Thursday, July 30, 2009

Like a Knife

She would not say of any one in the world now that they were this or were that. She felt very young; at the same time unspeakably aged. She sliced like a knife through everything; at the same time was outside, looking on. She had a perpetual sense, as she watched the taxi cabs, of being out, out, far to sea and alone; she always had the feeling that it was very, very dangerous to live even one day. Not that she thought herself clever, or much out of the ordinary. How she had got through life on the few twigs of knowledge...she could not think. She knew nothing...except memoirs in bed; and yet to her it was absolutely absorbing; all this; the cabs passing; and she would not say of herself, I am this, I am that.
--Mrs. Dalloway (Virginia Woolf)