If anyone’s writing has the power to save, it is Woolf’s. Time and time she has made me feel understood in each existential crisis, with o to whoms and Scarborough running gold, her love for the women in her life, her philosophy. This account allowed me to understand Woolf through another’s eyes, and like she herself says, people draw different things; but I found myself crying over and over at this, how alive Woolf was, how much strength she had, how much intelligence. I just hope she knew that. I know she did, she was years ahead.