On or around December 1910, human character changed. I am not saying that one went out, as one might into a garden, and there saw that a rose had flowered or a hen had laid an egg. The change was not sudden and definite like that, but a change there was, nevertheless
Virginia Woolf
the average life of [a woman] must be scattered about somewhere, could one collect it and make a book of it. It would be ambitious beyond by daring, I thought, looking at the shelves for books that were not there, to suggest to the students of those famous colleges that they should re-write history, though I own that it often seems a little queer as it is, unreal, lop-sided; but why should they not add a supplement to history?
A Room of One’s Own, Virginia Woolf
