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</o:shapelayout></xml><![endif]--></head><body lang=EN-US link="#0563C1" vlink="#954F72"><div class=WordSection1><p class=MsoNormal><span style='font-size:12.0pt;font-family:"Times New Roman",serif'>Hi Michael. Passage 1 is a passage that was inadvertently omitted from ‘Modern Novels’ in <i>Essays</i> vol. 3, so you won’t actually be able to cite it from there. Stuart Clarke (who took over editing the <i>Essays</i> from vol 4 on) supplied the missing passage (which encompasses your first one here) in April 2016 from the <i>TLS</i> 10 April 1919 p189, where ‘Modern Novels’ was published. However, judging from your 2<sup>nd</sup> passage, which only appears in ‘Modern Fiction’ (the revised version of ‘Modern Novels’), perhaps it is in fact ‘Modern Fiction’ (in vol 4 of the Essays) that you’re after? The first passage is pp159-60 in <i>Essays</i> 4, and the 2<sup>nd</sup> is p160.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class=MsoNormal><span style='font-size:12.0pt;font-family:"Times New Roman",serif'><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p class=MsoNormal><span style='font-size:12.0pt;font-family:"Times New Roman",serif'>I thought I’d answer while Stuart had his dinner, as here on the east coast of the USA I have just finished lunch </span><span style='font-size:12.0pt;font-family:"Segoe UI Emoji",sans-serif'>😊</span><span style='font-size:12.0pt;font-family:"Times New Roman",serif'><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class=MsoNormal><span style='font-size:12.0pt;font-family:"Times New Roman",serif'>Stay safe! Mark.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div><div style='border:none;border-top:solid #E1E1E1 1.0pt;padding:3.0pt 0in 0in 0in'><p class=MsoNormal><b>From:</b> Vwoolf <vwoolf-bounces+mhussey=verizon.net@lists.osu.edu> <b>On Behalf Of </b>Michael Black (PGR) via Vwoolf<br><b>Sent:</b> Monday, April 27, 2020 12:21 PM<br><b>To:</b> vwoolf@lists.osu.edu<br><b>Subject:</b> [Vwoolf] 'Modern Novels'.<o:p></o:p></p></div></div><p class=MsoNormal><o:p> </o:p></p><div><p class=MsoNormal><span style='font-size:12.0pt;color:black'>Anyone have the page numbers for these two passages from Woolf's 'Modern Novels': <o:p></o:p></span></p></div><div><p class=MsoNormal><span style='font-size:12.0pt;color:black'><o:p> </o:p></span></p></div><ol start=1 type=1><li class=MsoNormal style='mso-margin-top-alt:auto;mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;mso-list:l0 level1 lfo1'><o:p> </o:p></li></ol><div><p class=MsoNormal><span style='font-size:12.0pt;color:black'><o:p> </o:p></span></p></div><div><p style='mso-margin-top-alt:0in;margin-right:0in;margin-bottom:8.0pt;margin-left:42.55pt'><span style='font-size:12.0pt;font-family:"Times New Roman",serif;color:black'>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><span style='color:black'><o:p></o:p></span></p><p style='mso-margin-top-alt:0in;margin-right:0in;margin-bottom:8.0pt;margin-left:42.55pt'><span style='color:black'>2. <o:p></o:p></span></p><div><p class=MsoNormal><span style='font-size:12.0pt;color:black'><o:p> </o:p></span></p></div><div><p style='mso-margin-top-alt:0in;margin-right:0in;margin-bottom:8.0pt;margin-left:42.55pt'><span style='font-size:12.0pt;font-family:"Times New Roman",serif;color:black'>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><span style='color:black'><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class=MsoNormal><span style='font-size:12.0pt;color:black'>all best, <o:p></o:p></span></p></div><div><p class=MsoNormal><span style='font-size:12.0pt;color:black'><o:p> </o:p></span></p></div><div><p class=MsoNormal><span style='font-size:12.0pt;color:black'>Michael <o:p></o:p></span></p></div></div></div></body></html>