No, she thought, putting together some of the pictures he had cut out–a refrigerator, a mowing machine, a gentleman in evening dress–children never forget. For this reason, it was so important what one said, and what one did, and it was a relief when they went to bed. For now she need not think about anybody. She could be herself, by herself. And that was what now she often felt the need of–to think; well, not even to think. To be silent; to be alone. All the being and the doing, expansive, glittering, vocal, evaporated; and one shrunk, with a sense of solemnity, to being oneself, a wedge-shaped core of darkness, something invisible to others.
Excerpt, To the Lighthouse by Virgina Woolf. Image, me.
Learn more about the Compositions series here.
I love that chair. I need that chair. And the lamp. And the curtains. And the pillow…
You have such a talent for this. The picture and the prose match beautifully. It’s all just beautiful.
Amazing how one paragraph of good writing can give you goosebumps.
I’m with Toi and Kate, perfection with the photo and prose, goosebump producing.