Am I a weed, carried this way, that way, on a tide that comes twice a day without a meaning?
Virginia WoolfIām not clear enough in the head to feel anything but varieties of dull anger and arrows of sadness.
Virginia WoolfFor now she need not think of anybody. She coud be herself, by herself. And that was what now she often felt the need of - to think; well not even to think. To be silent; to be alone. All the being and the doing, expansive, glittering, vocal, evaporated; and one shrunk, with a sense of solemnity, to being oneself, a wedge-shaped core of darkness, something invisible to others... and this self having shed its attachments was free for the strangest adventures.
Virginia Woolf