2. Favourite female writer.
Virginia Woolf. Hands down. I read basically all of her books for a tutorial at Oxford and the experience blew my mind. I basically wrote 8 essays about novel structure and it was SO FORMATIVE. Sob. EDUCATION. Also, To the Lighthouse is my favorite book, to the point where I basically have it memorized, and I read A Room of One’s Own at exactly the right age. She is essential.
Secondarily: George Eliot, Charlotte Brontë, Zadie Smith, etc etc.
15. Favourite lay-out design.
Charlotte and I have both squinted at this and concluded that we have NO IDEA WHAT IT MEANS.
28. A book that was a waste of your time.
The Mayor of Casterbridge, except insofar as it convinced me to NEVER READ ANY OTHER THOMAS HARDY EVER AGAIN IN MY LIFE. Except that I will probably still read Tess at some point, so yes: a waste of time.
What is the meaning of life? That was all — a simple question; one that tended to close in on one with years, the great revelation had never come. The great revelation perhaps never did come. Instead, there were little daily miracles, illuminations, matches struck unexpectedly in the dark; here was one.
It is curious how, at every crisis, some phrase which does not fit insists upon coming to the rescue—the penalty of living in an old civilisation with a notebook.
I have had one moment of enormous peace. This perhaps is happiness.
I detest the masculine point of view. I am bored by his heroism, virtue, and honour. I think the best these men can do is not talk about themselves anymore.
It was awful, he cried, awful, awful!
Still, the sun was hot. Still, one got over things.
Still, life had a way of adding day to day.