Crying uncontrollably, I step out of the cinema and into the throngs of people in Leicester Square, London. My best friend from university is unnerved by my weeping. Why has the film Mrs Dalloway left me so bereft? I was 26, navigating the new path of turning a longing for men into loving of them. But it wasn’t just about that. At the time I … Continue reading Marking a waypoint between Virginia Woolf and Jeanette Winterson.