TO: LEONARD WOOLF
Rodmell,
Sussex
Tuesday (18? March 1941)
Dearest, I feel certain 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.
March 28, 1941. After writing that note to her husband, Virginia Woolf put rocks in her pockets and drowned herself in the River Ouse.
Painful to read, and, for me, still difficult to understand. At best, I guess I can accept that others can feel that way.
I can understand the feeling, but it makes it no less dreadful, DBW. The implacable certainty of it – marching out, savoring the rising cold as the water fills in the space around you… UGH.
At the outbreak of WWII Virginia Woolf found it more and more difficult to write. She couldn’t focus – and as the war intensified and as Britian took the brunt of so much of it – her writer’s block got worse and worse. Writing WAS her sanity. No ifs ands or buts about it. It wasn’t like she was sane, and then she went insane. no. She was ALWAYS “mad” … but her writing helped her focus it. She wrote in her journal a month before she committed suicide that she could not concentrate on her writing because of the “roar”. The roar in her head, not just the roar of war. The prospect of a FINAL madness – meaning: not getting well and having to give up her domestic life with her husband (who gave her freedom to be eccentric and artistic – loved her work, and didn’t expect her to be a nice little wifey – he loved her for HER) and being institutionalized – hung over her like a spectre. To have one’s freedom taken away (let us remember her yearning for a “room of one’s own”) – to not be able to write anymore … I can see how death would be welcome in that context.
Still, it is horrible to contemplate – and this note – with its clarity, and its ultimate sanity – is chilling to me.
OUCH.
My wife’s mother committed suicide several years ago, so I’m mainly identifying with Leonard here. Like having someone you love vandalize the future. How horribly sad.
just makes you want tom cruise to contemplate what psychotropic drugs would have done for virginia woolf…what might she have written with a little distance from the roar.
you’re glib, virginia. glib. now, a few extra vitamins, some exercise, and take those rocks out of your pockets, there’s a good girl.
suicide notes have always troubled me. the notion that you’d care enough to clarify your action says to me that there must be an impulse that could be channeled differently. by which i mean to say, if someone had come in while she was writing the note, could she have moved past that moment? ah well…
I’ve read it before and every time it just breaks my heart.
I think there are different types of suicidal impulses. On the whole, I am of the school of thought that someone just needs to wait out that moment of darkness. I lost a friend to those impulses 7 years ago – he was overwhelmed and didn’t see aany other solution. He was not mentally ill, he was in despair. I’ve always thought that if you reach the point where you no longer wish to live – then you can do anything. Go anywhere. Take any chance. If you have nothing left to lose then there must be a better option than death…
But Virginia Woolf had a lifetime of struggling with mental illness behind her. She was losing what mattered to her most and she didn’t want to live a diminished life. It is so saddening, but not knowing what it is to endure that, I cannot say I would make a different decision in her shoes. What really breaks my heart about the letter is her love for her husband, her ability in the midst of such inner turmoil to write: “If anybody could have saved me it would have been you.” and “I don’t think two people could have been happier than we have been.”
So certain. So self-aware. Leaving behind someone she felt that for, and seeming to have made the decision because she felt it was best for the both of them.
Marisa –
She had put Leonard thru hell, too, and she KNEW it and couldn’t face what it would do to HIM to have her be institutionalized and no longer writing. He devoted his entire life to creating a domestic space for her where she could write – he removed all responsibilities from her – she didn’t have to be domestic – all of that stuff caused extreme anxiety in her … and to see her be unable to write literally shattered poor Leonard. I really feel for both of them.
And of course it’s important to remember what a horror institutionalization was – well, it still is now – but then it was even more so. It was brutal. Even for the wealthy. The treatment was barbaric and she KNEW, without a doubt, what was ahead of her.
You know, it’s interesting – at the outbreak of WWII – Lucy Maud Montgomery suffered a similar breakdown. She stopped writing coherently in her journal – it’s harrowing what is left behind – months of silence go by and then she’ll exclaim in her journal, “Oh, how will I go on?” or whatever … The prospect of another world war brought on that same shattered silence in her. She stopped being able to create … and once THAT was gone, she literally had nothing left. She died in 1944, a broken woman. It’s awful to think of – because I love her books so so so much … it’s awful to think that she couldn’t have been comforted at LEAST by her own creations … but that’s just me being naive. Being mentally ill is agony for those who suffer it. It’s not “depression”. It is psychic agony.
bren – hahaha Yeah, that’s the first word I think of when I think of Virginia. Glib!!
