Writing is still like heaving bricks over a wall.

The sea was indistinguishable from the sky, except that the sea was slightly creased as if a cloth had wrinkles in it.

It doesn't have to be the truth, just your vision of it, written down.

I am writing to a rhythm and not to a plot.

I 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 “This is it”? My depression is a harassed feeling. I’m looking: but that’s not it — that’s not it. What is it? And shall I die before I find it?

Mrs Dalloway is always giving parties to cover the silence

Effort ceases. Time flaps on the mast. There we stop; there we stand. Rigid, the skeleton of habit alone upholds the human frame