| By Sofie Vandamme | Woolf overwhelms me, she crushes me. Her work feels too close, too intense, too intimate. Yet at the same time, it is so familiar and safe. Her writing gets under my skin. It slips into my bloodstream. It is rooted in my body. I have no idea why. I even wonder if it has anything to do with the ‘real’ Virginia Woolf. Or am I drawn to someone who exists only in my head? Is Virginia Woolf the person I have made her out to be, my Virginia Woolf? And why is she so dear to me?...