Status Updates From Mitz: The Marmoset of Bloom...

'For many people the death of a dog might have been occasion for weeping and wailing, but the Woolfs would not allow themselves that indulgence. They wanted to be better than that—On the 4th of September, 1935, Virginia decided that she would call her novel The Years—To celebrate she lit up a cheroot and blew a fat halo into the air—It wobbled—That was the last time Mitz would hear Virginia laugh for a long while.'

'"What I want to know,” said Virginia “is whether the males really do help the females give birth.” It was true—Leonard—remembered to ask the zookeeper. As the mother gave birth—the father would take them from her—growing up—the father who carried them about, on his shoulders or his back, handing them over to the mother only at feeding time. “Now, that is advanced—Do other monkeys do that?” It seemed they did not.'

'Virginia—who was very particular about gardens, did not care for this one ('stuck like a jam tart—pretentious uncared for garden' she derided—in her diary). Mitz uttered a string of cries—a shrill, gibbering monkey-sentence that rose at the end, like a question. As no one could interpret, no one could answer—four faces hovering against the darkening sky and whatever it was she wanted she seemed to find in Leonard’s'