It rasped her, though, to have stirring about in her this brutal monster! to hear twigs cracking and feel hooves planted down in the depths of that leaf-encumbered forest, the soul; never to be content quite, or quite secure, for at any moment the brute would be stirring, this hatred.
Virginia WoolfWhy does Samuel Butler say, 'Wise men never say what they think of women'? Wise men never say anything else apparently.
Virginia WoolfFor now she need not think of anybody. She could 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.
Virginia Woolf