The Talented Mr. Ripley- Fix the Unfixable

"Don't you just take the past, and put it in a room in the basement, and lock the door and never go in there? That's what I do. "

"Don't you just take the past and put it in a room in a basement and lock the door and never go in there? That's what I do, And then you meet someone special and all you want to do is to toss them the key and say; open up, step inside, but you can't, because it's dark, There's demons and if anybody saw how ugly it is. I keep wanted to do that, fling the door open just let light in and clean everything out. "

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As I was watching this movie, all of a sudden I was reminded by the Picture of Dorian Gray. After Ripley's second murder, it struck me- he's digging his own grave. One could sense the desperation by his actions. He didn't care who he killed next, as long as it fixed the problem. This need to "fix things" through murder reminded me of the things that Dorian did to also get out of the situation. Of course this action was extremely irrational, because people cannot just disappear. I mean, they soon will be missed. And yet, this wasn't thought about by both characters in the moment of panic. Their impulse was to kill, and if that person was eliminated, then the problem would go away. I think for both of them, after the first murder, it was something they just felt they had to do. Murder was the solution.

And just like Dorian, I think Tom is going to end up killing himself after the last scene. There is no possible way he can consciously survive after all that he had done. Dorian couldn't take it because he visually saw what he had become... although both characters started out as very naive. I think Dorian remained naive until the end, even after all the murders. Tom on the other hand seemed to suppress his guilt and succeed in doing so. His personality, or character as one may say, would be harder to break because his soul wasn't so pure. This lack of purity stems from his dejection from reality. He doesn't seem to see things as their happening, but only jumps from one action to the other. He doesn't reflect about his actions at all, because he knows that would be the death of him. Dorian not only reflected on what he had become, but he saw it in front of his eyes, and therefore could not avoid it any longer. But if something is pushed down so hard into the unconscious, it is so easy to live with the growing guilt, until one day the unconscious breaks loose into your entire world. One cannot escape their unconscious forever...it will find a way to make itself known. But once Tom reflects on what he has done, then he will have to kill himself, because after that realization, one cannot physically carry on this life. Guilt does not let one live. Which is why it either leads to suicide or complete denial. Of course that is on the cynical side. Now, if one has murdered and gives into the guilt, and finds a way to make amends not only with the world but with oneself, then one can escape. To accept the guilt and the fault is freedom... something Dorian and Tom did not realize.

La mare au diable (Devil's Pool) by George Sand

"The man who draws in noble joy from the poetic feeling is a true poet, though he has never written a verse all his life."

"I could help to make Nature fruitful, and sing of her gifts, without ceasing to see with my eyes or understand with my brain harmonious colors and sounds, delicate shades and graceful outlines; in short, the mysterious beauty of all things. And above all, if my heart continued to beat in concert with the divine sentiment that presided over the immortal sublimity of creation."

"I see the seal of the Lord upon their noble brows, for they were born to inherit the earth far more truly than those who have bought and paid for it. The proof that they feel this is that they cannot be exiled with impunity, that they love the soil they have watered with their tears, and that the true peasant dies of homesickness under the arms of a soldier far from his native field."


"Next year that furrow will be filled and covered by a fresh one. Thus disappear most of the footprints made by man in the field of human life. A little earth obliterates them, and the furrows we have dug succeed one another like graves in a cemetery. Is not the furrow of the laborer of as much value as that of the idler, even if that idler, by some absurd chance, have made a little noise in the world, and left behind him an abiding name?"

"And he went away musing as men do whose thoughts are too few to divide into hostile factions, not scraping up fine arguments for rebellion and selfishness but suffering from a dull grief, submissive to ills from which there is no escape."

