“When, however, one reads of a witch being ducked, of a woman possessed by devils,
of a wise woman selling herbs, or even of a very remarkable man who had a mother,
then I think we are on the track of a lost novelist, a suppressed poet, of some mute and inglorious
Jane Austen, some Emily Bronte who dashed her brains out on the moor or mopped and mowed
about the highways crazed with the torture that her gift had put her to. Indeed, I would venture
to guess that Anon, who wrote so many poems without signing them, was often a woman.”
– Virginia Woolf, A Room of One’s Own
This is my morning corner in the library, where I like to sit and write. Dog bed at my feet, a lovely quilt from a friend in my lap, a tiny table to set tea on. Paintings I love to look at, and a window with a view of the trees. Little piece of Heaven.
