What moves you to stand in the presence of the house, the landscape, the objects of a writer whom you so admire? Why are literary pilgrimages so compelling? Virginia Woolf explains: “It would seem to be a fact that writers stamp themselves upon their possessions more indelibly than other people.” Certainly, each year, thousands of people visit Monk’s House, Leonard and Virginia Woolf’s sixteenth-century cottage, in Rodmell, East Sussex. It’s set right on the village street, a modest clapboard building with a big garden beyond. Inside, the small, low-ceilinged rooms are peopled with pilgrims. You move quietly among them; the atmosphere is hushed and meditative, like that in a church. You are caught up in a silent current, adrift in Woolf’s life: these are the chairs that were decorated by her sister; here is her narrow bed by the window; here are her books, tightly packed, floor to ceiling. You are very close to her here. You are speaking with her in your mind.

As a literary pilgrim, you could go to England and visit Woolf’s houses. Or you could simply go to New York and visit the Berg Collection. For decades, the collector William Beekman acquired things related to Woolf: letters, manuscripts, photographs, postcards, rare editions. The William Beekman Collection of Virginia Woolf and Her Circle, consisting of a hundred and fifty-three such objects, has just been added to the Henry W. and Albert A. Berg Collection of English and American Literature, at the New York Public Library. Like any pilgrimage, a journey to the Berg imposes certain exigencies. Access is restricted, and you must make an appointment. You must leave your coat and bag downstairs. The atmosphere is hushed and solemn: this is the inner sanctum. Here are words that have changed history, governments, laws, morals, mores, marriages, and minds. The librarian brings things out to you, one by one. The Beekman materials are encased in beautiful clothbound slipcases, with gold titles on the spines. Opening these exquisite cases is like unwrapping treasure.

Virginia Woolf’s study, at Monk’s House, in Rodmell, East Sussex. Photograph by Albert Knapp / Alamy

The earliest letter in the collection is one from Virginia to her sister Vanessa, on the occasion of Vanessa’s wedding, in 1907. It’s written on two big sheets of heavy paper, folded in half and stitched down the center, making four leaves. The message is whimsical and charming: “Address of Congratulation to our Mistress on her Approaching Marriage.” It’s written in the collective voice of the siblings, who are presented in the guise of animals.

Dear Mistress, We the undersigned three Apes and a Wombat wish to make known to you our great grief and joy at the news that you intend to marry. We hear that you have found a new Red Ape of a kind not known before who is better than all other apes because he can both talk & marry you: from which we are debarred.

They declare the Red Ape (the art critic Clive Bell) to be “clean, merry, and sagacious,” and their Mistress (Vanessa) to be “very understanding of Apes, loving & wholesome, vigilant after fleas, & scourging of all Misdoing.” The letter is signed, in a different colored ink, by Virginia, as the three apes and the wombat.

It’s hard to think of anything more playful, more intimate, more deeply familial than this handwritten, hand-sewn message to a beloved sister. Holding these pages, you hold a part of Virginia Woolf’s life. It’s odd to find yourself so deep inside it, reading this note. Do you wonder by what right you read it? But the letters are here, so you read on.

Animal nicknames were rife in the family. Vanessa called Virginia Goat, or Singe (French for “ape”). Virginia called Vanessa Dolphin. Leonard and Virginia had their own pet names for each other: he was Mongoose; she was Mandrill. An undated letter (circa 1927) from Leonard Woolf to Vita Sackville-West continues the trope:

Dear Vita, I am entrusting a valuable animal out of my menagerie to you for the night. It is not quite sound in the headpiece. It should be well fed & put to bed punctually at 11. It will be v. good of you if you will see to this & pay no attention to anything wh. it may try to say for itself. LW.

This letter was written during a period when Virginia was pursuing an erotic friendship with Sackville-West. Virginia suffered periodically from depression and illness, and was frequently under doctors’ orders regarding diet and rest. Leonard’s playful, affectionate request shows his trust in Sackville-West, and also his deep concern for his wife.

Not all the messages are so private. A postcard to Virginia’s nephew Julian Bell reads, in its entirety, “For Heavens sake tell me where does ‘Die like a rose in aromatic pain’ come from? Pope? And what is the right quotation? And where are your poems, VW.” To a friend, Marjorie Joad, Virginia describes a chaotic day at Hogarth Press, the publishing house that she founded with her husband: “I’ve been meaning every day to write to you, but we live in a gale of wind and every feather on my head is upright . . . all the psycho-analyst books have been dumped in a fortress the size of Windsor castle in ruins upon the floor; Leonard’s in his shirt sleeves. . . . Grizzle [the dog] is making darts for peoples legs. . . . I have just counted out a ream of paper and found large hoof marks halfway through. Then you think I can write a novel!”

It’s so like Woolf to jumble these things together, the many parts of her life—intellectual, emotional, fierce, tender, and hilarious. We know the value of these scattered shards; it was Woolf herself who taught us that it’s from such shifting bits of awareness that the whole person can be revealed, or the whole world.