Writing this Virginia Woolf paper, I feel as though she and I are engaged in a battle of wills. I have to wrestle with her for every sentence of analysis; I have to put her in a headlock to obtain an entire paragraph. Virginia (as you may have experienced, grappling with someone typically puts you on a first-name basis with them) is the most present of any author whose works I’ve read. I’m not sure how to explain this, exactly. I’m not seeing visions of her (our sparring is purely imaginative), but I feel her. Sometimes when I’m frustrated over a contradiction I’ve just discovered in my thesis, or utterly unable to decipher a passage, I look up from Mac and say aloud, “I am not afraid of you. Let me write this, please!” Sometimes, Virginia seems to relent, but sometimes she crosses her lace-covered arms and looks down her nose at me. She has a long nose, but the effect is still good. She twitches an eyebrow (and I am terribly embarrassed to admit to myself that she looks like Nicole Kidman in The Hours). I tremble and shed a few tears and flop back against my pillows and attempt to recover my dignity. I think that’s what Virginia would have done to people in real life. I think she quietly, sometimes humorously, floored people.
I’m going to get back to it now. Virginia is eating the Sour Skittles I got on Halloween and pursing her lips in the most Victorian manner possible. Oops, now she’s futzing with my electric hair dryer. I may have to give her a book and make her sit in the corner until I’m through. I highly doubt, however, that I’ll be able to prevent her from giving me that look and from calling out highly inappropriate quips every fifteen minutes or so.
I’m not seeing visions. 7.5 pages to go.