That Virginia Woolf biography I'm reading -- it's killing me.

It drags on and on and on. VW mopes and writes and gets sick. She is jealous and petty and brilliant. She is a genius. She knows it.

Every time I read something that resonates with me, I fold over the bottom of the page. The book has so many folded-over pages that it doesn't close anymore. These resonances, they are excerpts from her letters, her books, little pithy observations on the part of the author (whose trite analyses are starting to get to me). Her comments on writing and being a writer are my favorites.

What am I trying to prove to myself? That I want to be VW, that I too could be brilliant and yet flawed? The thing is, the printing press doesn't save her. Nothing does. She is brilliant and yet flawed and she throws herself into the river and kills herself.