Today is Virginia Woolf’s 144th birthday. I should bake her a cake. But since I live in the United States, it is difficult to feel like celebrating. Not when federal agents — ICE* and Border Control — have once again murdered an innocent American citizen in cold blood. Instead, I must speak out.
The murder victims
On Jan. 7, it was Renee Good, a 37-year-old poet and mother of three who was observing a protest against ICE in Minneapolis, Minnesota. ICE agent Jonathan Ross shot her three times in less than one second, including a fatal shot to her head, as she peacefully sat in her car while accosted by three agents.
Yesterday, Jan., 24, it was Alex Pretti, a 37-year old ICU nurse at the local Veteran’s Hospital, who was filming agents with his phone and trying to help a woman the agents had pushed to the ground for no apparent reason. Federal agents then pushed him to the ground, piled on top of him, and beat him with a pepper spray can. They then shot him dead as he lay there. At least 10 shots were fired within five seconds.
Both victims were white. Both victims were braving the bitter Minnesota cold. Both victims were trying to help their immigrant neighbors who each day are being pulled from their homes, their cars, and their workplaces. They are beaten and sprayed with chemical agents. They are kidnapped and taken to detention centers by masked and unidentified federal agents who delight in terrorizing communities and using their power to cause people pain.
These corrupt leaders refuse to do what Woolf advises in her anti-war polemic Three Guineas (1938): “fix our eyes upon the photograph again: the fact” and they advise us to believe their lies, not our eyes.
The witnesses who believe their eyes, not the lies, are everyday people who turn out on the streets of their neighborhoods to protect their communities. They do their best to protect vulnerable neighbors from lawless federal agents running amok with the full support and encouragement of the federal government — from our felonious president on down.
Eyes open, no one safe
Black people in this country have experienced all of this before. They have lived through slavery, lynching, Jim Crow laws, segregation, the civil rights movement, Rodney King, and more. But those of us who are white are not accustomed to thinking of our government as an entity that will hunt us down and cause us great harm.
That is all changing. Now we know that none of us is safe from the government we fund with our tax dollars, no matter the color of our skin or the country of our birth.
I learned this nearly 56 years ago on May 4, 1970, when four of my fellow students were murdered by the Ohio National Guard during a protest against the Vietnam War and President Nixon’s incursion into Cambodia at Kent State University in Kent, Ohio.
On that day, National Guard troops fired somewhere between 61 and 67 bullets in 13 seconds, killing four and wounding nine. All were innocent, unarmed students. Two were protesting. Two were walking to class. I have not felt safe around uniformed law enforcement or military personnel since.
Woolf and the absence of photos
I have always wondered, as have many others, why Woolf did not include any photos of the atrocities of the Spanish Civil War in Three Guineas, despite referring to “the dead bodies, the ruined houses” numerous times.
I think I may finally understand. I have referred to the murders of two Minnesotans numerous times in this post, but I have included no photos. Somehow, it did not seem right to do so.
Instead, I felt compelled to use my words to speak honestly and bluntly — without any editorial cautions — about the events we are experiencing here and those who are leading them. Our leaders’ orchestration of illegal and despicable acts are calculated to distract us from the administration’s failure to release the Epstein files, while promoting a tyrannical regime that will have complete control over our country and the Western Hemisphere.
We must use all our faculties to resist. For, as Woolf wrote in Three Guineas,
we are not passive spectators doomed to unresisting obedience” . . . for a “common interest unites us; it is one world, one life (168).
Some birthday posts
Though I could not write a celebratory post for today, I am adding a few of those posted online by others.
Tday is Virginia Woolf’s birthday. She was born in Kensington, London, 142 years ago today, on Jan. 25, 1882, at 12:15 p.m.
On her birthday in 2016, I shared the entries from her published diaries dated on her birthday or the day after. I am repeating them here. Some refer specifically to the gifts she received, the things she did, and the people she saw on her birthday.
