signed first edition
1937 · England
by WOOLF, VIRGINIA
England: np, 1937. First edition. Very Good. VIRGINIA WOOLF ON THE ANXIETY OF WRITING. The letter:
Dated 22nd of August, 1937, the letter reads in full:
Dear Mrs. Laurie,
I must thank you for your letter, though I'm afraid I often leave letters unanswered. But it gave me real pleasure. Writing books often seems a useless occupation: it is a great encouragement when, now & again, somebody like yourself, makes one feel that the time one has spent on them has not been wasted.
Thank you again. And with best wishes. I am your sincerely
Virginia Woolf
Background:
Every writer, no matter how successful, or how prolific, must feel a little nervous when a new book of theirs is published. For Virginia Woolf, though, “a little nervous” would be a great understatement. Immediately before the publication of a new book, Woolf would usually experience acute bouts of mental distress worrying about the book’s reception. While writing a book, she was living in her head, in her imagination. Her writing was difficult, experimental, avant-garde, and at its core, it was a profoundly intimate expression of her thoughts. If a book was understood by the public – at least by those she cared about – it was no less than a validation of her sanity. If she failed to communicate her thoughts in her writing, failed to connect with people, there was a chance – in her mind – that she had sunk into insanity. The stakes, for her, were very, very high.
In 1937, before the publication of her novel, The Years, she was again experiencing such a period of doubt and despair. She wrote in her diary on February 20th:
“I turn my eyes away from the Press as I go upstairs, because there are all the review copies of The Years packed and packing. They go out next week: this is my last week-end of comparative peace. What do I anticipate with such clammy coldness? I think chiefly that my friends won’t mention it; will turn the conversation rather awkwardly… [Others] will joyfully and loudly announce that this is the long-drawn twaddle of a prim and prudish bourgeois mind, and say that now no one can take Mrs. W. seriously again…”
And on March 1:
“I wish I could write out my sensations at this moment. They are so peculiar and so unpleasant… A physical feeling as if I were drumming slightly in the veins: very cold: impotent: terrified. As if I were exposed on a high ledge in full light… As if something cold and horrible – a roar of laughter at my expense were about to happen…”
And the next day:
“I’m going to be beaten, I’m going to be laughed at, I’m going to be held up to scorn and ridicule…”
It turns out that her anxiety was in vain. When The Years was published, it was highly-regarded by the critics and sold very well.
So in this letter, when she thanks a reader for giving her “real pleasure” through praise of her work, it is not idle thanks. Writing books often seemed like a useless occupation to her and to connect with a reader was indeed a “great encouragement” and, most importantly, a relief.
Autograph Letter Signed [ALS]. One page of Woolf’s Monk’s House letterhead, (6.5 x 8 inches). With original mailing envelope written in Woolf’s hand, with stamp and postmark (23 August 1937). Mailing folds, A few spots of foxing to letter, moderate foxing on envelope. Woolf’s handwriting crisp, with ink strong. Housed in custom presentation folder.
Reference:
Quentin Bell. Virginia Woolf: A Biography. (Inventory #: 2920)
Dated 22nd of August, 1937, the letter reads in full:
Dear Mrs. Laurie,
I must thank you for your letter, though I'm afraid I often leave letters unanswered. But it gave me real pleasure. Writing books often seems a useless occupation: it is a great encouragement when, now & again, somebody like yourself, makes one feel that the time one has spent on them has not been wasted.
Thank you again. And with best wishes. I am your sincerely
Virginia Woolf
Background:
Every writer, no matter how successful, or how prolific, must feel a little nervous when a new book of theirs is published. For Virginia Woolf, though, “a little nervous” would be a great understatement. Immediately before the publication of a new book, Woolf would usually experience acute bouts of mental distress worrying about the book’s reception. While writing a book, she was living in her head, in her imagination. Her writing was difficult, experimental, avant-garde, and at its core, it was a profoundly intimate expression of her thoughts. If a book was understood by the public – at least by those she cared about – it was no less than a validation of her sanity. If she failed to communicate her thoughts in her writing, failed to connect with people, there was a chance – in her mind – that she had sunk into insanity. The stakes, for her, were very, very high.
In 1937, before the publication of her novel, The Years, she was again experiencing such a period of doubt and despair. She wrote in her diary on February 20th:
“I turn my eyes away from the Press as I go upstairs, because there are all the review copies of The Years packed and packing. They go out next week: this is my last week-end of comparative peace. What do I anticipate with such clammy coldness? I think chiefly that my friends won’t mention it; will turn the conversation rather awkwardly… [Others] will joyfully and loudly announce that this is the long-drawn twaddle of a prim and prudish bourgeois mind, and say that now no one can take Mrs. W. seriously again…”
And on March 1:
“I wish I could write out my sensations at this moment. They are so peculiar and so unpleasant… A physical feeling as if I were drumming slightly in the veins: very cold: impotent: terrified. As if I were exposed on a high ledge in full light… As if something cold and horrible – a roar of laughter at my expense were about to happen…”
And the next day:
“I’m going to be beaten, I’m going to be laughed at, I’m going to be held up to scorn and ridicule…”
It turns out that her anxiety was in vain. When The Years was published, it was highly-regarded by the critics and sold very well.
So in this letter, when she thanks a reader for giving her “real pleasure” through praise of her work, it is not idle thanks. Writing books often seemed like a useless occupation to her and to connect with a reader was indeed a “great encouragement” and, most importantly, a relief.
Autograph Letter Signed [ALS]. One page of Woolf’s Monk’s House letterhead, (6.5 x 8 inches). With original mailing envelope written in Woolf’s hand, with stamp and postmark (23 August 1937). Mailing folds, A few spots of foxing to letter, moderate foxing on envelope. Woolf’s handwriting crisp, with ink strong. Housed in custom presentation folder.
Reference:
Quentin Bell. Virginia Woolf: A Biography. (Inventory #: 2920)
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