me. She would have plucked the heart out of my writing. For, as I found, directly I put pen to paper, you cannot review even a novel without having a mind of your own, without expressing what you think to be the truth about human relations, morality, sex. And all these questions, according to the Angel of the House, cannot be dealt with freely and openly by women; they must charm, they must conciliate, they must—to put it bluntly—tell lies if they are to succeed.

V.Woolf,  in Professions for Women 

Virginia descrevia o Anjo da Casa como ser feminino, vivendo de assombrar mulheres escritoras, impondo rendas,bordados e delicadezas no lugar da verdade -- do que o pulso poderia revelar. O que fazia sentido, na altura. Hoje talvez esse fantasma seja andrógino e se interesse por ambos os sexos. Ou talvez haja uma imensidão de fantasmas assombrando os criativos, cada um com a sua manifestação, gestual e ritualística -- um para cada medo. (Se ainda não é possível matá-lo, como V.W. sugere, pelo menos que se conheça o seu nome).
(via oficina)

segunda-feira, 26 de dezembro de 2011


"I believe that the main thing in beginning a novel is to feel, not that you can write it, but that it exists on the far side of a gulf, which words can’t cross; that it’s to be pulled through only in a breathless anguish. Now when I sit down to an article, I have a net of words which will come down on the idea certainly in an hour or so. But a novel, as I say, to be good should seem, before one writes it, something unwriteable: but only visible; so that for nine months one lives in despair, and only when one has forgotten what one meant, does the book seem tolerable. I assure you, all my novels were first rate before they were written. If I could write them easily… then I should know they were plausible and ephemeral…" -- (V.W.)

The Letters of Vita Sackville-West to Virginia Woolf