How simple. No explanations


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I thought this was an adorable story by George Sand. The simplicity of the peasant was so marvelously portrayed. Sand describes the hard life of the peasant, and how he is too practical to be conscious of the beauty around him. "He lacks the consciousness of his sentiment." And yet, if the peasant did recognize the beauty in every leaf, every grain of dirt...would he still be a peasant? I think the peasant does much more than recognize beauty, he lives it. Poets spend all of their time trying to capture beauty, but they are always observers of something that is beyond them. Simple people don't philosophize about it, but just live along with it. There's something so dignifying about this, it is very admirable.
I was slightly disappointed with the character of Marie. I don't know, I always looked up to George Sand, for her strong female characters that aren't all perfect and noble, such as in Lelia. Marie seemed to be just the typical, noble, strong woman that has a correct answer for everything. Those type of characters are annoying, because they don't show any weakness. Weakness is beautiful because it is human. The character was too perfect for my taste. She suddenly became maternal and bold. For instance, I thought her conduct with German was too bold, giving him advice (a grown man) and pretty much ordering him around. And here Germain became like a little boy himself, asking this little girl for advice when she clearly had no experience of family life. His tone was rather annoying too, because he seemed to treat her extremely delicately, like a 5 year old girl, as if he was afraid she would fly into a little girl tantrum. I don't know, this caution was rather odd.

And at the end, when he asked her to marry him, honestly it was just sickening. First of all, he still used the term "little girl", clearly not recognizing her womanhood and the fact that she would be his partner in this marriage. He was talking for her, filling in the words as if she wasn't capable of any thought. "Poor little girl, you have a kind heart, I know;" I was curious whether he even viewed her as a woman in the end. Will she always be a little girl to him?

What I did like about this story was that the narrator, whomever that may be, "recorded" the story of a man that will never be famous. The narrator even says, "He will never know or care, but I shall take pleasure in my talk." How marvelous that is, because German himself doesn't matter, but the story he has to tell- his story will live on. I actually do understand the peasant. Since I am Romanian, I have always heard about the hard life a peasant leads, and yet my what a beautiful world they've created about them. Well, aside from all the drinking, they have such simple and yet tasty foods, dances, and goodness! The peasant language- it is like nothing else! The humor, the stories, the phrases, the richness! And even in Russian literature, one sees the suffering and yet the day to day triumph of the peasant. And so yes, I agree, these stories are worth telling, because actually, if one strips society, one ends up with the most simplistic way of life: which is the peasant's.

Of course I have criticized this book way too much, and it honestly was a very adorable story.

--
Translated by Jane Minot Sedgwick and Ellery Sedgwick 1901

Secret Journal 1836-1837 by Pushkin

A note for the reader of this post:
Dear reader, be warned that this diary of Pushkin doesn't resemble the least sense of vulgarity in his books, but instead overflows with it. If you were to read his diary, you would understand. I tried not to include many quote with "naughty" terms in them, but sometimes it couldn't be helped. Anyways, I think it's fair to mention because such words are a sort of taboo in today's society. Well, onward.
--

"I look at my hand as it writes these lines and try to visualize it dead, as a piece of my skeleton, buried in the ground. Although this fate is undeniable, I am unable to imagine it. The trustworthiness of death is the only indisputable truth, and despite that it is the most difficult to comprehend, whereas we can easily and thoughtlessly accept and believe many different lies."
"Her mother is a real bitch, mad at everybody because no one besides the stablemen at Polotnyani Zavod wanted to screw her. She would not have minded laying under me, I think, but of course I did not care."

This was my first shock... and more are to follow. I think it depicts a slight immaturity on Pushkin's part...

"She oppressed her daughters in many ways and kept them as if they were in a convent. I watched N.’s sisters and thought of turning that convent into my harem."

"Our honeymoon flew by in sweet education: I was learning the tongue her body speaks and N. learned to respond not only to my tongue. My persistence and her diligence brought her more and more often to rapturous screams, which sounded like music to me."

I wanted to quote this one to show how he's still witty when he's describing something that is extremely immodest (especially during that time). He writes this extremely well, and such witticism is to flow through the entire journal. You see, he is Pushkin through and through, no matter what he's writing about.

"The difference between a wife and a lover is that with a wife you go to bed without lust. This is why marriage is sacred, because lust is gradually excluded from it and the relationship becomes just friendly, even indifferent or often hostile. It is then that the naked body is not considered a sin, because it no longer tempts."

"Death is the most reliable way to stay faithful to your sweetheart."

"I understand the reason for Romeo and Juliet's suicide. They acted intuitively, without understanding, but with the same purpose - to stay faithful to their lovers even after death, which is impossible for any young, beautiful living body."

"I told myself over and over again that a poet cannot live without quivering and is not intended for the world of marriage." "And a wife's name should be inviolate."

How extremely ironic. He doesn't have a problem with cheating on her, but once another man uses N.'s name vulgarly, he cannot stand it. This shows how much he loved his wife, and viewing her as an ideal figure.