The last one, written on Jan. 26, 1941, the year of her death, does not. Instead, it speaks of the despair brought about by life in the middle of a war:
Its the cold hour, this, before the lights go up. A few snowdrops in the garden. Yes, I was thinking: we live without a future. – D5 355
1897
A Passionate Apprentice [1990] (ed. by Mitchell A. Leaska) The early journals, 1897-1909
Monday 25 January
My birthday. No presents at breakfast and none til Mr Gibbs came, bearing a great parcel under his arms, which turned out to be a gorgeous Queen Elizabeth — by Dr Creighton. I went out for a walk round the pond after breakfast with father, it being Nessas drawing day. Went out with Stella to Hatchards about some book for Jack, and then to Regent St. for flowers and fruit for him; then to Wimpole St. to see how he had slept, and then to Miss Hill in Marylebone Rd. Jo [Fisher] was there discussing the plans for Stellas new cottages with Miss Hill. All three learnedly argued over them for half an hour, I sitting on a stool by the fire and surveying Miss Hills legs — Nessa went back to her drawing after lunch, and Stella and I went to Story’s to buy me an arm chair, which is to be Ss present to me — We got a very nice one, and I came straight home, while Stella went on to Wimpole St. Gerald gave me £1, and Adrian a holder for my stylograph —Father is going to give me Lockharts Life of Scott — Cousin Mia gave me a diary and another pocket book. Thoby writes to say that he has ordered films for me. Got Carlyles Reminiscences, which I have read before. Reading four books at once — The Newcomes, Caryle, Old Curiosity Shop, and Queen Elizabeth — (APA 21-22)
1905
25 January
Another lazy morning — read however the greater part of my review book, so that will be written tomorrow with luck — & then? — I must turn about for something fresh to do. My birthday, by the way — the 25th but, as usual, it was somehow rather forgotten which one begins to expect at my age —! Violet to lunch, & she did bring a present — a huge china inkpot which holds almost a jar full of ink, & is rather too large to be practicable. I must cultivate a bold hand & a quill pen — Georges motor after lunch, in which we did various long distance jobs — then home, read my review book, & dinner at 7.30 as we went with Gerald to Peter Pan, Barries play — imaginative & witty like all of his, but just too sentimental — However it was a great treat (APA 227-228).
1915
The Diary of Virginia Woolf, Vol. I 1977 (ed. by Anne Olivier Bell) 1915-1919
Monday 25 January
My birthday—& let me count up all the things I had. L. had sworn he would give me nothing, & like a good wife, I believed him. But he crept into my bed, with a little parcel, which was a beautiful green purse. And he brought up breakfast, with a paper which announced a naval victory (we have sunk a German battle ship) & a square brown parcel, with The Abbot in it—a lovely first edition— So I had a very merry & pleasing morning—which indeed was only surpassed by the afternoon. I was then taken up to town, free of charge, & given a treat, first at a Picture Palace, & then at Buszards. I don’t think I’ve had a birthday treat for 10 years; & it felt like one too—being a fine frosty day, everything brisk & cheerful, as it should be, but never is. The Picture Palace was a little disappointing—as we never got to the War pictures, after waiting 1 hour & a half. But to make up, we exactly caught a non-stop train, & I have been very happy reading father on Pope, which is very witty & bright—without a single dead sentence in it. In fact I dont know when I have enjoyed a birthday so much—not since I was a child anyhow. Sitting at tea we decided three things: in the first place to take Hogarth, if we can get it; in the second, to buy a Printing press; in the third to buy a Bull dog, probably called John. I am very much excited at the idea of all three—particularly the press. I was also given a packet of sweets to bring home (D1 28).
1918
Friday 25 January
My Birthday. L. slid a fine cow’s horn knife into my hand this morning. Nelly has knitted me a pair of red socks which tie round the ankle, & thus just suit my state in the morning. Another event kept me recumbent. Barbara came, & together we “dissed” 4 pages, & L. printed off the second 4 at the printers—altogether a fine days work. At this rate Katherine’s story will be done in 5 weeks. We rather think of doing a little book of woodcuts, either after this book or at the same time, on our small press. Our dinner tonight was a sacrifice to duty on a fine scale; never were we more ready for an evening alone; books to read; a sense of a great deal of talk already discharged this week; but rather before 7.30 came Clara [Woolf] & the Whithams, whom we had asked with a view to killing each other off without more waste than was inevitable. Whitham’s elaborately literary get up is a fair index of his mind. He is what the self-taught working man thinks genius should be; & yet so unassuming & homely that its more amusing than repulsive. His passion for writing is the passion of the amateur—or rather of the person who’s got it up from a text book. Seeing Cannan’s new novel he said “Ah, Cannan, yes—he’s very weak in construction isn’t he?” And so with all the rest. He told me his books had a way of “screaming”, & with great enthusiasm, after asking the fate of my fiction which is a point of honour in professional circles, he ran over all the novels he’s got ready or half ready, or only in want of “phrasing”—which process he applies at the end. He begins with a synopsis, which takes him 3 months: but I didn’t listen to the whole story. They withdraw soon to Devonshire, where directly the war ends (but even the war hasn’t prevented him from adding a new book to the list) he is going to work hard. Writing all the morning, reading & walking the rest of the day (D1 113).