I often wonder, too, if she would have written quite the way she did if she had been on Prozac. This, of course, is unanswerable … but she basically had to white-knuckle these unbelievably psychotic episodes … mainly because she feared a total breakdown, where she would unhinge herself from the world, and never ever come back. And sometimes the stress of holding on to sanity is the very thing that causes the break. She knew this better than anyone.
I feel for her, man. Some of her journals are almost too painful to read, you sense her searing agony so clearly. Makes you shiver.
That roar – closed her off from the world, and from her muse. She recognized the signs.
You know, I just noticed something:
She writes, bluntly: “I can’t read”
To have the brainstorm be so intense that I no longer can read?
God.
As much as the whole thought horrifies me, as much as I tend to sympathise with and take the POV of the people “left behind,” I can kind of see her point a little bit.
She cannot write. She, as she said, cannot even read. She fears being institutionalized for the rest of her life. She truly believes that it will never get better. (Perhaps that’s the fundamental thing behind suicide – that you lose the ability to imagine things ever being better)
I loathe the idea of suicide, the idea of people ending it that way (I lost a cousin to suicide a couple years ago), but you know? If I were 85 years old, and starting with what I realized was Alzheimer’s, and realized that soon I’d no longer be able to read or think or care for myself, that I’d have to be diapered and fed and basically live out my days like a baby, and subjecting those who loved me to watching my steady decline…I wonder if I might rethink that loathing.
I’ve had a few anxiety problems in the past (nothing, thank God, bad enough to require hospitalization or even really meds) but I can understand that horrible roaring – that inability to focus, to produce anything useful, that feeling that you’re being crushed by the weight of the air around you…and what’s worse, the fear that you will never feel “right” again.
Perhaps it is wrong, but I have heard people say so many times of great creative minds who suffered, “Think what they could have done if they had proper medication.” or whatever modern treatment is now available for their particular malady… and I always wonder if they would have been the same. Would they have lived in peace and would the world have then been without some of their greatest work? You have to assume that some of them would have been freed to create better and more fully realized work… but I don’t imagine that would always have been the case.
I wonder too, Marisa – but I usually find myself settled on the view that health is far preferable, both for the writer and the work; that the healthy writer can better explain the madness in looking back, because of the added perspective. Writing is a window into thinking, and if one can’t think, it has a serious impact. At least, I know that I write better when I’m not writhing in mental anguish (nowhere as pronounced as Virginia Woolf or Sylvia Plath, thank God, but I’ve dipped my toe in the shallows and have found it to be enough).
Joyce and Faulkner write difficult work, but it’s not mad, just hard – in its way it’s the clearest possible window into their thinking; the difficulty is that we just don’t think that way, and therefore have trouble following along. It’s obscure until we get our heads into the clouds with them; then, for an instant, we see – not everything, but enough to know that there is so much mroe to get.
Genius and madness have a superficial resemblance at times, but they are certainly not the same thing. They are both windows, opening to strange worlds, but the world of genius is only incomprehensible because it is far larger than ours; it’s very hard to get a good grasp on enough of it. The world of madness is incomprehensible because it is way too small to comfortably explore; it gets that way by leaving out the connections between things. In both worlds you may never know what’s next, but with genius, once you do get there you see that, though you never would have made that connection, it’s solid and true – with madness it’s just random, jarring; the same jump will probably land you somewhere else entirely next time.
It’s hard when you get to someone who was possibly both mad AND genius. I think they can and do coexist, but it’s the genius that disciplines the insanity, and helps keep one at least partly sane. Note that for Woolf, once the genius was impossible, the madness destroyed her. I think that suggests the answer to the puzzle.
And to some people health is impossible to obtain. The struggle is no longer worth it. Especially if one of the casualties is the art. Virginia had done battle with her madness for DECADES – and anyone who has battled mental illness knows how the struggle chips away at your reserves. So it’s fine to say that you think health is preferable – that’s because you’re a healthy person, thank goodness, and you have reserves – emotional reserves I mean – to face the darkness should it come. When those reserves are gone – it is like having no immune system. And death starts to seem like – not a frightening spectre – but a welcoming lover.
Virginia wanted to SPARE Leonard another struggle. I think a lot of suicides feel that way. They think they have become too much of a burden and they want to SPARE their loved ones. This can be enraging for those left behind (a family friend is handling this kind of situation right now- and it is completley HORRIFYING.) So the whole “let me die so I can spare my loved ones the burden of having to take care of me” is topsy-turvy logic – but it is logical. People have a hard time dealing with suicidal logic for their own reasons – anger at people who have committed suicide in their own lives, incomprehension at a person not wanting to live, faith in God that protects them from impulses like that, whatever – but those are all just personal opinions, based on personal circumstances. That’s just a matter of having RESERVES.
