A recent film, The Hours, presents Woolf in a way surely her contemporaries would have marvelled at. She is the very image of a sensitive suffering lady novelist. Where is the malicious spiteful woman she in fact was? And dirty-mouthed, too, though with an upper-class accent. Posterity, it seems, has to soften and make respectable, smooth and polish, unable to see that the rough, the raw, the discordant, may be the source and nurse of creativity. (...) How do we love female victims; oh, how we do love them.
— Doris Lessing in her foreword to the Virginia Woolf anthology Carlyles House and Other Sketches
Weep as this once proud queen, senator, and warrior spends the whole movie barefoot and pregnant.