"Now she need not listen. It could not last, she knew, but at the moment her eyes were so clear that they seemed to go round the table unveiling each of these people and their thoughts and their feelings, without effort like a light stealing under water so that it's ripples and the reeds in it and the minnows balancing themselves, and the sudden silent trout are lit up hanging, trembling."
To The Lighthouse
It's not even freaky or scary anymore how Virginia Woolf has visited me three times this year. In the deep of the night. She's rough and not at all chummy.
She stands at my bed, at the foot of my bed, and screams in languages that sound like bubbles-but all at once I wake up and know that she has really sang to me sweetly.
A song that women have heard all through time.
A song that is not much different than a war cry.
Go write it down.