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    Monday or Tuesday
    Monday or Tuesday
    Monday or Tuesday
    Ebook70 pages1 hour

    Monday or Tuesday

    By Virgina Woolf

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    About this ebook

    The Extraordinary Life of Ordinary People

    “Once she knows how to read there's only one thing you can teach her to believe in and that is herself.” - Virginia Woolf, A Society

    Monday or Tuesday is a collection of eight stories crafted beautifully by Virginia Wolf. In all eight stories, the reader can witness ordinary people with extraordinary feelings that shape their mundane everyday life.


    Xist Publishing is a digital-first publisher. Xist Publishing creates books for the touchscreen generation and is dedicated to helping everyone develop a lifetime love of reading, no matter what form it takes

      LanguageEnglish
      PublisherXist Publishing
      Release dateSep 4, 2015
      ISBN9781681952055

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        Monday or Tuesday - Virgina Woolf

        heart."

        A SOCIETY

        This is how it all came about. Six or seven of us were sitting one day after tea. Some were gazing across the street into the windows of a milliner's shop where the light still shone brightly upon scarlet feathers and golden slippers. Others were idly occupied in building little towers of sugar upon the edge of the tea tray. After a time, so far as I can remember, we drew round the fire and began as usual to praise men—how strong, how noble, how brilliant, how courageous, how beautiful they were—how we envied those who by hook or by crook managed to get attached to one for life—when Poll, who had said nothing, burst into tears. Poll, I must tell you, has always been queer. For one thing her father was a strange man. He left her a fortune in his will, but on condition that she read all the books in the London Library. We comforted her as best we could; but we knew in our hearts how vain it was. For though we like her, Poll is no beauty; leaves her shoe laces untied; and must have been thinking, while we praised men, that not one of them would ever wish to marry her. At last she dried her tears. For some time we could make nothing of what she said. Strange enough it was in all conscience. She told us that, as we knew, she spent most of her time in the London Library, reading. She had begun, she said, with English literature on the top floor; and was steadily working her way down to the Times on the bottom. And now half, or perhaps only a quarter, way through a terrible thing had happened. She could read no more. Books were not what we thought them. Books, she cried, rising to her feet and speaking with an intensity of desolation which I shall never forget, are for the most part unutterably bad!

        Of course we cried out that Shakespeare wrote books, and Milton and Shelley.

        Oh, yes, she interrupted us. You've been well taught, I can see. But you are not members of the London Library. Here her sobs broke forth anew. At length, recovering a little, she opened one of the pile of books which she always carried about with her—From a Window or In a Garden, or some such name as that it was called, and it was written by a man called Benton or Henson, or something of that kind. She read the first few pages. We listened in silence. But that's not a book, someone said. So she chose another. This time it was a history, but I have forgotten the writer's name. Our trepidation increased as she went on. Not a word of it seemed to be true, and the style in which it was written was execrable.

        Poetry! Poetry! we cried, impatiently. Read us poetry! I cannot describe the desolation which fell upon us as she opened a little volume and mouthed out the verbose, sentimental foolery which it contained.

        It must have been written by a woman, one of us urged. But no. She told us that it was written by a young man, one of the most famous poets of the day. I leave you to imagine what the shock of the discovery was. Though we all cried and begged her to read no more, she persisted and read us extracts from the Lives of the Lord Chancellors. When she had finished, Jane, the eldest and wisest of us, rose to her feet and said that she for one was not convinced.

        Why, she asked, if men write such rubbish as this, should our mothers have wasted their youth in bringing them into the world?

        We were all silent; and, in the silence, poor Poll could be heard sobbing out, Why, why did my father teach me to read?

        Clorinda was the first to come to her senses. It's all our fault, she said. Every one of us knows how to read. But no one, save Poll, has ever taken the trouble to do it. I, for one, have taken it for granted that it was a woman's duty to spend her youth in bearing children. I venerated my mother for bearing ten; still more my grandmother for bearing fifteen; it was, I confess, my own ambition to bear twenty. We have gone on all these ages supposing that men were equally industrious, and that their works were of equal merit. While we have borne the children, they, we supposed, have borne the books and the pictures. We have populated the world. They have civilized it. But now that we can read, what prevents us from judging the results? Before we bring another child into the world we must swear that we will find out what the world is like.

        So we made ourselves into a society for asking questions. One of us was to visit a man-of-war; another was to hide herself in a scholar's study; another was to attend a meeting of business men; while all were to read books, look at pictures, go to concerts, keep our eyes open in the streets, and ask questions perpetually. We were very young. You can judge of our simplicity when I tell you that before parting that night we agreed that the objects of life were to produce good

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