Hoy 28 de marzo de 2014 hace exactamente 73 años que Virginia Woolf se decidía a descansar. / Quise escribir antes que 'se daba por vencida', pero esto sería terriblemente injusto: ¿quién de nosotros, pienso, quién de nosotros hubiera tomado una decisión distinta de haber sido ella? // Es jodido luchar todos los días por levantarse, por escribir, por hacer lo que te gusta y te hace feliz; jodido luchar todos los días contra eso que también eres: una mujer enferma. // Así que yo no lamento que Virginia se haya suicidado, yo celebro esos 59 años que logró estar en pie.
Y ahora su última carta, que me conmueve como pocas cosas en esta vida:
I feel certain I am going mad again. I feel we can't go through another of those terrible times. And I shan't recover this time. I begin to hear voices, and I can't concentrate. So I am doing what seems the best thing to do. You have given me the greatest possible happiness. You have been in every way all that anyone could be. I don't think two people could have been happier till this terrible disease came. I can't fight any longer. I know that I am spoiling your life, that without me you could work. And you will I know. You see I can't even write properly. I can't read. What I want to say is I owe all the happiness of my life to you. You have been entirely patient with me and incredibly good. I want to say that everybody knows it. If anybody could have saved me it would have been you. Everything has gone from me but the certainty of your goodness. I can't go on spoiling your life any longer. I don't think two people could have been happier than we have been.
Descansa en paz, Virginia.