To find, in a stranger's words, the vicissitudes of your own psyche - this is a marvel.
Last night, I read from Virginia Woolf's diary, and discovered a partial portrait of myself.
Not me in my entirety, of course, and not in my voice. But still, uncannily familiar.
Friday, 5th December, 1919I'm... almost alarmed to find how intensely I'm specialised. My mind turned by anxiety, or other cause, from its scrutiny of blank paper, is like a lost child - wandering the house, sitting on the bottom step to cry.