Virginia Woolf

Monday or Tuesday Virginia Woolf

This is how it all came about. Six or seven of us were sitting one day after tea. Some weregazing across the street into the windows of a milliner's shop where the light still shonebrightly upon scarlet feathers and golden slippers. Others were idly occupied in buildinglittle towers of sugar upon the edge of the tea tray. After a time, so far as I can remember, we drew round the fire and began as usual to praise men-how strong, how noble, howbrilliant, how courageous, how beautiful they were-how we envied those who by hook orby crook managed to get attached to one for life-when Poll, who had said nothing, burstinto tears. Poll, I must tell you, has always been queer. For one thing her father was astrange man. He left her a fortune in his will, but on condition that she read all the books inthe London Library. We comforted her as best we could; but we knew in our hearts howvain it was. For though we like her, Poll is no beauty; leaves her shoe laces untied; and musthave been thinking, while we praised men, that not one of them would ever wish to marryher. At last she dried her tears. For some time we could make nothing of what she said. Strange enough it was in all conscience. She told us that, as we knew, she spent most of hertime in the London Library, reading. She had begun, she said, with English literature on thetop floor; and was steadily working her way down to the Times on the bottom. And nowhalf, or perhaps only a quarter, way through a terrible thing had happened. She could readno more. Books were not what we thought them. "Books," she cried, rising to her feet andspeaking with an intensity of desolation which I shall never forget, "are for the most partunutterably bad!