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Thirty years ago I turned away from Virginia Woolf’s copious diaries, bored. Early Covid, I downloaded everything Woolf wrote (for $3). Now, it is all so alive for me, and I cannot stop reading. I follow her musings in the trashiest way; figuring out who was sleeping with whom, identifying with her obsession for her work with relief of friendship, raising my eyebrows over her insecurities about her shabby outfits. And looking up the meaning of “hirsute” more times than is reasonable. Woolf opens her journal to try out a new pen, and vexes about leaky rentals. She relates Sapphist (lesbian) gossip. She routinely has to head out across town for watch repairs. She repeatedly lament

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