Lost Hours

Sleep, that deplorable curtailment of the joy of life.

-Virginia Woolf

Since the movie The Hours, and having read the Cunningham book (which won the Pulitzer) I have become interested in Woolf. I am aware that she had a very sharp mind and some riveting ideas. She is one of those artists that placed such a high value in quality that she could not live with herself if she failed to produce to that standard. That is a quality I respect very much in an artist.

Another thing Woolf said that I clearly remember is something to the effect that: 'unless you write about something, it hasn't happened.' Words, in a way, give eternity, give some sort of credence to otherwise unremembered, and unrelated events. The way we clothe our experiences is the way we see our lives and soon the way we live them. Words are the cloth, the fabric, of whatever we say we believe. Words are where we bury our representations of life. When we don't put these into words, they are lost forever. Some might say this is good. That the present is a fleeting, once-off experience, and can only be lived once. Not annalysed, not re-captured. Words may also be a futile attempt at recovering lost life.

The most powerful effect of writing, I feel, is that it allows you intimate access to the workings of another mind. It is a way to meet individuals you could never meet in Real Life. Most recently, I have done this by listening to the audio version of My Life, by Bill Clinton. At times, it is bewitching.

Even so, I find Mrs Dalloway (one of Woolf's most famous works)to be impenetrable and to be honest, boring. I am trying to get into the flow of it, but not succeeding. It is a brilliant book to put most men and me to sleep though. Time to find a pillow and lose some more hours of life.