Virginia Woolf once said that Katherine Mansfield had produced ‘the only writing I have ever been jealous of.’ Woolf also, jealously, wrote, ‘ . . . the more she is praised, the more I am convinced she is bad.’ D.H. Lawrence, with whom Mansfield had a fraught friendship, visited
Now – now I want to write recollections of my own country. Yes, I want to write about my own country till I simply exhaust my store. Not only because it is a ‘secret debt’ that I pay to my country because my brother and I were born there, but also because in my thoug
I had been told to closely observe the following rules for friendship. Firstly there was the matter of the shoes. No pumps. Secondly the matter of the knife and fork. Any potential friend showing undue interest in using the former at the expense of the latter should be curtailed; imme
Demetercould not easily differentiate between one shape and another. Her toeswould stroke over objects at night and she would wonder what she wassleeping with- an old shirt, a newspaper, a biography. Everythingseemed differently arranged and she would act surprised and say outloud, ‘O
Dr Who fell in love the other week with a girl who thought he lived in a fireplace. The girl grew up, became Madame Pompadour, and rechristened her space travelling Prince ‘My lonely Angel’.In recognising her Travelling Angel’s eternal solitude, she alsoguaranteed her love’s immortali
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