Am I speaking for myself only when I say that though nothing
worth calling an adventure has befallen me since I last occupied this thorny
and prominent chair I still seem to myself a subject of inexhaustible and fascinating
anxiety? – a volcano in perpetual eruption?
Am I alone in my egotism when I say that never does the pale light of
dawn filter through the blinds of 52 Tavistock Square but I open my eyes and
exclaim, “Good God! Here I am again!” – not always with pleasure, often with
pain; sometimes with a spasm of acute disgust – but always, always, with
interest.
“Am I a Snob” (MOB 204-5)
December 1, 1936, Woolf
read “Am I a Snob?” to the Memoir Club.
“Interest is the most important
thing in life; happiness is temporary, but interest is continuous."
Georgia O’Keeffe
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