|
There was nobody. Her words faded. So a rocket fades. Its sparks, having grazed their way into the night, surrender to
it, dark descends, pours over the outlines of houses and towers; bleak hillsides soften and fall in. But though they are
gone, the night is full of them; robbed of colour, blank of windows, they exist more ponderously, give out what the blank
daylight fails to transmit-the trouble and suspense of things conglomerated there in the darkness; reft of the relief which
dawn brings when, washing the walls white and grey, spotting each window-pane, lifting the mist from the fields, showing the
red-brown cows peacefully grazing, all is once more decked out to the eye; exists again.
--Virginia Woolf, Mrs. Dalloway
|
