by Tricia Khleif
Reading a writer’s posthumous diary is a guilty undertaking—absorbing words I was never meant to see, glimpsing the private corners of a mind I was never meant to explore. In this particular case—A Writer’s Diary, by Virginia Woolf—the act of reading is perhaps mitigated by the fact that Woolf’s husband Leonard culled and collected the entries himself. Nonetheless, I approach the book with both hesitation and awe. And I cannot help but be moved by Woolf’s observations on the delights and struggles of writing, of reading, of being a soul alive in the world.