miércoles, 23 de diciembre de 2015

On Being Ill - Virginia Woolf

We do not know our souls, let alone the souls of others.

An ode to illness. Another inspiration.
She asks for its presence in literature, as her wit silences desperate voices fighting for her attention.
...how we go down into the pit of death and feel the waters of annihilation close above our heads and wake thinking to find ourselves in the presence of the angels and the harpers when we have a tooth out and come to the surface in the dentist's arm-chair...

Her passionate lyricism blends in perfectly with the subtle irony of her gifted mind.
Fragile, gifted mind.
...a novel devoted to influenza lacked plot; they would complain that there was no love in it—wrongly however, for illness often takes on the disguise of love, and plays the same odd tricks.

A break from illness. Shall we cover the silence with a party?
It all starts again. The break is over. The burden of reality ceases and a moment of downright existence comes back. Virginia looks around. She looks up. She disconcerts the world while she looks at the sky.
So much consciousness is flooding the room.
The first impression of that extraordinary spectacle is strangely overcoming. Ordinarily to look at the sky for any length of time is impossible.

The last song to illness. We are gazing at the sky as she decides; enough.
A voice comes from a letter.
Over and over again.

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