her mother’s name was duckworth once. virginia woolf.

When I think of everything there is to know and learn, I get so excited my stomach hurts.

This evening Steph and I went for sushi but had profiteroles and petite fours instead. Then we watched The Hours and talked about Virginia Woolf and listened to the radio broadcast she did for the BBC in 1937. After that we looked through the photo album of Virginia’s father, Leslie Stephen, and wondered at paintings by her sister Vanessa.

We decided to read Mrs Dalloway together and then to buy “Afterwords: Letters on the Death of Virginia Woolf”, but only once. We reminisced about our time in Bloomsbury when we walked past the Tavistock Hotel every morning and every night and sat in Gordon Square just because our feet hurt and we could.

There are too many things I want to read and so much more I want to say but my stomach really does hurt from the profiteroles and I’m just flat out tired. The lady in the photo is Julia Jackson Duckworth Stephen, Virginia’s mother. Something about her reminds me of my own mother when she was young. I think it’s the eyes.