1921
The Diary of Virginia Woolf: Volume II 1978 (ed. by Anne Olivier Bell with Andrew McNeillie) 1920-1924.
Tuesday 25 January
Here have I waited 25 days before beginning the new year; & the 25 is, not unfortunately my 25th, but my 39th birthday; & we’ve had tea, & calculated the costs of printing Tchekov; now L. is folding the sheets of his book, & Ralph has gone, & I having taken this out of the press proceed to steal a few minutes to baptise it. I must help L. & can’t think of a solemn beginning. I’m at a crisis in Jacob: want to finish in 20,000 words, written straight off in a frenzy. And I must pull myself together to bring it off. . . Spring has miraculously renewed herself. Pink almond blossoms are in bud. Callow birds crow. In short, he’s out of love & in love, & contemplated eloping with a Spaniard in a motor car. “But after all, I said to myself as I walked back, I like to think of my book & my armchair. It’s terrible, terrible. I can’t give up my old friends after all” (D2 86).
1930
The Diary of Virginia Woolf: Volume III1980 (ed. by Anne Olivier Bell with Andrew McNeillie) 1925-1930.
Sunday 26 January
I am 48: we have been at Rodmell—a wet, windy day again; but on my birthday we walked among the downs, like the folded wings of grey birds; & saw first one fox, very long with his brush stretched; then a second; which had been barking, for the sun was hot over us; it leapt lightly over a fence & entered the furze—a very rare sight. How many foxes are there in England? At night I read Lord Chaplin’s life. I cannot yet write naturally in my new room, because the table is not the right height, & I must stoop to warm my hands. Everything must be absolutely what I am used to (D3 285).
1931
Monday 26 January
Heaven be praised, I can truthfully say on this first day of being 49 that I have shaken off the obsession of Opening the Door, & have returned to Waves: & have this instant seen the entire book whole, & how I can finish it–say in under 3 weeks (D4 7).
1941
The Diary of Virginia Woolf: Volume V 1984 (ed. by Anne Olivier Bell with Andrew McNeillie) 1936-1941.
Sunday 26 January
A battle against depression, rejection (by Harper’s of my story & Ellen Terry) routed today (I hope) by clearing out kitchen; by sending the article (a lame one) to N.S.: & by breaking into PH 2 days, I think, of memoir writing.
This trough of despair shall not, I swear, engulf me. The solitude is great. Rodmell life is very small beer. The house is damp. The house is untidy. But there is no alternative. Also days will lengthen. What I need is the old spurt. “Your true life, like mine, is in ideas” Desmond said to me once. But one must remember one cant pump ideas. I begin to dislike introspection. Sleep & slackness; musing; reading; cooking; cycling; oh & a good hard rather rocky book–viz: Herbert Fisher. This is my prescription. We are going to Cambridge for two days. I find myself totting up my friends lives: Helen at Alciston without water; Adrian & Karin; Oliver at Bedford, & adding up rather a higher total of happiness. There’s a lull in the war. 6 nights without raids. But Garvin says the greatest struggle is about to come–say in 3 weeks–& every man, woman dog cat even weevil must girt their arms, their faith–& so on.
Its the cold hour, this, before the lights go up. A few snowdrops in the garden. Yes, I was thinking: we live without a future. Thats whats queer, with our noses pressed to a closed door. Now to write, with a new nib, to Enid Jones (D5 354-355).
Today is Virginia Woolf’s birthday. She would have been 141. And as is customary at this time, I am poring over the eight published diary entries she wrote on or near her birthday between 1897 and 1941.
In 2016, I shared all of the published diary entries she made on her birthday, a post so popular I reposted it the following year.
Last year, I parsed her 1941 entry, comparing her mood during wartime to my mood as the second year of the pandemic came to a close.
This year, though, I am looking at details — the gifts she received, the places she went, what she was reading, and what she was writing. Read on for all that.
But first I share a happy quote — with the kind of twist customary for Woolf — from her diary entry written in 1915, on the day she turned thirty-three and she and Leonard decided to rent Hogarth House and buy a printing press, an endeavor that would come to be known as the Hogarth Press.
