Her voice died away. She sank down on the edge of the bed. She was tired, no doubt, by the stairs, by the heat. "But we have other lives, I think, I hope," she murmured. "We live in others, Mr… . We live in things.
Virginia Woolf,Between The Acts.
- ? Aug 26th 2011
She felt very tired. She sank down into an armchair. She lay back in the chair. Everything seemed to become quiet and natural again. A feeling of great calm possessed her. It was as if another space of time had been issued to her, but, robbed by the presence of death of something personal, she felt — she hesitated for a word; “immune?” Was that what she meant? Immune, she said, looking at a picture without seeing it. Immune, she repeated.
Virginia Woolf,The Years.
- ? Jul 11th 2011
Pain must outbalance pleasure by two parts to one, she thought; in all social relations. Or am I the exception, the peculiar person? Yes, she thought, looking straight ahead of her, and feeling again her lips and eyes tight from the tiredness: I’m the exception; hard; cold.
Virginia Woolf,The years.
- ? Mar 8th 2011