Plough Logo

Shopping Cart

      View Cart

    Subtotal: $

    Checkout
    details of a white dress

    On Being Ill

    Virginia Woolf

    July 18, 2018
    1 Comments
    1 Comments
    1 Comments
      Submit
    • Maryle Malloy

      I could read her works forever.

    There is, let us confess it (and illness is the great confessional) a childish outspokenness in illness; things are said, truths blurted out, which the cautious respectability of health conceals.
    portrait in black and white of Virginia Woolf

    About sympathy for example; we can do without it. That illusion of a world so shaped that it echoes every groan, of human beings so tied together by common needs and fears that a twitch at one wrist jerks another, where however strange your experience other people have had it too, where however far you travel in your own mind someone has been there before you – is all an illusion. We do not know our own souls, let alone the souls of others. Human beings do not go hand in hand the whole stretch of the way. There is a virgin forest, tangled, pathless, in each; a snow field where even the print of birds’ feet is unknown. Here we go alone, and like it better so. Always to have sympathy, always to be accompanied, always to be understood would be intolerable. But in health the genial pretence must be kept up and the effort renewed – to communicate, to civilize, to share, to cultivate the desert, educate the native, to work by day together and by night to sport. In illness this make-believe ceases. Directly the bed is called for, or, sunk deep among pillows in one chair, we raise our feet even an inch above the ground on another, we cease to be soldiers in the army of the upright; we become deserters. They march to battle. We float with the sticks on the stream; helter skelter with the dead leaves on the lawn, irresponsible and disinterested and able, perhaps for the first time for years, to look round, to look up – to look, for example, at the sky.


    Source: “On Being Ill,” The Criterion, January 1926.

    Photograph by George Charles Beresford / Wikimedia Commons (public domain

    Contributed By

    Virginia Woolf (1882–1941) was a British novelist, essayist, and editor.

    1 Comments
    Email from Plough

    Stay in Touch

    Sign up for weekly emails from Plough, sent every Thursday.