She has been reading Debbie: An Epic, amazing text that it is. “Unhappy, frugal/hope has made me dote and vainly tell/of parts obscene below the waves’ crescent/now flecking heaven’s screen with stuttered light…”. Thinking of how essential the layout of the text is. One might say particularly in this poem, but not, no, it’s particularly in any poem.
January 25, 1918, Diary of Virginia Woolf, Vol 1, ed. Anne Oliver Bell.
“My Birthday. L. slid a fine cow’s horn knife into my hand this morning. Nelly has knitted me a pair of red socks which tie round the ankle, & thus just suit my state in the morning…”
That much better now that I know Art Spiegleman was the man responsible.
So long, flog.