"The human being is a creation of God, and human society is the creation of the Devil." "The nuptial bed is the cradle of passion, which turns into its grave." "My library is my harem."
"In India, they kill the wife and bury her with her dead husband. It is easy to imagine how a wife nurses her sick husband and cherishes him. Fear of her own death is an excellent incetive to love and devotion.

He's actually serious. I love his cleverness in this, even though it is extremely crude.
"The stronger the desire a man has, the less capable he is of distinguishing the word "woman" from the word "cunt." The only thing that opens his eyes to the existence in a woman of something besides cunt is satisfied desire. That is why the smart woman first of all gives herself to a man - to free his imagination from her cunt so that, sated with cunt, he becomes capable of appreciating her mind, talent, kindness and all the fineness she possesses."

"I long ago looked for the pistols at Kurakin's, and I drop in there from time to time to glance at my death. I look into the blackness of the muzzle where my fate hides and asks, 'When?' The pistols lying in the case reminds me of two sixes mutliplied. The number mimics my 36 years in 1836 and 6 from N. who is 24 (2+4). It is the Devil's figure, and I am scared of it." "I do not doubt the purpose of my life when the Muse or Venus visits me. But their visits are short, and once they leave me, my emotional sufferings envelop me and I cannot find the answer to an even simpler question: how to live. My life becomes too complex and all the threads of my deeds tie in knots and I cannot untangle them. But I cannot live with them, so I must cut them."

The poet.

"I cannot be faithful to my wife, but I value most of all faithfulness in others men's wives and demand it inflexibly from my own. I even drew her an example in Tatyana."

This forever changed my perception of Eugene Onegin. Now I will forever think about Pushkin's personal life when I read his works.

" I watch her trembling when she sees d'Antes, and I admire the strength of her character in choosing duty and rejecting passion. But with his impetuosity, she will not be able to hold back forever, so I must help her. How bitter it is fro me to write about it." "I am drawn to jump into the abyss not by a desire to die but by the total oblivion of it."

In some ways, throughout his life, he was searching for this oblivion.

"When a body falls into a real abyss, it is pulverized, but the soul revives. Does it? Because of this doubt, I fear death, or else I would jump over and over. "When you plunge into the abyss, you live counted moments, during which nothing can affect your submission to God. You fly within his power, completely free of their laws. These are moments when you are face to face with God. You are alive and nothing can stop the approaching Truth."

This process he compares to sex, even though he says he's afraid of death. So I guess he is afraid of the ultimate Truth. But, what is the Truth?? Is it death?

"I see myself dying, looking at books, trees, miserable that I will never see all that again."

His tragic end, and yet a great exit:

"Pushkin was fatally wounded in the stomach by Dantes, who shot first. Pushkin gathered his last strength and shot at Dantes. The bullet ricocheted off a metal button on Dantes' uniform, which saved his life. Rumor said that the Tsar sent his men to stop the duel but that they were sent to the wrong place on purpose. After Pushkin's death, Dantes was demoted to the rank of private and expelled from Russia. He left for France with his wife, where they lived the rest of their lives. Pushkin's widow was mourning for Pushkin for two years and remarried in 1844".

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First off, I think it is my duty to mention that this was the most vulgar book I've ever read. And yes I do realize that I only need to pick up any young adult novel to get a taste of vulgarity- but still, this isn't any average author, this is the great master: Pushkin himself. And it is incredibly ironic, because I don't think the rest of the world truly knows what he was like. For instance, my Grandma (she was forced to read all Russian literature due to the communists) praised Pushkin for his Christian principles, and his love for his wife. But in his defense, it isn't just vulgarity... because under that vulgarity lies a deep meaning, his attempt to search for Truth. The man was truly messed up- to put it into modern terms. He was struggling with an unsatisfiable passion and yet trying to preserve his love for his wife. Because, yes, he did love her in his own way. And actually, I think he slept around so much, because of her. Because she was so perfect.

