“You write novels?” she asked.
For the moment he could not think what he was saying. He was overcome with the desire to hold her in his arms.
“Oh yes,” he said. “That is, I want to write them.”
She would not take her large grey eyes off his face. “Novels,” she repeated. “Why do you write novels? You ought to write music. Music, you see”—she shifted her eyes, and became less desirable as her brain began to work, inflicting a certain change upon her face—“music goes straight for things. It says all there is to say at once. With writing it seems to me there’s so much”—she paused for an expression, and rubbed her fingers in the earth—“scratching on the matchbox. Most of the time when I was reading Gibbon this afternoon I was horribly, oh infernally, damnably bored!”
She gave a shake of laughter, looking at Hewet, who laughed too.
I somehow get the feeling that Woolf is mocking me.
I also have a feeling this might be a convo Woolf might have had with Leonard.