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“There must be another life, she thought, sinking back into her chair, exasperated. Not in dreams; but here and now, in this room, with living people. She felt as if she were standing on the edge of a precipice with her hair blown back; she was about to grasp something that just evaded her. There must be another life, here and now, she repeated. This is too short, too broken. We know nothing, even about ourselves.”
-- Virginia Woolf, "The Years"
I doubt that I will ever get around to reading Virginia Woolf, but I am grateful that I have been able to come across a fair bit of her writing on the Internet. We seem to have kindred spirits, as much as can be possible between an aborigine and an upper-middle-class white woman.
-- Virginia Woolf, "The Years"
I doubt that I will ever get around to reading Virginia Woolf, but I am grateful that I have been able to come across a fair bit of her writing on the Internet. We seem to have kindred spirits, as much as can be possible between an aborigine and an upper-middle-class white woman.
