文档介绍：Virginia Woolf :A room of one's own THREE For it isa perennial puzzle why no woman wrote a word of that extraordinary literature when every other man, it seemed, was capable of song or . What were the conditions in which women lived? I asked myself; for fiction , imaginative work that is, is not dropped like a pebble upon the ground, as science may be; fiction is like a spider ’s web, attached ever so lightly perhaps, but still attached to life at all four corners. Often the attachment is scarcely perceptible; Shakespeare ’s plays, for instance, seem to hang plete by themselves. But when the web is pulled askew, hooked up at the edge, torn in the middle, one remembers that these webs are not spun in mid – air by incorporeal creatures, but are the work of suffering human beings, and are attached to grossly material things, like health and money and the houses we live in. … Cats do not go to heaven. Women cannot write the plays of Shakespeare. … Let me imagine, since facts are so hard e by, what would have happened had Shakespeare had a wonderfully gifted sister, called Judith, let us say. Shakespeare himself went , very probably, — his mother was an heiress — to the grammar school, where he may have learnt Latin — Ovid, Virgil and Horace — and the elements of grammar and logic. He was , it is well known, a wild boy who poached rabbits, perhaps shot a deer, and had, rather sooner