Author: Penelope

I've never been very good at walking past people without wondering about them. Not in a nosy way, I hope. More in the sense that I'll notice someone reading the same page of a book for ten minutes, or carrying a grocery bag that's clearly about to tear, and I'll find myself wondering what their day has been like. I think that's why I started writing. The moments people remember are usually the obvious ones—the awards, the discoveries, the headlines, the photographs that end up in history books. I'm usually more interested in what came before all of that. The years when no one was paying attention. The conversations that weren't recorded. The routines that probably felt ordinary at the time but quietly changed everything. I've learned that people rarely fit into the versions of themselves we like to tell. They're usually more complicated than that, and thankfully so. Someone can be generous and impatient. Confident and uncertain. Brave one day and hesitant the next. I don't think those contradictions need to be solved. They just need to be noticed. When I'm writing about someone, I try not to stand in the way. I want to be close enough that they feel real, but not so close that my opinions become the story instead of the person. Readers are smart. I'd rather give them something to notice than something to agree with. I don't spend much time looking for perfect endings anymore. Real lives don't usually have them. Most of us are still becoming whoever we're going to be, and I think that's a much more interesting place to meet someone than after everything has already been decided. Maybe that's why I'm optimistic. Not because I think people are easy to understand, but because I think they're worth trying to understand anyway. Paying attention feels like a small way of showing respect. If one of my articles leaves you looking at someone a little differently than you did before, I'll be happy with that.
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Jane Goodall’s Language of Connection and Complexity

Penelope

In the margins of her drafts, Jane Goodall often crossed out the word “but.” This small act of revision appeared throughout her letters and writings, a quiet insistence on rephrasing that revealed a subtle yet persistent pattern in her thinking. The word itself was unassuming—a conjunction used to introduce something contrasting with what has already been mentioned. Yet Goodall’s decision to strike it out suggested an unwillingness to concede to contradiction, a refusal to accept the inevitability of counterarguments or opposition. One draft began, “These chimpanzees are highly social creatures, but they can also be incredibly aggressive.” After crossing out “but,” Goodall replaced it with “and”: “These chimpanzees are highly social creatures, and they can also be incredibly aggressive.” The revision was slight, almost imperceptible, yet its implications were significant. By refusing to juxtapose the chimpanzees’ sociability against their aggression, Goodall resisted the temptation to create a false dichotomy between the two traits. Instead, she acknowledged both as integral parts of the animals’ complex behavior—a nuanced understanding that permeated her work and set her apart from many of her contemporaries.

In her letters to Louis Leakey, dated April 12th, 1960, Jane Goodall writes of the chimpanzees she observes, “They-” but then hesitates. The sentence continues only after a lengthy pause, filled with other thoughts and observations. This habitual revision recurs across years without comment in her writing life: a pattern of deferred completion. In another letter to Leakey, dated July 27th, 1963, she begins describing the chimpanzees’ interactions but stops short, leaving the sentence unfinished. It is not until several lines later that she resumes the thought, as if returning from a momentary digression. This tendency towards interruption and delay appears in her drafts as well. This recurring pattern of omission or hesitation is visible in many of her draft revisions, suggesting perhaps an intentional withholding or a reluctance to commit fully to certain assertions. Yet, she never explicitly addresses this practice in her writing; instead, the revision remains implicit and unexplained.

In her letters and draft revisions, Jane Goodall often returns to the phrase “the chimpanzee,” replacing more distant terms such as “the animal” or “it.” This revision appears throughout her writing life, sometimes changing the focus of an entire passage from the broader category of animals to these specific creatures. For instance, one draft begins with a general statement about animal behavior: “The animal’s response is often surprising,” then shifts in revision to: “The chimpanzee’s response is often surprising.” The phrase recurs across years and contexts, appearing in letters describing her research as well as articles advocating for conservation. In these revisions, the specificity of “the chimpanzee” seems to pull Goodall’s attention back from broader themes or general observations, anchoring her writing in the particular animals she studies. Yet, this repeated revision is never commented on; it remains a silent shift, a habitual return to the precise subject that captivates and centers her work.

In her letters and draft revisions spanning decades, Jane Goodall frequently returns to a particular habit of language. This recurring pattern involves the repetition of certain phrases or words, often in close proximity to one another. For instance, in a letter dated 1964, she writes, “The chimpanzees are remarkable creatures. They truly are remarkable.” The same phrase is found again in her draft notes from 1972: “These animals never cease to astonish me – they are truly remarkable.” This pattern of repeating the word ‘remarkable’ is not isolated; it appears consistently throughout her writings, often in relation to the chimpanzees she studies. In a letter dated 1985, Goodall pens, “Their intelligence is remarkable, truly remarkable,” and again in a draft from 1993: “Their social structure is complex – remarkably so.” The word recurs yet again in her writings from the early 2000s: “The resilience of these creatures is remarkable. Truly remarkable.” This repetition, this recurring emphasis on the ‘remarkable’ nature of the chimpanzees she studies, remains a constant presence across the span of Goodall’s writing life.

