At Byrdcliffe

September 17, 2012

Where I’ve been for the past two weeks, with one more week to go:

One Response to “At Byrdcliffe”

  1. orientalish Says:

    For your moth:
    “Now, about this book. How am I to begin it? And what is it to be? I feel no great impulse; no fever; only a great pressure of difficulty. Why write it then? Why write at all? Every morning I write a little sketch, to amuse myself. I am not saying, I might say, that these sketches have any relevance. I am not trying to tell a story. Yet perhaps it might be done in that way. A mind thinking. They might be islands of light–islands in the stream that I am trying to convey; life itself going on. The current of the moths flying strongly this way. A lamp and a flower pot in the centre. The flower can always be changing. But there must be unity between each scene than I can find at present. Autobiography it might be called. How am I to make one lap, or act, between the coming of the moths, more intense than another; if there are only scenes? One must get the sense that this is the beginning; this is the middle; that the climax–when she opens the window and the moth comes in. I shall have the two different currents–the moths flying along; the flower upright in the centre; a perpetual crumbling and renewing of the plant. It its leaves she might see things happen. But who is she? I am very anxious that she have no name…I want “she.” But that becomes arty, Liberty greenery gallery somehow; symbolic in loose robes. Of course I can make her think backwards and forwards; I can tell stories. But that’s not it. Also, I shall do away with exact place and time…”

    Virginia Woolf on “The Moths”

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