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Shades Of Grey Through Virginia Woolf

Updated on February 3, 2016

The universe is simpler than it seems. At least in most of its sovereign amplitude. Subscribed to a belief or other, we often have the capacity to understand (or believe we do so) most of the things around us. However, we receive the inheritance of power to understand everything except ourselves. This condition, extended through the arteries of an entire society and its conventions tends to peak into certain individuals who, paradoxically, are called "geniuses" in popular culture. The formula is clear and compelling: the more complex you are the more you will cause admiration.

Reviewing the history of literature, it is not hard to find the likes of the tormented genius. In the maelstrom of romanticism, the taciturn Edgar Allan Poe faded deep in his own pain. The same happened in the twentieth century, voices like Hart Crane, Ernest Hemingway, Stefan Zweig or the splendid Sylvia Plath, whom I will just name because I would feel unworthy about it without giving the space to the significance she really deserves . The culmination of all this kind of relentlessly sad authors of an enormous talent was, however, a woman known as Virginia Woolf, whom time and perspective have put in place that deserves its extraordinary vision.

For the Woolf family, during Virginia Stephen's birth, the universe was "London gray color." Born and raised in Kensington and tanned in Bloomsbury, this woman who spent her childhood under the shelter of the Victorian past decades and exalted her youth within the vanguards europeans, greatly shone in a field that no one had explored with that fierceness up to her arrival: the narrated poetry. Virginia Woolf, from her distinctive look, imagined parallel universes in which she located, removed from reality that both drowned lifetime.

One of the many wonders that filled the history of this hardly imitable writer, beyond its innovative narrative style and its important role as an influence ahead of the avant-garde of the second half of the twentieth century, was her extraordinary love.

Virginia Woolf was an unstable and inaccessible person throughout her life. Her childhood, marked by illness, death and abuse, brought about a too heavy burden to recover the smile. However, within her complex and battered "inner", she lay a deeply rooted soul poetry, beauty and, of course, love. Not that love as an arrogant, willful, selfish concept, but a kind of clean, sincere appreciation and crystalline such as waters of the River Ouse in which the intone of arrivederci is wept.

Woolf loved and appreciated above all the man who gave her the surname, Leonard Woolf, a sober and a deliberate editor who served as a channel to prevent his wife from volatility and interpose due to his creative talent. Always she felt guilty for generating concern in their environment, eager to flee, to reinvent, to not feel pressure. Woolf lived with nostalgia under his arms, overwhelmed by a company from which an active part was never believed. Inher works she reflected her desire to portray helpless characters, paragraphs, lonely and fragile, in line with what she was and hated being.

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The feeling of attachment she always felt for her husband stuck in a sweet card that left its resting on the counter before leaving never to return, adorned with stones in his pockets and carried away by the current. The document reads:

I feel with absolute certainty that I will go crazy again. I think we can not meet again in one of those terrible times. I know that this time I can not recover. I'm beginning to hear voices, and I can not concentrate. So I do the best I can do. You have given me the greatest possible happiness. You have been in every way all you can be. I do not think I've been much happier until I've come to this terrible disease. I can not fight anymore. I know I'm ruining your life, that without me you can work. I know you will, I know. You see I can not even write this properly. I can not read. What I mean is that I owe you all the happiness I ever had in my life. You have been entirely patient with me and incredibly good. I want to say - everyone knows that. If anybody could have saved me, that someone had been you. There remains in me nothing but the certainty of your goodness. I can not go ruining your life for longer. I do not think two people could be happier than we have been you and me.

V. "

The disease that afflicted Virginia was what is now diagnosed as bipolar disorder, formerly called manic-depressive cycle. Virginia Woolf lived very hard times. Just the First World War led to an extreme pacifism, which perhaps was modified with the Nazis during World War II. Neither she nor her sister Vanessa had college education. No woman was enrolled in the major institutions of higher education during those years. After several suffragettes movement, just in 1919 the British right to vote was granted (in Mexico, of course, Mexican suffrage was decreed October 17, 1953). Feminist air, the explosive beginning of the twentieth century was just born with the brutal wound of the first great war, the friendship with the English intellectuals Bloomsbury group, where she met Leonard Woolf, and the long tail of the centuries patriarchal authoritarianism forced Virginia to become aware of her gender. For her "the angel of the house", that is, the Victorian concept of the behavior of married women had folded. Her life was devoted mainly to writing.

Woolf, Plath, Poe and many other literary geniuses suffered in their heaviness of awareness of humanity.

What did Virginia Woolf made different from their peers condition, despite everything, was an elegant way of celebrating life. Far from self-pity and regret, she was able to manage her pain and transform it into artistic passion. A passion that can be checked by reading a few lines or, if I may leave, "almost-verse" of Waves (1931). It held, like her impeccable Ms. Dalloway, to fake a smile can cause happiness on more than one occasion. She turned gray in a rainbow and danced barefoot on it. And worked. He did all her life, to show that the balm of writing relieves the pain.


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