In her many drafts and letters, Jane Goodall often began sentences with the word “and.” This small grammatical choice, repeated throughout her writing life, created an ongoing sense of continuity, a subtle insistence that each thought was linked to those preceding it. The conjunction was sometimes used conventionally, connecting clauses within a sentence, but just as frequently, it initiated entirely new thoughts or paragraphs. In one letter from 1975, for instance, she wrote: “And the chimps have been particularly active this week…” In another draft of an article dated nearly twenty years later, the same pattern emerged: “And then there is the question of their social structure.” The recurring habit might be seen as a stylistic quirk or even a minor grammatical transgression. But for Goodall, it seemed to serve as a way to underscore the interconnectedness of her observations and ideas—a constant reminder that everything was connected in the complex web of life she studied so closely.

In her early letters from Gombe, Jane Goodall frequently wrote about the chimpanzees’ “playful nature.” However, drafts show that this phrasing often underwent revision. For instance, in a 1963 letter to Louis Leakey, she initially described how the chimps “seemed to frolic and play,” but later replaced “frolic” with “demonstrate.” Another version replaces “playful nature” with “expressive behaviors,” which recurs in several drafts from that period. The phrase “playful nature” does not disappear entirely, though; it reappears in a 1965 letter to her mother, this time describing the chimps’ interactions with their offspring. Here, she wrote, “The young ones are so full of energy and playfulness.” Yet, even in this context, drafts show that Goodall hesitated over the wording; one version replaces “playfulness” with “curiosity,” while another omits any characterization altogether, simply noting that “the young chimps interacted energetically with their mothers.” This habit of revising descriptions of chimp behavior continued throughout her writing life.

In her letters and draft revisions that recur across decades, Jane Goodall often hesitates before using the word “human.” The record returns to this pause time and again. Sometimes she crosses out the word entirely, replacing it with alternatives such as “person,” “being,” or “individual.” Other times she delays its use, pushing it further down in a paragraph or saving it for a later sentence. This pattern of omission and delay is most pronounced when discussing her observations of non-human animals. For instance, one draft reads: “It was clear that these creatures were not merely acting on instinct; they possessed a level of understanding and empathy often attributed to humans.” Yet in the final version, she rephrases this as: “These beings displayed a depth of comprehension and compassion typically associated with our own species.” The word “human” is absent, its use postponed or circumvented. This habitual revision, repeated without comment throughout her writing life, offers a glimpse into Goodall’s careful consideration of language and its implications in her work.

In the margins of her drafts and within the lines of her letters, Jane Goodall often underlined words, returning to them as if drawn by an unspoken magnetism. One such word, “wild,” appears time and again throughout her writing life, each instance a small testament to its significance. In a letter dated 1965, she wrote, “The chimpanzees are truly wild, their behavior untainted by human interference.” The line is unassuming, yet the word “wild” stands out, underlined in her characteristic decisive stroke. This was not an isolated occurrence; drafts from various points in her life reveal a similar pattern. In one essay drafted years later, she penned, “The wild places of the earth are dwindling,” the word “wild” once more singled out by her pen. The repetition is striking, yet Goodall never directly addresses this recurring emphasis. It remains an unspoken constant in her writings, a silent refrain that echoes through the years.

In her letters and draft revisions spanning decades, Jane Goodall often returned to the phrase “the complex interrelationships.” This exact wording appears again and again, without comment or explanation, as if a natural part of her thinking process. It first emerges in a 1965 letter to Louis Leakey, where she discusses the chimpanzee communities at Gombe: “the complex interrelationships between individuals are becoming clearer.” The phrase recurs five years later in a research paper draft, this time referring to ecological systems rather than social ones: “the complex interrelationships of the forest ecosystem.” In both instances, Goodall does not elaborate on what she means by “complex interrelationships,” leaving it to stand alone as an observation. This same phrase appears yet again in a 1980 letter about human impacts on wildlife habitats: “the complex interrelationships between species and their environment.” Here, the context is broadened further still, encompassing not just chimpanzees or forests but entire ecosystems.

