A recent film, The Hours, presents Woolf in a way surely her contemporaries would have marvelled at. She is the very image of a sensitive suffering lady novelist. Where is the malicious spiteful woman she in fact was? And dirty-mouthed, too, though with an upper-class accent. Posterity, it seems, has to soften and make respectable, smooth and polish, unable to see that the rough, the raw, the discordant, may be the source and nurse of creativity. It was inevitable that Woolf would end up as a genteel lady of letters, though I don’t think any of us could have believed she would be played by a young, beautiful, fashionable girl who never smiles, whose permanent frown shows how many deep and difficult thoughts she is having. Good God! the woman enjoyed life when she wasn’t ill; liked parties, her friends, picnics, excursions, jaunts. How do we love female victims; oh, how we do love them.