Monday or Tuesday: Eight Stories
()
About this ebook
Virginia Woolf
Virginia Woolf was an English novelist, essayist, short story writer, publisher, critic and member of the Bloomsbury group, as well as being regarded as both a hugely significant modernist and feminist figure. Her most famous works include Mrs Dalloway, To the Lighthouse and A Room of One’s Own.
Read more from Virginia Woolf
Mrs. Dalloway Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Orlando, A Biography: The Virginia Woolf Library Authorized Edition Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsA Room Of One's Own: The Virginia Woolf Library Authorized Edition Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsMrs. Dalloway: The Virginia Woolf Library Authorized Edition Rating: 3 out of 5 stars3/5A Writer's Diary Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Mrs. Dalloway Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5A Room Of One's Own (annotated): The Virginia Woolf Library Annotated Edition Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsOrlando: A Biography Rating: 3 out of 5 stars3/5Night and Day Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Flush Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/550 Great Love Letters You Have To Read (Golden Deer Classics) Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5To The Lighthouse: The Virginia Woolf Library Authorized Edition Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsTo the Lighthouse Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5To The Lighthouse (annotated): The Virginia Woolf Library Annotated Edition Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsBetween The Acts: The Virginia Woolf Library Authorized Edition Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsThe Waves: The Virginia Woolf Library Authorized Edition Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Mrs. Dalloway (annotated): The Virginia Woolf Library Annotated Edition Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsBetween the Acts Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsMonday or Tuesday Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Three Guineas: The Virginia Woolf Library Authorized Edition Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratings
Related to Monday or Tuesday
Related ebooks
The Short Stories Of Virginia Woolf: "The eyes of others our prisons; their thoughts our cages." Rating: 2 out of 5 stars2/5The Years Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsKew Gardens Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Three Guineas Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsCharlotte Temple Rating: 3 out of 5 stars3/5Jacob's Room Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Mrs. Dalloway Rating: 3 out of 5 stars3/5Masters of Prose - Virginia Woolf Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsFour Short Stories By Emile Zola Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsA Study Guide for Anne Sexton's "Self in 1958" Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsWinesburg, Ohio Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsA Woman Of No Importance Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5Night and Day Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsThe Voyage Out Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5The Three Brontës Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsWomen and Angels: Stories Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsThe Experimental Novel Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsMrs Dalloway (Legend Classics) Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsHad I a Hundred Mouths: New and Selected Stories 1947-1983 Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsGreat Short Works of Herman Melville Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsThe Hermit and the Wild Woman: And Other Stories Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5To the Lighthouse Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsSons and Lovers Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5The Moment and Other Essays Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsVivid and Repulsive as the Truth: The Early Works of Djuna Barnes Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsThe Portrait of Mr. W. H. Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsCollected Short Stories Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsDelphi Complete Works of J. M. Synge (Illustrated) Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsThe Garden Party Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsBlood on the Dining-Room Floor Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratings
Short Stories For You
The Stories of Ray Bradbury Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Little Birds: Erotica Rating: 3 out of 5 stars3/5A Good Man Is Hard To Find And Other Stories Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Finn Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5So Late in the Day: Stories of Women and Men Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5The Ocean at the End of the Lane: A Novel Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Jackal, Jackal: Tales of the Dark and Fantastic Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5Skeleton Crew Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5The Things They Carried Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5Nineteen Claws and a Black Bird: Stories Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Four Past Midnight Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Five Tuesdays in Winter Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5The Paper Menagerie and Other Stories Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5100 Years of the Best American Short Stories Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Ficciones Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5The Hellbound Heart: A Novel Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Unfinished Tales Of Numenor And Middle-Earth Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Bradbury Stories: 100 of His Most Celebrated Tales Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Explicit Content: Red Hot Stories of Hardcore Erotica Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5The Ones Who Walk Away from Omelas: A Story Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Two Scorched Men Rating: 3 out of 5 stars3/5Hans Christian Andersen's Complete Fairy Tales Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsLovecraft Country: A Novel Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Selected Short Stories Rating: 3 out of 5 stars3/5The ABC Murders: A Hercule Poirot Mystery: The Official Authorized Edition Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5
Reviews for Monday or Tuesday
0 ratings0 reviews
Book preview
Monday or Tuesday - Virginia Woolf
A HAUNTED HOUSE
Whatever hour you woke there was a door shutting. From room to room they went, hand in hand, lifting here, opening there, making sure--a ghostly couple.
