Virginia Woolf drowned on this day in 1941, her pockets deliberately heavy with stones. Did she, I wonder, caress their smooth surfaces with the pads of her thumbs, as she waded into the water? Did she choose her death-coat because it had roomy pockets, or because it was her favourite? Was she being sentimental or practical?

Virginia Woolf, 1902

The River Ouse received her whilst her books were on shelves in libraries and homes around the world. It wasn’t enough, but why should it be? Private wars are always the hardest fought, and are seldom won.

What words and ideas did she leave unwritten? Would they have changed literature, changed the world, changed me? Ah, but we’ll never know.