I don’t think I’ve had a birthday treat for 10 years; & it felt like one too—being a fine frosty day, everything brisk & cheerful, as it should be, but never is. – The Diary of Virginia Woolf, Vol. I: 1915-1919, p. 28.
What she got
At age 15 in 1897: “a gorgeous Queen Elizabeth — by Dr Creighton,” “Lockharts Life of Scott,” an arm chair, £1, a holder for her stylograph,* a diary, a pocket book – A Passionate Apprentice: The Early Journals 1897-1909, pp. 21-2.
At age 23 in 1905: “a huge china inkpot” – A Passionate Apprentice: The Early Journals 1897-1909, pp. 227-8.
At age 33 in 1915: “a beautiful green purse,” a first edition of The Abbot, and “a packet of sweets” – The Diary of Virginia Woolf, Vol. I: 1915-1919, p. 28.
At age 36 in 1918: “a fine cow’s horn knife” and a pair of red handknit socks that tied at the ankle – The Diary of Virginia Woolf, Vol. I: 1915-1919, p. 113.
Her diary entries around her birthday after 1918 do not mention gifts.
What she did, what she read, what she wrote
At age 15 in 1897 – What she did: “I went out for a walk round the pond after breakfast with father, it being Nessas drawing day. Went out with Stella to Hatchards about some book for Jack, and then to Regent St. for flowers and fruit for him; then to Wimpole St. to see how he had slept, and then to Miss Hill in Marylebone Rd. Jo [Fisher] was there discussing the plans for Stellas new cottages with Miss Hill. All three learnedly argued over them for half an hour, I sitting on a stool by the fire and surveying Miss Hills legs — Nessa went back to her drawing after lunch, and Stella and I went to Story’s to buy me an arm chair, which is to be Ss present to me — We got a very nice one, and I came straight home, while Stella went on to Wimpole St.” – – A Passionate Apprentice: The Early Journals 1897-1909, pp. 21-2.
At age 23 in 1905 – What she did and what she read: “Another lazy morning — read however the greater part of my review book, so that will be written tomorrow with luck — & then? . . . Violet to lunch . . . Georges motor after lunch, in which we did various long distance jobs — then home, read my review book, & dinner at 7.30 as we went with Gerald to Peter Pan, Barries play — imaginative & witty like all of his, but just too sentimental — However it was a great treat.” – A Passionate Apprentice: The Early Journals 1897-1909, pp. 227-8.
At age 33 in 1915 – What she did and what she read: “I was then taken up to town, free of charge, & given a treat, first at a Picture Palace, & then at Buszards . . . But to make up, we exactly caught a non-stop train, & I have been very happy reading father on Pope, which is very witty & bright—without a single dead sentence in it.” – The Diary of Virginia Woolf, Vol. I: 1915-1919, p. 28.
At age 36 in 1918 – What she did and what she read: “Barbara came, & together we “dissed” 4 pages, & L. printed off the second 4 at the printers—altogether a fine days work . . . before 7.30 came Clara [Woolf] & the Whithams . . . Writing all the morning, reading & walking the rest of the day.” – The Diary of Virginia Woolf, Vol. I: 1915-1919, p. 113.
At age 39 in 1921 – What she did and what she wrote: “had tea, & calculated the costs of printing Tchekov; now L. is folding the sheets of his book, & Ralph has gone, & I having taken this out of the press proceed to steal a few minutes to baptise it . . I’m at a crisis in Jacob: want to finish in 20,000 words, written straight off in a frenzy. And I must pull myself together to bring it off.” – The Diary of Virginia Woolf: Volume II: 1920-1924, p. 86.
At age 48 in 1930 – What she did and what she read: “on my birthday we walked among the downs [at Rodmell] . . . At night I read Lord Chaplin’s life.” – The Diary of Virginia Woolf: Volume III: 1925-1930, p 285.
At age 49 in 1931 – What she wrote: “have returned to Waves: & have this instant seen the entire book whole, & how I can finish it–say in under 3 weeks.” – The Diary of Virginia Woolf: Volume IV: 1931-1935, p. 7.
