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<DIV>Dinner calls, but it seems to me these are quotes from “Modern Fiction”
(E4).</DIV>
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<DIV>Stuart</DIV>
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<DIV style="font-color: black"><B>From:</B> <A
title=vwoolf@lists.osu.edu>Michael Black (PGR) via Vwoolf</A> </DIV>
<DIV><B>Sent:</B> Monday, April 27, 2020 5:20 PM</DIV>
<DIV><B>To:</B> <A title=vwoolf@lists.osu.edu>vwoolf@lists.osu.edu</A> </DIV>
<DIV><B>Subject:</B> [Vwoolf] 'Modern Novels'.</DIV></DIV></DIV>
<DIV> </DIV></DIV>
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<DIV
style="FONT-SIZE: 12pt; FONT-FAMILY: calibri,arial,helvetica,sans-serif; COLOR: rgb(0,0,0)"><SPAN>Anyone
have the page numbers for these two passages from Woolf's 'Modern Novels':
</SPAN></DIV>
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style="FONT-SIZE: 12pt; FONT-FAMILY: calibri,arial,helvetica,sans-serif; COLOR: rgb(0,0,0)"> </DIV></SPAN>
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<P
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style='FONT-SIZE: 12pt; FONT-FAMILY: "Times New Roman",serif'>Life escapes; and
perhaps without life nothing else is worth while. It is a confession of
vagueness to have to make use of such a figure as this, but we scarcely better
the matter by speaking, as critics are prone to do, of reality. Admitting the
vagueness which afflicts all criticism of novels, let us hazard the opinion that
for us at this moment the form of fiction most in vogue more often misses than
secures the thing we seek. Whether we call it life or spirit, truth or reality,
this, the essential thing, has moved off, or on, and refuses to be contained any
longer in such ill-fitting vestments as we provide. Nevertheless we go on
perseveringly, conscientiously, constructing our two and thirty chapters after a
design which more and more ceases to resemble the vision in our minds. So much
of the enormous labour of proving the solidity, the likeness to life, of the
story is not merely labour thrown away but labour misplaced to the extent of
obscuring and blotting out the light of the conception. (E3, ).<SPAN
style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </SPAN></SPAN></P>
<P
style='FONT-SIZE: 11pt; FONT-FAMILY: "Calibri",sans-serif; MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 8pt 42.55pt; LINE-HEIGHT: normal'>2.
</P>
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<P
style='FONT-SIZE: 11pt; FONT-FAMILY: "Calibri",sans-serif; MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 8pt 42.55pt; LINE-HEIGHT: normal'><SPAN
style='FONT-SIZE: 12pt; FONT-FAMILY: "Times New Roman",serif'>Look within and
life, it seems, is very far from being “like this.” Examine for a moment an
ordinary day. The mind receives a myriad impressions-trivial, fantastic,
evanescent, or engraved with the sharpness of steel. From all sides they come,
an incessant shower of innumerable atoms; and as they fall, as they shape
themselves into the life of Monday or Tuesday, the accent falls differently from
of old; the moment of importance came not here but there; so that, if a writer
were a free man and not a slave, if he could write what he chose, not what he
must, if he could base his work upon his own feeling and not upon convention,
there would be no plot, no comedy, no tragedy, no love interest or catastrophe
in the accepted style, and perhaps not a single button sewn on as the Bond
Street tailors would have it. Life is not a series of gig lamps symmetrically
arranged; life is a luminous halo, a semi-transparent envelope surrounding us
from the beginning of consciousness to the end. Is it not the task of the
novelist to convey this varying, this unknown and uncircumscribed spirit,
whatever aberration or complexity it may display, with as little mixture of the
alien and external as possible? We are not pleading merely for courage and
sincerity; we are suggesting that the proper stuff of fiction is a little other
than custom would have us believe it. (E3, ). </SPAN></P>all best, </DIV>
<DIV> </DIV>
<DIV>Michael </DIV></SPAN></DIV>
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