If one has never been suicidal, and truly suicidal – to the point where you begin to make plans … then it is completely BAFFLING to contemplate.
I’m not saying it’s justfiable or not. I know the horror that suicide wreaks. I’m just saying it’s LOGICAL.
And art is a crazy-making enterprise … Drugs at Virginia’s time were barbaric and did indeed squelch emotional responses. Or electric shock thereapy which also cut off the emotions, and messed with memory … This was unthinkable to Virginia – because her work is so subjective, so emotional, and sensory.
Thank god drugs are much more refined now – so you can usually find something that will work with your chemistry. Hard-core madness is still a tough thing to treat – but depression or anxiety meds are much more sophisticated now. You can take anti-anxiety meds and still have a full emotional life. This was not always the case in the past – where the medication not only wiped out the anxiety but wiped out everything else.
Horrible choices had to be made back then. Suffer with the psychosis and still feel “alive” – or submit to the barbarity of the mental “health” establishment at that time.
You can see why John Nash made the choices he did – considering the treatment he got. And hew as a very very sick man.
As I was reading the post and the comments, I was thinking about this book titled “Sacred Sorrow”–I can’t remember who wrote it, but it’s about the perceived link between such emotions and creativity. I know I did the majority of my novel writing when I was an unhappy teen/college student, and now that my life is very different, I can’t seem to immerse myself into that world as much. Connection? Who knows for sure?
Kate – wow, that sounds like a VERY interesting book, the Sacred Sorrow one. It’s one of those never-ending questions, isn’t it?? How much of Van Gogh’s genius was becuase he was mad? What would he have lost with “health”?
And like I said somewhere else – in my babbling on and on … to Virginia, writing WAS health.
So “health” without writing would be meaningless to her. This was a woman who had struggled for YEARS to stay sane enough so that she could keep writing. I can’t even imagine.
So it’s fine to say that you think health is preferable – that’s because you’re a healthy person, thank goodness, and you have reserves – emotional reserves I mean – to face the darkness should it come.
And I am thankful, because the darkness has come, and will do so again. I’m healthy now; I wasn’t always. That’s why I prefer the one to the other. (Having written a poem called “Suicide Note” says something.) I know where you’re coming from, and I don’t wish to contend the point too strongly – I pretty much agree with you, I think, and my comment wasn’t meant to sound dismissive of anyone’s struggle, but to try to explore Marisa’s suggestion, to see if there was a link between genius and insanity.
I’m convinced that the two are in conflict; to use your phrase, writing is health, it kept Woolf sane. Those with a touch of both naturally throw themselves into the genius to stay one step ahead of the illness, which is possibly why painful times show such creative energy – it’s a refuge one can’t risk leaving. Otherwise I think that madness saps our energy, and is not a help to any creativity or accomplishment. Those things combat madness, and are not its product.
This is something I get into trouble for with the Ladybug. I’ll examine something in the abstract while she centers on a concrete example, and she will think that I’m being insensitive; but I’m trying to be sensitive by avoiding the specific details of the particular. I do mean this gently and not cruelly. It comes off cold, though. In this case, moreso, and I’m sorry. I happen to have a dog in this fight, so to speak, so I’ve got a little mental split going to talk about it while sparing my own feelings, which run strong here.
Nightfly – oh you didn’t seem dismissive at all! It’s a very interesting conversation to me. And I have a dog in this fight too. I think we touched on this a bit over at Tracey’s when she posted that horrible photo of the starving African girl and the vulture? member that? I think the conversation went to suicide there as well.
I do get annoyed with those (obviously not yourself) who take automatically judgmental stances towards suicides – (actually, I am annoyed with anyone who is automatically judgmental about anything) – because to me it is not a black and white issue. My friend Ted who directed the production of Virginia I did years ago emailed me after reading today’s post and said, “Was it giving in or was it the ultimate act of love? hard to say.”
There are those out there who have a kneejerk “It’s wrong … she just gave up” response … and that kind of crap makes me see red. That kind of “if you just try hard enough, you’ll get better” attitude is so prevalent that mental health issues STILL have a stigma attached to them and it makes me very very angry. It’s an ILLNESS. It is nearly impossible to describe (although William Styron in his book on his illness comes pretty close).
