Last night I was reading Bridget Jones’s Diary (yes, I’m switching back and forth between A Visit from the Goon Squad and Bridget Jones. What can I say? Sometimes you just want to read something cute and fun) and I remembered a conversation I had with a classmate once. She told me that even though she wanted to write what she dubbed “high brow literature,” she was getting to the point where she’d settle for writing what she considered “silly” stories like Bridget Jones, just so she could get her name out into the world.
This naturally led us into a long and convoluted discussion about the pros and cons of “selling out,” and this was one of the many quotes that came up during the course of that talk. A bit pessimistic, I’ll admit, though nobody could ever really say that Virginia Woolf was an optimistic, happy person; that whole suicide by drowning thing put a bit of a damper on those rumors.