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296 pages, Paperback
First published March 1, 2023
‘I was born in Guangzhou, and had worked in Shanghai and done business in Nanning, the provincial capital of Guangxi—in March 2018—moved to Beijing. There, I delivered parcels—.’
‘The piece I read for my friends that day seems to me an ideal way to end—I chose to share some prose from Virginia Woolf’s The Common Reader. Woolf appears to have loved reading biographies, many of them about famous figures but also some about more ordinary folk. This piece was her response to the Memoirs of Mrs. Pilkington.
I couldn’t find any information about the book itself online. Maybe the author really was that unknown. Mrs. Pilkington—or rather Ms. Laetitia, since Pilkington abandoned her—was from a declining aristocratic family in eighteenth-century Britain. She was born around half a century before Jane Austen. An educated woman, she inherited no wealth and was deserted by her husband to raise their two children alone. She made her living writing, which explains the memoirs, but her bread and butter were stories about the underbelly of the upper classes. She claimed she would write anything for money, so it is no surprise that her work hasn’t really endured. If it hadn’t been for Woolf, I would never have known she existed. This great-granddaughter of the Earl of Kilmallock, who lodged alongside the footmen and laundresses of the dukes she once mixed with, would eventually end up in jail for rent arrears. And yet this barely scratches the surface of her many “wanderings”—or “failings.”
Laetitia prayed (only to find herself locked in Westminster Abbey by mistake), begged (and was humiliated, at least that’s how she saw it), contemplated suicide—twice. But she also possessed an immense passion for life; she loved and hated with unrelenting ferocity. She viciously cursed out anyone who hurt her and made mockeries of them in her scurrilous stories (taking creative license where it pleased her); and this very same woman cherished the meal of plover’s eggs she once shared with her tutor, and every wink of sleep she managed in spite of buzzing mayflies.
She was both emotional and thick-skinned, it seems. She had a natural, dramatic flair to her feelings and, in her writing, an instinct to “give pleasure,” which cast the hardship she suffered less as a cruel fate and more like a tragicomedy fit for the stage. Her resilience brought her back from adversity on repeated occasions, so she could throw herself once more into life with all her signature brio intact—her infectious love and hate as strong as ever. A lady of refinement, with a salty side, she was both compassionate and vengeful. The first time I read this portrait of her, I was moved to tears. Woolf concludes it with these words:
“All had been bitterness and struggle, except that she had loved Shakespeare, known Swift, and kept through all the shifts and shades of an adventurous career a gay spirit, something of a lady’s breeding, and the gallantry which, at the end of her short life, led her to crack her joke and enjoy her duck with death at her heart and duns at her pillow.”
(Virginia Woolf, The Common Reader [Harcourt, Brace and company, 1925], 175)
Love amidst despair—this is the light that illuminates life. Though her social status declined, her spirit remained noble and pure. Here, I want to pay tribute to Ms. Laetitia, whose own story has comforted and touched me, and lifted me in times I’ve felt lost. I dedicate this to her many “failings, which were great.”’