I enjoy almost everything. Yet I have some restless searcher in me. Why is there not a discovery in life? Something one can lay hands on and say โThis is itโ? My depression is a harassed feeling. Iโm looking: but thatโs not it โ thatโs not it. What is it? And shall I die before I find it?
Virginia WoolfO why do I ever let anyone read what I write! Every time I have to go through a breakfast with a letter of criticism I swear I will write for my own praise or blame in future. It is a misery.
Virginia Woolf