So well she knew them both ! yet as she came Into the room, and heard their speech Of tragic meshes knotted with her name, And saw them, foes, but meeting each with each Closer than friends, souls bared through enmity, Beneath their startled gaze she thought that she Broke as the stranger on their conference, And left them as she stole abashed from thence.
I am trying to write. I can only manage that during night time. The shadows whisper to me: “Include me in!”. I stay silent until they begin whispering behind my back. I am fortunate for they have manners left. To the left, spot their dishonest hearts.
The end of the month is indelibly marching my way and it seems horrifying. March. A certain waterway is recollecting the drops of a memory from under the pebbles and I feel strangely discomposed. Dropping pencils on the ground. There is so much to feel and so much to do. I struggle with today and I travel by trains into the past. The roads are worn out but no one will repair them. But the sun and the clouds remain all the same.
“She felt… how life, from being made up of little separate incidents which one lived one by one, became curled and whole like a wave which bore one up with it and threw one down with it, there, with a dash on the beach. ”— To the Lighthouse
“Sitting on the floor with her arms round Mrs Ramsay’s knees, close as she could get, smiling to think that Mrs Ramsay would never know the reason of that pressure, she imagined how in the chambers of the mind and heart of the woman who was, physically, touching her, were stood, like the treasures in the tombs of kings, tablets bearing sacred inscriptions, which if one could spell them out, would teach one everything, but they would never be offered openly, never made public. What art was there, known to love or cunning, by which one pressed through into those secret chambers? What device for becoming, like waters poured into one jar, inextricably the same, one with the object one adored? Could the body achieve, or the mind, subtly mingling in the intricate passages of the brain? or the heart? Could loving, as people called it, make her and Mrs Ramsay one? for it was not knowledge but unity that she desired, not inscriptions on tablets, nothing that could be written in any language known to men, but intimacy itself, which is knowledge, she had thought, leaning her head on Mrs Ramsay’s knee.”— To The Lighthouse
“But when the self speaks to the self, who is speaking? The entombed soul, the spirit driven in, in, in to the central catacomb; the self that took the veil and left the world — a coward perhaps, yet somehow beautiful, as it flits with its lantern restlessly up and down the dark corridors.”—Virginia Woolf