When I first began to read Virginia Woolf’s novels, I felt she wrote like a sculptor. She was able with words to build forms, strip away surfaces, shed representation in a way different from abstraction. […] Her articulation of the mental landscape when the brain turns within is the peak of her genius and her courage. Sometimes chrysalis, some- times only to “wish for death” (Virginia’s diary), she articulates the extremes. No writer gave more of her life force to the exploration of the world beyond the surfaces.