So in a way I think we’re all talking here in a bit of an abstract way … because we can’t know what was in Virginia’s head. And suicide is obviously a very emotional subject. Many of us have lost people we loved to suicide and many of us have either contemplated it or attempted it. It’s kinda hard to be neutral about it.
Sometimes I think of the “It’s just bad.” perspective as the closest to neutral – because any contact with it makes your response and your opinion more complex. More vehement OR more able to understand it.
Personally, I’ve been both people. The person left behind and the person (long, long ago) making the attempt. I have written essays on the subject for a youth art organization that were theoretically – based on the overwhleming response – useful. But I agree that it is a logical thought process, Sheila. Simply put, it is an option. For many people – those people who will return at some point to better health or a different mental state – there are better options. Sadly, for some there may not be. I think that there is an enormous gap between suicides born from circumstances or a temporary state of mind and those that stem from long term mental illness and / or physical illness. Two very different things, and it’s probably unfair to discuss them without separating them.
As regards genius and madness – I think that there are probably some creative geniuses who would have produced far more and far better work had they been afforded some respite from their madness. But I also believe that in some people one leads to the other because it is an aspect of self and, sometimes, because that solace found in the written word or submersion in one’s art was the motivation that spurred the artist on.
If you sprinkled psychotropic drugs over history, I imagine some great art would disappear – and yet, some other brilliant work would appear in it’s place. I just wonder about it sometimes.
I wonder about it too, Marisa. I can’t imagine the agony of Van Gogh – but then again, he always said that he painted what he saw – like he didn’t see himself as impressionistic – he really saw the stars like that. Maybe that was a little mad? Or at least a psyche willing to unhinge itself and let the art take over … to lose control … There’s always a little bit of the madman in any artist – because you’re not dealing completley with the objective world … you’re going into subliminal areas, letting the subconscious take over … Now I know some people with vehement type-A personalities who – when things start to get a little bit out of control – completely cannot handle it. They have not exercised that muscle … of just being with the inherent out of control-ness of the world. Forgive my horrible writing right now – I’m just thinking out loud. What I mean by this is: when you hang out with people who are artists, and good ones – you get used to the sense that much in life is unexplainable – and that that is OKAY. I think some people have a REAL problem with that.
Virginia woolf could let her mind off its hook … and let the muse come … or whatever you want to call it. Van Gogh was the same.
and i think your point about a temporary circumstance driving one to suicide and a long-term battle with mental illness is an excellent one.
It goes back to what I was saying earlier to nightfly about “reserves”. Reserves are truly tapped out when one has been battling psychosis for, say 25 years. Primo Levi is another example. Here is a man who survived auschwitz. who lived to tell the tale – who wrote wonderful books about it …how can anyone find hope in auschwitz? he did. his books are life-affirming. and yet he had clinical depression – and killed himself in the 80s by throwing himself down a flight of stairs. The response to his suicide was very interesting and was what caused william styron to write his book on his own depression. People felt betrayed by Primo levi – they felt he should have stuck it out – they saw it as weak. especially from him – a man who was there in the last days of auschwitz, who experienced unbelievable horrors.
styron’s book is fascinating … have you read it?? it’s called darkness visible. I highly recommend it.
He’s a big fan of drugs. They saved his life – he is truly eloquent on what they did for him. and this is a man who wrote these MAJOR novels … obviously he was able to be productive even as he struggled with this illness …
anyway, this is a very good conversation.
Oh and full disclosure: drugs saved my life too.
I don’t want to say too much about myself, but I am totally down with this discussion.
About “Sacred Sorrows” (corrected title, edited by Nelson and Nelson)–now that I’m home and have found the book–it’s not so much the whole book’s subject, now that I look at it. The book is mostly about managing depression, but Chapter 3 is “Beauty and the Beast: Exploring the Link Between Creativity and Depression.” It’s not very long but many creative people, as well as doctors, are quoted. No definitive answers, probaby more questions, but there’s some comfort in seeing all these kinds of ideas “out there” in print.
I love this discussion too, by the way – all excellent ideas – it hurts a little that I had to drop out to go do stuff! – but it was time to go do stuff. In fact, my whole weekend is important go do stuff…
Thanks for the forum, Sheila.
I love that everyone else has a comment section… Sheila has an informal bulletin board system.
I will definitely check out Darkness Visible, Sheila. Thank you for the tip.
Kate – I thank you very much for providing more details about the book. I’ll put it on my list.