Here we left it,
she said. And he added, Oh, but here too!
It's upstairs,
she murmured. And in the garden,
he whispered. Quietly,
they said, or we shall wake them.
But it wasn't that you woke us. Oh, no. They're looking for it; they're drawing the curtain,
one might say, and so read on a page or two. Now they've found it,
one would be certain, stopping the pencil on the margin. And then, tired of reading, one might rise and see for oneself, the house all empty, the doors standing open, only the wood pigeons bubbling with content and the hum of the threshing machine sounding from the farm. What did I come in here for? What did I want to find?
My hands were empty. Perhaps it's upstairs then?
The apples were in the loft. And so down again, the garden still as ever, only the book had slipped into the grass.
But they had found it in the drawing room. Not that one could ever see them. The window panes reflected apples, reflected roses; all the leaves were green in the glass. If they moved in the drawing room, the apple only turned its yellow side. Yet, the moment after, if the door was opened, spread about the floor, hung upon the walls, pendant from the ceiling--what? My hands were empty. The shadow of a thrush crossed the carpet; from the deepest wells of silence the wood pigeon drew its bubble of sound. Safe, safe, safe,
the pulse of the house beat softly. The treasure buried; the room ...
the pulse stopped short. Oh, was that the buried treasure?
A moment later the light had faded. Out in the garden then? But the trees spun darkness for a wandering beam of sun. So fine, so rare, coolly sunk beneath the surface the beam I sought always burnt behind the glass. Death was the glass; death was between us; coming to the woman first, hundreds of years ago, leaving the house, sealing all the windows; the rooms were darkened. He left it, left her, went North, went East, saw the stars turned in the Southern sky; sought the house, found it dropped beneath the Downs. Safe, safe, safe,
the pulse of the house beat gladly. The Treasure yours.
The wind roars up the avenue. Trees stoop and bend this way and that. Moonbeams splash and spill wildly in the rain. But the beam of the lamp falls straight from the window. The candle burns stiff and still. Wandering through the house, opening the windows, whispering not to wake us, the ghostly couple seek their joy.
Here we slept,
she says. And he adds, Kisses without number.
Waking in the morning--
Silver between the trees--
Upstairs--
In the garden--
When summer came--
In winter snowtime--
The doors go shutting far in the distance, gently knocking like the pulse of a heart.
Nearer they come; cease at the doorway. The wind falls, the rain slides silver down the glass. Our eyes darken; we hear no steps beside us; we see no lady spread her ghostly cloak. His hands shield the lantern. Look,
he breathes. Sound asleep. Love upon their lips.
Stooping, holding their silver lamp above us, long they look and deeply. Long they pause. The wind drives straightly; the flame stoops slightly. Wild beams of moonlight cross both floor and wall, and, meeting, stain the faces bent; the faces pondering; the faces that search the sleepers and seek their hidden joy.
Safe, safe, safe,
the heart of the house beats proudly. Long years--
he sighs. Again you found me.
Here,
she murmurs, sleeping; in the garden reading; laughing, rolling apples in the loft. Here we left our treasure--
Stooping, their light lifts the lids upon my eyes. Safe! safe! safe!
the pulse of the house beats wildly. Waking, I cry "Oh, is this your buried treasure? The light in the heart."
A SOCIETY
This is how it all came about. Six or seven of us were sitting one day after tea. Some were gazing across the street into the windows of a milliner's shop where the light still shone brightly upon scarlet feathers and golden slippers. Others were idly occupied in building little towers of sugar upon the edge of the tea tray. After a time, so far as I can remember, we drew round the fire and began as usual to praise men--how strong, how noble, how brilliant, how courageous, how beautiful they were--how we envied those who by hook or by crook managed to get attached to one for life--when Poll, who had said nothing, burst into tears. Poll, I must tell you, has always been queer. For one thing her father was a strange man. He left her a fortune in his will, but on condition that she read all the books in the London Library. We comforted her as best we could; but we knew in our hearts how vain it was. For though we like her, Poll is no beauty; leaves her shoe laces untied; and must have been thinking, while we praised men, that not one of them would ever wish to marry her. At last she dried her tears. For some time we could make nothing of what she