Man gör uppehåll i studerandet, man läser Woolf.
Ur Selected Letters, 6 maj 1922:
My dear Roger,
[…] Here I am sweating out streams of rheumish matter from my eyes, mouth, ears, solely in order to attend your lecture. I have the most violent cold in the whole parish. Proust’s fat volume comes in very handy. Last night I started on vol 2 of him (the novel) and propose to sink myself in it all day. Scott Moncreiff wants me to say a few words in an album of admiration – will you collaborate? If so, I will: not otherwise.
But Proust so titillates my own desire for expression that I can hardly set out the sentence. Oh if I could write like that! I cry. And at the moment such is the astonishing vibration and saturation and intensification that he procures – theres something sexual in it – that I feel I can write like that, and seize my pen and then I can’t write like that. Scarcely anyone so stimulates the nerves of language in me: it becomes an obsession. But I must return to Swann. […]