"The truth is that I am not one of those who find their satisfaction
in one person, or in infinity. The private room bores me, also
the sky. My being only glitters when all its facets are exposed
to many people. Let them fail and I am full of holes, dwindling
like burnt paper. Oh, Mrs Moffat, Mrs Moffat, I say, come and sweep
it all up. Things have dropped from me. I have outlived certain
desires; I have lost friends, some by death—Percival—others
through sheer inability to cross the street. I am not so gifted as
at one time seemed likely. Certain things lie beyond my scope. I
shall never understand the harder problems of philosophy. Rome is
the limit of my travelling. As I drop asleep at night it strikes me
sometimes with a pang that I shall never see savages in Tahiti
spearing fish by the light of a blazing cresset, or a lion spring
in the jungle, or a naked man eating raw flesh. Nor shall I learn
Russian or read the Vedas. I shall never again walk bang into the
pillar-box. (But still a few stars fall through my night,
beautifully, from the violence of that concussion.)"
Woolf, The Waves
concussed, pondering Woolf much slower than usual.
"They drank their tea in the bedroom sometimes, or in the study; breaking off work at mid-day with the smudge on their faces, and their old hands clasped and cramped with the broom handles. Flopped on chairs, they contemplated now the magnificent conquest over taps and bath; now the more arduous, more partial triumph over long rows of books, black as ravens once, now white-stained, breeding pale mushrooms and secreting furtive spiders."
To the Lighthouse
the arduous, partial triumph over long rows of books…