of familiarity that should not be

One must begin Mrs. Dalloway alone on the roof. Discovered this this afternoon in a Woolf class. This woman, this woman who wrote from age five, because she must. This woman who, preoccupied with The Mother tried, tried ever so often to end everything - or did it not become consoling to believe that death ended absolutely - overjoyed at getting the right to write anything at all, for it cohered her, healed her, made her one self. She who placed herself next to Mansfield and shrugged, meh; I ought to do better. She of the acid-tongue journalistic school; she who hated to love.

One must not proceed in this vein because of course, there will never be a Lenny, oh Lenny but also because there will never be death by water. For even though, when one first heard of how Woolf walked into Hades, at eight - when she knew all about wolves and beetles, but not in Uppercase - and one tried re-enacting it, it was all in queerious jest; it was after all, stones in fist because swimsuits don't come with pockets, because it was not a river but the ocean inlet at Corbyn's Cove. Analogies are dangerous.

One must beware of those who seem to get too much. Besides, one was born into sane family and cats and dogs, heralding the twenty-first century. It shall take forever for a room of one's own but still there's the water tank and a ladder leading up to it.
Alas, At last, At least a reason to thank one's anachronistic existence.