It is far harder to kill a phantom than a reality
Virginia WoolfStichwörter: illusions reality
Fear no more, says the heart...
Virginia Woolfto let the light of the world flood back-to say this has not happened!
But why turn one's head hither and thither? This is the truth. This is fact.
Now then is my chance to find out what is of great importance, and I
must be careful, and tell no lies.
There is nothing staid, nothing settled, in this universe. All is rippling, all is dancing; all is quickness and triumph.
Virginia WoolfWe are cut, we are fallen. We are become part of that unfeeling universe
that sleeps when we are at our quickest and burns red when we lie
asleep.
But nothing is so strange when one is in love (and what was this except being in love?) as the complete indifference of other people.
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Lord, how unutterably disgusting life is! What dirty tricks it plays us, one moment free; the next, this. Here we are among the breadcrumbs and the stained napkins again. That knife is already congealing with grease. Disorder, sordidity and corruption surrounds us. We have been taking into our mouths the bodies of dead birds. It is with these greasy crumbs, slobbering over napkins, and little corpses that we have to build. Always it begins again; always there is the enemy; eyes meeting ours; fingers twitching ours; the effort waiting. Call the waiter. Pay the bill. We must pull ourselves up out of the chairs. We must find our coats. We must go. Must, must, must — detestable word. Once more, I who had thought myself immune, who had said, "Now I am rid of all that", find that the wave has tumbled me over, head over heels, scattering my possessions, leaving me to collect, to assemble, to head together, to summon my forces, rise and confront the enemy.
Virginia WoolfStichwörter: virginia-woolf the-waves
This self now as I leant over the gate looking down over fields rolling in waves of colour beneath me made no answer. He threw up no opposition. He attempted no phrase. His fist did not form. I waited. I listened. Nothing came, nothing. I cried then with a sudden conviction of complete desertion. Now there is nothing. No fin breaks the waste of this immeasurable sea. Life has destroyed me. No echo comes when I speak, no varied words. This is more truly death than the death of friends, than the death of youth.
Virginia WoolfAnd yet, the only exciting life is the imaginary one.
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