The paradox of immortal words.

Writers, poets and artists are perpetually glorified and their lifestyles admired. But do we ever stop to think about the pain that is driving the passion within a novel, the desperation within a song, or the anger within the perfect curves, sketched violently by an artist?

Virginia Woolf, well known writer and  a modernist of the twentieth century, with works so timeless that they’re alive to date, committed suicide. She walked into the water after stuffing stones inside her coat’s pockets, so that there was no chance of survival. This was her parting letter to her husband. When this letter was shared in my literature class, I was truly moved.

Dearest,

I feel certain that I am going mad again. I feel we can’t go through another of those terrible times. And I shan’t recover this time. I begin to hear voices, and I can’t concentrate. So I am doing what seems the best thing to do. You have given me the greatest possible happiness. You have been in every way all that anyone could be. I don’t think two people could have been happier till this terrible disease came. I can’t fight any longer. I know that I am spoiling your life, that without me you could work. And you will I know. You see I can’t even write this properly. I can’t read. What I want to say is I owe all the happiness of my life to you. You have been entirely patient with me and incredibly good. I want to say that — everybody knows it. If anybody could have saved me it would have been you. Everything has gone from me but the certainty of your goodness. I can’t go on spoiling your life any longer.

I don’t think two people could have been happier than we have been.

V.