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But when the self speaks to the self, who is speaking? — the entombed soul, the spirit driven in, in to the central catacombs; the self that took the veil and left the world — a coward perhaps, yet somehow beautiful, as it flits with its lantern restlessly up and down the dark corridors. “I can bear it no longer,” her spirit says… Oh, heavens, her sob! It’s the spirit wailing its destiny, the spirit driven hither, thither, lodging on the diminishing carpets — meagre footholds — shrunken shreds of all the vanishing universe — love, life, faith, husband, children, I know not what splendours and pageantries glimpsed in girlhood. ‘Not for me — not for me.’

Virginia Woolf, “An Unwritten Novel” in Monday or Tuesday (Hesperus Press, 2003)

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~ by rebel13 on June 24, 2017.

Speak to me.

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