One wanted, she thought, dipping her brush deliberately, to be on a level with ordinary experience, to feel simply that's a chair, that's a table, and yet at the same time, It's a miracle, it's an ecstasy.
Virginia WoolfI enjoy almost everything. Yet I have some restless searcher in me. Why is there not a discovery in life? Something one can lay hands on and say โThis is itโ? My depression is a harassed feeling. Iโm looking: but thatโs not it โ thatโs not it. What is it? And shall I die before I find it?
Virginia Woolf