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 WoolfLove ought to stop on both sides, donโt you think, simultaneously?โ He spoke without any stress on the words, so as not to wake the sleepers. โBut it wonโt - thatโs the devil,โ he added in the same undertone.
Virginia WoolfI am to be broken. I am to be derided all my life. I am to be cast up and down among these men and women, with their twitching faces, with their lying tongues, like a cork on a rough sea. Like a ribbon of weed I am flung far every time the door opens.
Virginia Woolf