I will modeslty try to breach upon a very "sketchy" (what the kids of today apparently use) subject: mainly his obsession with the female sex organ. He uses a horribly attrocious term, but maybe it seems so because of this this wonderful conservative American society preserving our naive little ears from such a raw term. Personally, I cannot bring myself to use it. Anyways, I find it extremely interesting that he mentally separates the vagina from the female body: he doesn't view it as being part of the whole, the woman. He constantly capitalizes the word, emphasizing this point. He says he worships it. You see, he doesn't worship the woman itself, but only the organ that gives him pleasure. The woman might as well not have been attached to it, as he put it. When in reality, the organ is part OF the woman. Pushkin sees this the other way around. I think this affects his view upon women, since he just sees them as "possessors" of the vagina, so this makes it easier for him to move from one to the other. He's dehumanizing women, by making their sex organ their identity.

Even after reading this, I still maintain that Pushkin is an extremely complex writer. Even in this diary he cleverly describes everything, and his wit can be clearly seen. It makes it entertaining. Throughout his "escapades" Pushkin is still trying to cope with marriage and his pure love for his wife, and the fact that she doesn't love him. Maybe that is why he was trying to protect her faithfulness, because in his eyes, she was still an ideal, still the love of his life.

This wasn't published because of the censorship in Russia. It makes me think whether all the Russian authors thought like this, (not exactly like Pushkin) but indulge in this vulgarity. Because their works are absolutely stupendous and very very modest. I think that is why I was so shocked when I read his diary, because I was expecting something along the lines of Eugene Onegin, something pure and innocent. But at heart, I think he really was, even at his most grotesque points in his life. He has this marvelous childish heart that can be clearly seen in anything he writes.

I will end, and agreeing with, Mikhail Armalinsky (the one who published this journal) remark about this "explosive" journal:

"Pushkin's literary reputation is so strong that his personal reputation could not shake it, but on the contrary promises us a remarkable study of human nature, which, because of its immutability, makes us all one with the past as well as the future."

--
Published by M.I.P Company (http://www.mipco.com/english/push.html)

Mrs. Dalloway by Virginia Woolf

"So on a summer’s day waves collect, overbalance, and fall; collect and fall; and the whole world seems to be saying ‘that is all’ more and more ponderously, until even the heart in the body which lies in the sun on the beach says too, That is all. Fear no more, says the heart. Fear no more, says the heart, committing its burden to some sea, which sighs collectively for all sorrows, and renews, begins, collects, lets fall. And the body alone listens to the passing bee; the wave breaking; the dog barking, far away barking and barking."

"[...]was overcome with his own grief, which rose like a moon looked at from a terrace, ghastly beautiful with light from the sunken day."

Transferring feelings into the environment.

"I was more unhappy than I’ve ever been since, he thought. And as if in truth he were sitting there on the terrace he edged a little towards Clarissa; put his hand out; raised it; let it fall. There above them it hung, that moon. She too seemed to be sitting with him on the terrace, in the moonlight."

Incorporating her into the scene of his feelings.

"It is half-past eleven, she says, and the sound of St. Margaret’s glides into the recesses of the heart and buries itself in ring after ring of sound, like something alive which wants to confide itself, to disperse itself, to be, with a tremor of delight, at rest."

"And why had he been so profoundly happy when the clock was striking? Then, as the sound of St. Margaret’s languished, he thought, She has been ill, and the sound expressed languor and suffering. It was her heart, he remembered; and the sudden loudness of the final stroke tolled for death that surprised in the midst of life, Clarissa falling where she stood, in her drawing-room. No! No! he cried. She is not dead! I am not old, he cried, and marched up Whitehall, as if there rolled down to him, vigorous, unending, his future."

She's dead inside. humorous.

"And it was smashed to atoms — his fun, for it was half made up, as he knew very well; invented, this escapade with the girl; made up, as one makes up the better part of life, he thought — making oneself up; making her up; creating an exquisite amusement, and something more. But odd it was, and quite true; all this one could never share — it smashed to atoms."

A whole lifetime was too short to bring out, now that one had acquired the power, the full flavour; to extract every ounce of pleasure, every shade of meaning; which both were so much more solid than they used to be, so much less personal.

"[...] and she no longer saw, when she implored him (as she did now quite clearly) ‘look in my eyes with thy sweet eyes intently,’ she no longer saw brown eyes, black whiskers or sunburnt face, but only a looming shape, a shadow shape, to which, with the bird-like freshness of the very aged, she still twittered ‘give me your hand and let me press it gently’ (Peter Walsh couldn’t help giving the poor creature a coin as he stepped into his taxi), ‘and if some one should see, what matter they?’ she demanded; and her fist clutched at her side, and she smiled, pocketing her shilling, and all peering inquisitive eyes seemed blotted out, and the passing generations — the pavement was crowded with bustling middle-class people — vanished, like leaves, to be trodden under, to be soaked and steeped and made mould of by that eternal spring — ee um fah um so foo swee too eem oo."

