Words rose above the intolerably laden, dumb oxen plodding through the mud. Words without meaning, wonderful words.
Virginia Woolf, Between The Acts. (via fuckyeahvirginiawoolf)
She sat perfectly still, listening and looking always at the same spot. It became stranger and stranger. She was overcome with awe that things should exist at all ; she forgot that she had any fingers to raise. The things that existed were so immense and so desolate. She continued to be conscious of these vast masses of substance for a long stretch of time, the clock still ticking in the midst of the universal silence.
Virginia Woolf,The Voyage Out. (via fuckyeahvirginiawoolf)