In one letter dated from 1963, Jane Goodall wrote about her observations of the chimpanzees in Gombe: “The adult males are powerful and often aggressive, yet they display a tenderness towards their offspring that is touching to observe.” This sentence appears frequently across her letters and draft revisions, with subtle changes over time. In another version from 1975, she revised it slightly to read: “The mature males possess immense strength and can be fiercely combative; nevertheless, they exhibit a gentleness towards their young that is deeply moving.” The wording shifts again in an undated draft from the late 80s or early 90s, where she wrote: “Adult male chimps wield great power and frequently engage in violent altercations; nonetheless, they manifest a profound tenderness when interacting with their progeny – a sight that never fails to stir one’s emotions.” Throughout her writing life, Goodall returned to this observation of the complex nature of these animals, always capturing the tension between strength and gentleness.

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Virginia Woolf and the Art of the Elusive Moment

Penelope

In Virginia Woolf’s correspondence and draft revisions, the concept of “moments of being” emerges as a recurring theme, explored through various iterations and phrasings. One draft reads: “There are certain moments which stand out and become fixed in one’s mind…,” while another version replaces this with “There are certain moments that have the power to arrest us…”. The record returns often to the idea of these singular instances, as if each instance is an attempt to capture an elusive truth about human experience. In her letters, Woolf writes of “these rare and scattered moments” which allow one to see life with a sudden vividness that transcends ordinary perception. Drafts show her grappling with different ways to express this phenomenon: “There are certain instants when the mind is extraordinarily receptive…”; “One has, every now and then, an experience of such intensity…”, suggesting a constant effort to refine her understanding of these experiences through language.

In one of Virginia Woolf’s drafts, she crossed out the phrase “the beauty of the world,” only to return to it later, encircling it this time as if unsure whether to commit to its presence or absence. The words appear in various forms across her letters and revisions, a testament to their lingering resonance for Woolf. In one letter to her sister Vanessa Bell, she wrote of “the world’s beauty,” while in another draft, the phrase morphed into “the beauty that is the world.” The variations suggest an ongoing exploration rather than a settled definition; each revision a step further in the search for something just beyond reach. Yet, there are moments when Woolf seems to pause, leaving gaps as if waiting for the elusive concept to reveal itself. In one draft, she left blank spaces around “the beauty of the world,” as though allowing room for it to expand and fill the silence. The phrase remains unfinished, a fragment in search of completion, mirroring Woolf’s relentless pursuit of meaning amidst the transient beauty of life.

In a letter dated July 30th, Virginia Woolf writes to Ethel Smyth, “But the difficulty of art is to pin down…” and then pauses. The sentence trails off, leaving the reader suspended in anticipation of what follows this unfinished thought. This hesitation, visible in her correspondence, mirrors a similar pattern found in drafts of her novels. One such draft reads, “It was difficult to grasp,” only for Woolf to cross out these words and replace them with a more tentative phrasing: “One might say it was almost impossible to express…” This recurring struggle with language’s limitations echoes through her work like an unresolved melody. She grapples with the inadequacy of words, attempting to capture elusive concepts that slip away just as she seems on the verge of grasping them. Yet, each attempt yields a new variation, never quite the same but always circling back to this shared theme – the challenge inherent in articulating what defies expression.

In her letters and draft revisions that recur across her writing life, Virginia Woolf repeatedly returned to the concept of “moments of being.” These moments, as she described them, were instances when one feels truly alive and connected to the world around them. The phrase appears in various iterations throughout her work; sometimes it is simply “being,” other times it is “moments of existence” or “instants of reality.” Each time, however, the sentiment remains consistent—these moments are fleeting but powerful, offering a glimpse into something more profound than everyday life. In one letter to her friend Violet Dickinson, Woolf wrote that these moments were like “flashes of lightning in a dark sky,” illuminating the world around her and leaving her feeling both awed and humbled by their intensity. She also explored this idea in her fiction, often using it as a way for her characters to connect with each other or themselves on a deeper level. In Mrs Dalloway, Clarissa experiences such a moment when she sees a woman buying flowers in the street below her window; in To The Lighthouse, Lily Briscoe has an epiphany about art and life while painting on the beach. Yet despite its recurring presence in Woolf’s writing, the concept of “moments of being” remains elusive—a tantalizing glimpse into something greater that can never quite be grasped or understood fully.

In her letters to Leonard Woolf during their engagement, Virginia Woolf wrestled with the concept of “reality.” A draft dated August 1912 begins: “But what is reality?” She immediately crossed out “what,” replacing it with “where”—”Where is reality?” Then, dissatisfied, she scratched out that question and started anew: “Is there such a thing as reality at all?” In the margin, she posed another possibility: “What constitutes reality?” Yet none of these formulations seemed to satisfy her; she never sent this letter. A few months later, in November 1912, Woolf wrote to Leonard again, still grappling with the same idea. This time, she began: “How elusive is reality!” and then, a moment later, amended it to: “How shifting, how changing is reality!” In this version, she did not cross out her initial attempt; both sentences remained on the page, side by side—an echo of her earlier struggle with the same question.