Everything fades into the earth.

"One cannot bring children into a world like this. One cannot perpetuate suffering, or increase the breed of these lustful animals, who have no lasting emotions, but only whims and vanities, eddying them now this way, now that."

crude

"But even Holmes himself could not touch this last relic straying on the edge of the world, this outcast, who gazed back at the inhabited regions, who lay, like a drowned sailor, on the shore of the world."

What she liked was simply life.
‘That’s what I do it for,’ she said, speaking aloud, to life.

Sense of romantic optimism.

"But to go deeper, beneath what people said (and these judgements, how superficial, how fragmentary they are!) in her own mind now, what did it mean to her, this thing she called life? Oh, it was very queer. Here was So-and-so in South Kensington; some one up in Bayswater; and somebody else, say, in Mayfair. And she felt quite continuously a sense of their existence; and she felt what a waste; and she felt what a pity; and she felt if only they could be brought together; so she did it. And it was an offering; to combine, to create; but to whom? An offering for the sake of offering, perhaps. Anyhow, it was her gift."

She loved to bring people together.

"You were given a sharp, acute, uncomfortable grain — the actual meeting; horribly painful as often as not; yet in absence, in the most unlikely places, it would flower out, open, shed its scent, let you touch, taste, look about you, get the whole feel of it and understanding, after years of lying lost."

"Absorbing, mysterious, of infinite richness, this life."

"It was extraordinary how Peter put her into these states just by coming and standing in a corner. He made her see herself; exaggerate. It was idiotic."

"Every time she gave a party she had this feeling of being something not herself, and that every one was unreal in one way; much more real in another."

"Somehow it was her disaster — her disgrace. It was her punishment to see sink and disappear here a man, there a woman, in this profound darkness, and she forced to stand here in her evening dress. She had schemed; she had pilfered."

Why does she take it to heart so?

"She was going to bed, in the room opposite. It was fascinating to watch her, moving about, that old lady, crossing the room, coming to the window. Could she see her? It was fascinating, with people still laughing and shouting in the drawing-room, to watch that old woman, quite quietly, going to bed alone."

"She felt somehow very like him — the young man who had killed himself. She felt glad that he had done it; thrown it away while they went on living."

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I was pretty much forced to read this book due to the film The Hours. I wanted to understand the movie, and I've come to realize that one doesn't really understand the movie until one reads Mrs. Dalloway. Throughout the whole book I was imagining the characters portrayed in the movie, and how each one fits in Virginia Woolf's story.
But really, one needs to read the book. This beautiful charm of Virginia is really not portrayed in the movie. She is so witty and humorous in the writing, even if she writes about very dramatic things like suicide- she adds a certain graceful lightness to it. It's wonderful to read. Actually, this novel of her showed me her true voice the most. Sarcasm coupled with empathy is actually very refreshing. She seems to really understand every single one of her characters. Even Mrs. Dalloway. I mean, she understands that Richard wasn't her love, and that she spent her life regretting her mistake, and yet at the same time to look with hope towards the future. This character is extremely interesting because she is not superficial, although she may seem so. Even Peter thinks that in some ways she is superficial. But no, I think she is much more complex than what people see. I think that she naively, although proven wrong again and again, believes in the goodness of human nature. That is why she gives parties, to enjoy this marvelous interaction between people she knows. She wants everyone else to share in her riches, and thinks that everyone can benefit. She just wants to share her wealth. I love the way she was watching the old woman in the middle of the party. This doesn't show that she's unhappy, not necessarily- but she enjoys the small things in life, the simple things. She doesn't forget about the simple things. And I think that is essential to her character, because it makes her such a deep person. She understands suffering, like the suicide's suffering, but also understands that life is exciting and fresh- and she desperately wants to enjoy that.
Although, why does she take her parties so seriously? That is my question. Why does she focus on them so much? Maybe she is putting such a stress on herself, and the whole superficiallity of the world is trying to take over her. Because even though one has good intentions, that doesn't mean that the superficiallity of others won't affect her. And maybe she sees this. Peter is a marvelous contrast to her. Because he resembles what she really is at heart. She IS this deep thinker that just really wants to enjoy life. Interestingly enough, she wants to use this joy of life in a social setting- which is really hard to do, since society usually standardizes everything, and kills anything that is original and fresh.

