This blog is my labor of love and a little bit of an obsession. It is dedicated to the life and work of Katherine Mansfield

(October 14, 1888 to January 9, 1923)

A Writer's Ruminations

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Katherine Mansfield


Katherine Mansfield

10:14 pm, reblogged from La escritura desatada by awritersruminations27 notes

On Katherine Mansfield | Open Letters Monthly - an Arts and Literature Review

 In 1919 John Middleton Murry was appointed editor of the London literary magazine The Athenaeum. Shortly afterward, in a rare case of felicitous nepotism, he hired his wife Katherine Mansfield to be its fiction reviewer.

A berth reviewing the unending landslide of new novels seems like a bad fit for a writer of Mansfield’s rarefied gifts. Her stories have the oceanic qualities that define the best of 20th-century modernism—all flashing, curving surfaces that at sudden moments reveal the chaotic emotional currents hidden below. She was at once a painstakingly sensitive impressionist and a writer of high passions. She had little use for the traditional conventions of the short story. What was such a person doing turning out deadline copy like an ink-stained Fleet Street hack?

12:22 am, by awritersruminations5 notes


"Leila was sure if her partner didn’t come and she had to listen to that marvellous music and to watch the others sliding, gliding over the golden floor, she would die at least, or faint, or lift her arms and fly out of one of those dark windows that showed the stars."
—Katherine Mansfield, “Her First Ball,” collected in STORIES


"Leila was sure if her partner didn’t come and she had to listen to that marvellous music and to watch the others sliding, gliding over the golden floor, she would die at least, or faint, or lift her arms and fly out of one of those dark windows that showed the stars."

Katherine Mansfield, “Her First Ball,” collected in STORIES

01:20 am, reblogged from Vintage Books & Anchor Books by awritersruminations80 notes

On that occasion I began by telling him how dissatisfied I was with the idea that Life must be a lesser thing than we were capable of imagining it to be. I had the feeling that the same thing happened to nearly everybody whom I knew and whom I did not know. No sooner was their youth, with the little force and impetus characteristic of youth, done, then they stopped growing. At the very moment that one felt that now was the time to gather oneself together, to use one’s whole strength, to take control, to be an adult, in fact, they seemed content to swap the darling wish of their hearts for innumerable little wishes. Or the image that suggested itself to me was that of a river flowing away in countless little trickles over a dark swamp.

They deceived themselves, of course. They called this trickling away—greater tolerance—wider interests—a sense of proportion—so that work did not rule out the possibility of ‘life.’ Or they called it an escape from all this mind-probing and self-consciousness—a simpler and therefore a better way of life. But sooner or later, in literature at any rate, there sounded an undertone of deep regret. There was an uneasiness, a sense of frustration. One heard, one thought one heard, the cry that began to echo in one’s own being: “I have missed it. I have given up. This is not what I want. If this is all, then Life is not worth living.”

—Katherine Mansfield, Journal of Katherine Mansfield, ed. John Middleton Murry (via woodsaddle)

01:10 am, reblogged from Woodsaddle by awritersruminations35 notes

But I have travelled on - as K.M. [Katherine Mansfield] said to me, she saw me as a ship far out at sea. But K.M. always said affectionate admiring things to me, poor woman, whom in my own way I suppose I loved.
Virginia Woolf in a diary entry dated Friday 17 October(1924)

12:01 am, reblogged from I don't like drawers. by awritersruminations11 notes

Katherine Mansfield's 'The Garden Party' Proves She Was a Genius
10:07 pm, by awritersruminations10 notes

11:51 pm, by awritersruminations49 notes

Happy 125th Birthday to Katherine Mansfield  (14 October 1888 - 9 January 1923)

Happy 125th Birthday to Katherine Mansfield  (14 October 1888 - 9 January 1923)

11:28 pm, by awritersruminations119 notes

She was beautiful. One got the impression that she was following phantoms; she was consumed by shivering sensations of eternally pursuing something unattainable. Something about her was tear-streaming; she existed in the midst of unconsciousness. And she could only be seen not by those who ceased looking but rather by those who absolutely exhausted it.
Katherine Mansfield, The Collected Stories Of Katherine Mansfield (via violentwavesofemotion)

01:12 pm, reblogged from Soaked In Soul by awritersruminations258 notes

But in her bosom there was still that bright glowing place-that shower of little sparks coming from it. It was almost unbearable. She hardly dared to breathe for fear of fanning it higher, and yet she breathed deeply, deeply. She hardly dared to look into the cold mirror-but she did look, and it gave her back a woman, radiant, with smiling, trembling lips, with big, dark eyes and an air of listening, waiting for something … divine to happen … that she knew must happen … infallibly.
Katherine Mansfield, “Bliss

11:34 pm, by awritersruminations146 notes

I have faded into the habit of secretly existing under your skin. It is unbelievably dark under there; I am happy.
Katherine Mansfield, Selected Letters (via violentwavesofemotion)

11:31 pm, reblogged from Soaked In Soul by awritersruminations453 notes

I’d love to tearfully absorb you in every way and I’d love to play with your hair, read your eyes, feel disarmed in your presence. I’d love to experience a seizure of full-silenced tenderness with you and at the same time dwell on your Dionysian idiosyncrasy of red, slightly heated wine, constant passion and chaos; How can I even imprison this desire into mere letters structured together in order to form a coherent meaning? There is no meaning. Darling! Darling! You can flash “meaning” down the toilet if you wish. Still, I’d love to share a life full of richness with you: Richness not in terms of events, incidents, facts or experiences; but richness in terms of a colourful, adventurous, enthusiastically unraveling life. I’d love to lose all privileges of existence as long as I might have a small chance of walking on water with you.
Katherine Mansfield, Selected Letters (via violentwavesofemotion)

08:12 pm, reblogged from Soaked In Soul by awritersruminations535 notes

I am just unbearably interested; Did it mean anything to you? I mean we said goodbye, the modern method of obviously covering all emotional crises, and you shut the door behind you violently. Your exit speaks for itself; a moment of inconceivable rudeness and tremendous cowardice. But did it mean anything - dramatically walking away, indirectly (or perhaps absolutely directly) refusing me the right to even utter a single sentence? At any rate, your dark enigmatic ways are evidently swept away for such “partings” do not make the slightest impression on me. Worst of all, I thought you very much more of a brain than I had thought you before. Very much of a clever little brain. Nevertheless, not much of a person.
Katherine Mansfield, Selected Letters (via violentwavesofemotion)

11:52 pm, reblogged from Soaked In Soul by awritersruminations248 notes

What I feel is: She is never for one fraction of a second unconscious. If I sigh, I know that her head lifts. I know that those grave large eyes solemnly fix on me: Why did she sigh? If I turn she suggests a cushion or another rug. If I turn again, then it is my back. Might she try to rub it for me? There is no escape. All night: a faint rustle, the smallest cough, and her soft voice asks: “Did you speak? Can I do anything?” If I do absolutely nothing then she discovers my fatigue under my eyes. There is something profound and terrible in this eternal desire to establish contact.
Katherine Mansfield, Woman And Woman (via violentwavesofemotion)

06:44 pm, reblogged from Soaked In Soul by awritersruminations61 notes

by Katherine Mansfield.

by Katherine Mansfield.

09:38 pm, reblogged from Soaked In Soul by awritersruminations228 notes