In her letters to Vita Sackville-West, Virginia Woolf circles around the idea of “moments of being,” writing, “The past only comes back when the present runs so smoothly that it is like the sliding surface of a deep river.” Yet in one draft, she crosses out this metaphor entirely and replaces it with an image of stones on a beach. The phrase “moments of being” itself undergoes revision—in another letter to Vita, Woolf hesitates before settling on the phrase, her pen lingering over alternatives such as “pockets of time” or “sparks of existence.” These revisions suggest not a search for precision but an attempt to find language that can hold multiple meanings at once. In her drafts, words are constantly crossed out and replaced—in one version of the phrase, Woolf begins with “moments,” then strikes it through and writes “instants” instead. The record returns often to this tension between fluidity and fragmentation, as if Woolf is searching for a language that can capture both the continuity of experience and its sudden breaks.

In her correspondence, Virginia Woolf often returned to the concept of “moments of being,” a phrase she would revise and revisit throughout her life. One draft reads: “These are the moments of being—if one could find the courage.” Another version replaces “courage” with “strength”; yet another, “truth.” The record returns often to this notion, exploring its contours through subtle shifts in language and emphasis. A line appears again in a letter to her friend Vita Sackville-West: “The moments of being—if one could seize them.” Here, the verb changes, suggesting not just courage or strength but an active reaching out towards these fleeting instances. Woolf’s drafts show this idea evolving over time, as if she were attempting to grasp something elusive yet essential. The phrase recurs in her later works, subtly altered each time: “moments of existence,” “instants of reality.” These variations hint at a persistent quest for meaning that remained unresolved—a question left open rather than a conclusion reached.

In her letters to Ethel Smyth dated August 1930, Virginia Woolf writes of the “cotton wool” that clouds her mind during creative droughts. Yet this metaphor is not confined to a singular correspondence; it resurfaces in various iterations throughout her draft revisions and journal entries. The phrase first emerges in 1926, where she laments the sensation of “cotton wool” enveloping her thoughts during periods of writer’s block. Two years later, Woolf employs a similar image in an unpublished essay fragment, describing the struggle to pierce through a veil of “white mist.” In 1932, she returns to this theme once more when revising Mrs Dalloway, replacing a line about Clarissa’s “dulled” senses with one that likens her mind to being wrapped in “cotton wool.” The phrase reappears again during the drafting of Between the Acts (1940), where Woolf writes of characters struggling against an encroaching mental fog. In each instance, the language shifts slightly – from cotton wool to white mist and back again – yet the underlying concept remains constant: a creative force stifled by an intangible barrier.

In Virginia Woolf’s letters and draft revisions, the phrase “moments of being” appears frequently, often accompanied by variations such as “non-being,” “unreal,” or “semi-transparent.” The term first emerges in a letter dated 1908, where she describes her mind as a “tissue of semi-transparent moments” that are interspersed with periods of non-being. This imagery of transparency and fragility resurfaces throughout her writing life, as if she were constantly trying to grasp at something elusive yet essential. In one draft revision for To the Lighthouse, Woolf replaces “moments of being” with “the cotton wool of daily life,” suggesting a contrast between the weightless quality of these moments and the dense, mundane aspects of existence. Another version of this same passage introduces the idea of “breaking through,” as if to emphasize the struggle inherent in reaching these fleeting states of consciousness. Yet despite her persistent efforts to articulate what she means by “moments of being,” Woolf never arrives at a definitive explanation, leaving us instead with an open-ended sense of curiosity and wonder.

In the drafts of her novels and essays, Virginia Woolf often returned to the idea of “moments of being,” reworking the concept through different wording without arriving at a conclusive definition. One version of this phrase appears in an early draft of Mrs. Dalloway as “moments of existence,” which she later revised to read, “moments of being.” In a letter to her friend Ethel Smyth, Woolf wrote that these moments were characterized by “a sudden intensity; a complete immersion in the present.” This description is echoed in another draft of Mrs. Dalloway, where she describes such a moment as “an instant of absolute presence.” However, this phrase did not make it into the final version of the novel, and instead was replaced with the more ambiguous “moments of being.” In her later works, Woolf continued to explore these moments through various formulations, including “instants of reality” in To the Lighthouse and “shocks of sensation” in The Waves. Despite her repeated attempts to articulate their essence, the meaning of these “moments of being” remained elusive and unresolved.

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