I think that Mrs. Dalloway wants to return to the person she really is, the young girl that spent that day with Peter:
"She put on her hat, and ran through cornfields -where could it have been? — on to some hill, somewhere near the sea, for there were ships, gulls, butterflies; they sat on a cliff. In London, too, there they sat, and, half dreaming, came to her through the bedroom door, rain falling, whisperings, stirrings among dry corn, the caress of the sea, as it seemed to her, hollowing them in its arched shell and murmuring to her laid on shore, strewn she felt, like flying flowers over some tomb."
She spent her whole life longing for that moment of freedom, and yet trying to put up with society's constrains. We see this marvelous contrast between what she was, wild and free, and what she is now, trying to make the best of the cage she was trapped in.

Most of all, I loved the way Virginia flowed from one story to another- I thought that was absolutely superb, and so enjoyable to read. She connected every character to each other, which is so true- this human universality. Her exploration of time, and the way it gently rocked back and forth, past and present, is outstanding.

Although, I didn't pick up on the lesbiaonic (apparently not a word) allusion. So sorry to have missed that, but I usually don't pick up on subtle things like that. Maybe because it's more modern than what I'm used to.

Published by Everyman's Library (Knopff Book)

Sand or Woolf?

And as I am currently reading Mrs. Dalloway-since in a sudden moment of inspiration I re-watched The Hours and wanted to watch that movie supposedly where Nicole Kidman plays Virginia. I initially didn't post this just so I can talk about the movie (I doubt that I'm a very good film-critic) but really from my "instinct" about Virginia Woolf, Nicole plays her way too cold and crazy. Virginia seems to strike me more "cheery" in her style. She has such a tremendous elegance and class in her writing, that is coupled with sarcasm and a slight sense of humour. It's actually quite enjoyable. Most of the world out there (eh, what does the world know?) seems to think she was some sort of strange maniac. But I find her quite good-natured and sane. She has marvelous observations about the characters she describes, that is so down-to-earth. I mean, the way she weaves the past, and the future at the same time as the present is really something I've never seen before in writing. She seems to play with time. And she does it with such ease! I don't know, she would seem like such an interesting person to chat with over a glass of wine...
Now, George Sand I've admired for a very long time- since I've read her first novel Marianne. She seems to have such strength in her writing, and the way she lived her life. I mean, come on, even Turgenev went to visit her. Just imagine, all the wonderful male contemporaries of her day coming especially to pay her a visit! That must've been such an honor, and just shows how respected she was. Maybe I was influenced by the portrait of her in male clothing, but she strikes me as a very charming, feminine woman with a slight masculine edge. Masculine- as in this wish to make oneself known in a form of a revolution; and yes, even a literary one. She has marvelous concepts, and has made me be less sexist of female authors. (I am female by the way, so I think I have the right). Anyways, not to get off topic- my question is: Who would I rather meet, George Sand or Virginia Woolf? And after reading George Sand, I really wanted to be like her- a woman that isn't really distracted by males, but succeeds to be almost one of them (almost, I say, because she undeniably possesses this female charm in her writing, that gives her novels such an interesting perspective), which of course the male authors lack. Now, Virginia Woolf also has this wonderful sense of knowing people and their desires. But, in my opinion, she has something more- she seems to have this playful attitude and yet the same time being very serious. It's as if she is playing with words and concepts, but in the end everything unites forming something very profound. Her personality is revealed through her humor and sarcasm, which is something very enjoyable.
So-I pick Virginia Woolf. Not only does she keep her femininity, she also invites one to have a casual chat with her- no matter how many hundreds of years in between.

Oh, and let's just go a bit farther with this impossible wish- what would I say to this
incredible woman?

Well, I would ask her why she was so unhappy, and why she couldn't let go of her mind? Because it seems to me that was her problem, (from what I've heard of her)- she was too much in her mind, and therefore, very lonely. Like in her Night and Day. Whether she believes in God- because that would tell me a lot, and if she would pick one thing she wanted most in life what would that be?

To Virginia Woolf, cheers!

So chic with her fur coat