At age 59 in 1941- What she did, what she read, and what she wrote: “A battle against depression, rejection (by Harper’s of my story & Ellen Terry) routed today (I hope) by clearing out kitchen; by sending the article (a lame one) to N.S.: & by breaking into PH 2 days, I think, of memoir writing . . . a good hard rather rocky book–viz: Herbert Fisher . . . . Now to write, with a new nib, to Enid Jones.” – The Diary of Virginia Woolf: Volume V: 1936-1941, pp. 354-5.
Read the full quotes from Woolf’s diaries regarding her birthdays.
*a fountain pen
Twitter celebrates Virginia Woolf’s birthday in advance
VWSGB Birthday Lecture: The Legacy of Leonard and Virginia Woolf’s Hogarth Press, by Jean Moorcroft Wilson. Sat 28 Jan, 2pm. Senate House, London. £30 VWSGB members, £35 standard. Book: https://t.co/WqLSF2a4zt. Further info: eventsvwsgb@gmail.com #VirginiaWoolf#BloomsburyGroup
Virginia Woolf would have been 140 today. So today, as we near the end of year two of the COVID-19 pandemic, it seems fitting to look at the moody diary entry she wrote a day after her fifty-ninth birthday in 1941, when she, Leonard, and the rest of the world were living through year two of the Second World War.
Her diary entry of Sunday, Jan. 26, 1941, shows that despite the difficult state of the world, she slogs on with her work as she battles depression and vows that “[t]his trough of despair shall not, I swear, engulf me.”
She bemoans the solitude and the smallness of her current life at Monk’s House in Rodmell and details her “prescription” for survival:
Sleep & slackness; musing; reading; cooking; cycling; oh & a good hard rather rocky book – p. 355, The Diary of Virginia Woolf, Volume 5.
Woolf’s words convey pandemic feelings
To me, so much of this entry pertains to our pandemic state in the present day. We work. We battle uncomfortable feelings. We refuse to be engulfed by despair. We see our current lives as smaller — much smaller — than they once were.
But we go on anyway, doing whatever necessary in this “cold hour.” We sleep. We think. We read, we cook, we cycle. We surf, we Google, we Zoom.
We press our noses to the closed door, hoping it will open soon.
Here is Woolf’s diary entry for the day after her 59th birthday in its entirety.
1941
Sunday 26 January
A battle against depression, rejection (by Harper’s of my story & Ellen Terry) routed today (I hope) by clearing out kitchen; by sending the article (a lame one) to N.S.: & by breaking into PH 2 days, I think, of memoir writing.
This trough of despair shall not, I swear, engulf me. The solitude is great. Rodmell life is very small beer. The house is damp. The house is untidy. But there is no alternative. Also days will lengthen. What I need is the old spurt. “Your true life, like mine, is in ideas” Desmond said to me once. But one must remember one cant pump ideas. I begin to dislike introspection. Sleep & slackness; musing; reading; cooking; cycling; oh & a good hard rather rocky book–viz: Herbert Fisher. This is my prescription. We are going to Cambridge for two days. I find myself totting up my friends lives: Helen at Alciston without water; Adrian & Karin; Oliver at Bedford, & adding up rather a higher total of happiness. There’s a lull in the war. 6 nights without raids. But Garvin says the greatest struggle is about to come–say in 3 weeks–& every man, woman dog cat even weevil must girt their arms, their faith–& so on.
Its the cold hour, this, before the lights go up. A few snowdrops in the garden. Yes, I was thinking: we live without a future. Thats whats queer, with our noses pressed to a closed door. Now to write, with a new nib, to Enid Jones (354-355).
Google Doodle in commemoration of Woolf’s 136th birthday
Today would be Virginia Woolf’s 138th birthday. Garrison Keillor features her in today’s “The Writer’s Almanac,” a nice tribute.
But the most high profile tribute on the occasion of her birthday was in 2018, when she was honored by a Google Doodle. Created by London-based illustrator Louise Pomeroy, it generated a lot of publicity for Woolf, prompting a variety of birthday greetings from around the globe.
Links to a few from that year and others are below, along with Keillor’s 2020 tribute.
Jan. 25, 2018 Google Doodle in commemoration of Woolf’s 136th birthday
In 2017, the Royal Opera House asked for reader reactions to Woolf’s work in conjunction with Wayne McGregor’s ballet Woolf Works.
In 2018, the LA Times memorialized Woolf in a long article that included this sentence: “A pioneer of stream-of-conciousness writing, Woolf left behind an endlessly influential body of work,” the LA Times in 2018.
That same year, The Independentpublished Woolf quotes that pertained to various aspects of life.
