Solid Objects by Virginia Woolf

Books at bedtime by Calming Anxiety Solid Objects by Virginia Woolf The only thing that moved upon the vast semi-circle of the beach was one small black spot.

As it came nearer to the ribs and spines of the stranded pilchered boat, it became apparent from a certain tenuity that its blackness that this spot possessed four legs. And moment by moment, it became more unmistakable that it was composed of the persons of two young men.

Even thus, in outline, against the sand, there was an unmistakable vitality in them, an indescribable figure in the approach and withdrawal of the bodies, slight though it was, which proclaimed some violent argument issuing from the tiny mouths of the little round heads. This was corroborated on close of you by the repeated lunging of a walking stick on the right hand side.

You mean to tell me, you actually believe, thus the walking stick on the right hand side, next the waves seem to be asserting as if it cut long straight stripes upon the sand. Politics be damned, issued clearly from the body on the left hand side. And as these words were uttered, the mouths noses, chins, little moustaches, tweed caps, rough boots, shooting coats and check stockings of the two speakers, became clearer and clearer. The smoke of their pipes went up into the air, nothing was solid, so living, so hard, red, her suit and virile as these two bodies for miles and miles of sea and sand hill.

They flung themselves down by the six ribs and spine of the black, pilchered boat. You know how the body seems to shake itself free from an argument and to apologise for a mood of exaltation, flinging itself down and expressing in the looseness of its attitude, a readiness to take up with something new, whatever it may be that comes next to hand. So Charles, who stick had been slashing the beach for half a mile or so, began skimming flat pieces of slate over the water. And John, who had exclaimed politics be damned, began burrowing his fingers down, down into the sand. As its hand went further and further beyond the wrist, so that he had to hitch his sleeve a little higher, his eyes lost their intensity, or rather the background of thought and experience, which gives an inscrutable depth to the eyes of grown people had disappeared.

Leaving only the clear transparent surface, expressing nothing but wonder, which the eyes of young children display. No doubt the act of burrowing in the sand had something to do with it. You remember that after digging for a little, the water oozes around your fingertips, the whole then becomes a moat, a well, a spring, a secret channel to the sea. As he was choosing which of these things to make it, still working his fingers in the water, they curled around something hard, a full drop of solid matter, and gradually dislodged a large irregular lump and brought it to the surface. When the sand coating was wiped off, a green tint appeared.

It was a lump of glass, so thick as to be almost opaque. The smoothing of the sea had completely worn off any edge of sharp, so that it was impossible to say whether it had been a bottle, a tumbler, or a window pane. It was nothing but glass. It was almost a precious stone. You had only to enclose it in a rim of gold or pierce it with a wire, and it would become a jewel, part of a necklace or a dull green light upon a finger.

Perhaps after all, it was really a gem, something worn by a dark princess trailing her finger in the water as she sat in the stern of the boat and listened to the slave singing, as they rode her. Across the bay, or the oak sides of a sunk lizard-beath-and-trash-it-chest that had split apart, and rolled over and over. Over and over, its emeralds had come at last to shawl. John turned it in his hands. He held it to the light. He held it to the light.

He held it so that it's a regular mass, blotted out the body, an extended right arm of his friend. The green thinned, and thickened slightly as was held against the sky or against the body. It pleased him. It puzzled him. It was so hard, so concentrated, so definite an object, compared with the vague sea and the hazy shawl. Now, a sigh disturbed him, profound, final, making him aware that his friend Charles had thrown all the flat stones within reach, or had come to the conclusion that it was not worthwhile to throw them. They ate their sandwiches side by side. When they had done and were shaking themselves and rising to their feet, John took a lump of glass and looked at it in silent. Charles looked at it too, but he saw immediately that it was not flat, and filling his pipe he said with the energy that dismisses a foolish strain of thought, to return to what I was saying. He did not see, or if he had seen, would hardly have noticed that John, after looking at the lump for a moment, as if in hesitation, slipped it inside his pocket. That impulse too, may have been the impulse which leads a child to pick up one pebble on a path strewn with him, promising it, a life of warmth and security upon the nursery mantelpiece, delighting in the sense of power of which such an action confers, and believing that the heart of the stone leaps with joy when it sees itself chosen from a million like it, to enjoy this bliss instead of a life of cold and wet upon the high road.

It might so easily have been any other of the millionness of stones, but it was I, pie. Whether this thought or not was in John's mind, the lump of glass had its place upon the mantelpiece, where it stood heavy upon a little pile of bills and letters, and served not only as an excellent paperweight, but also as a natural stopping place for the young man's eyes when they wandered from his book. Looked at again and again, half-consciously by a mind thinking of something else, any object migters itself so profoundly with the stuff of thought that it loses its actual form and recomposes itself a little differently in any ideal shape which haunts the brain when we least expected. So John found himself attracted to the windows of curiosity shops when he was outwalking.

Nearly because he saw something which reminded him of the lump of glass. Anything so long as it was an object of some kind, more or less round, perhaps with a dying flame, deep sunk into its mass, anything, China, glass, amber, rock, marble, even the smooth oval egg of a prehistoric bird would do.

He took also to keeping his eyes upon the ground, especially in the neighborhood of Wasteland, where the household refuge is thrown away. Such objects often occurred there, thrown away.

Of no use to anybody. Shapeless, discarded. In a few months he had collected four or five specimens that took their place upon the mantelpiece. They were useful too, for a man who is standing for Parliament upon the brink of a brilliant career has any number of papers to keep in order. Addresses to constituents, declarations of policy, appeals for subscriptions, invitations to dinner and so on. One day, starting from his rooms in the temple to capture train in order to address his constituents, his eyes rested upon a remarkable object lying half hidden in one of those little borders of grass which edged the base of the vast legal buildings. He could only touch it with the point of his stick through the railings, but he could see that it was a piece of China of the most remarkable shape as nearly resembling a starfish as anything, shaped or broken accidentally into five irregular but unmistakable point. The colouring was mainly blue, but green stripes or spots of some kind overlaid the blue and lines of crimson gave it a richness and lustre of the most attractive kind.

John was determined to possess it, but the more he pushed the further it receded. At length, he was forced to go to his rooms and improvise a wiring attached to the end of the stick, with which, by dint of great care and skill, he finally drew the piece of China within reach of his hands. As he seized hold of it, he exclaimed in triumph. At that moment, the clock struck. It was out of the question that he should keep his appointment. The meeting was held without him, but how had the piece of China been broken into this remarkable shape? A careful examination put it beyond doubt that the star shape was accidental, which made it all the more strange, and it seemed unlikely that there should be another such an existence. Set at the opposite end of the mandal piece from the lamp of glass that had been dug from the sand, it looked like a creature from another world. Freakish, freakish and fantastic as a halaquin.

It seemed to be pirouetting through space, winking light like a pitiful star. The contrasts between the China so vivid and alert, and the glass so mute and contemplated, fascinated him, and wondering and amazed, he asked himself how the two came to exist in the same world, let alone to stand upon the same narrow strip of marble in the same room. The question remained unanswered. He now began to haunt the places which are most prolific of broken glass, China, such as pieces of wasteland between railway lines, sites of demolished houses, and commons in the neighbourhood of London. But China is seldom thrown from a great height. It is one of the rarest of human actions. You have to find in conjunction a very high house, and a woman of such reckless impolts and passionate prejudice that she flings her jar or pot straight from the window without thought of who is below. Broken China was to be found in plenty, but broken in some trifling domestic accident without purpose or character. Nevertheless, he was often astonished as he came to go into the questions more deeply, by the immense variety of shapes to be found in London alone, and there, there was still more cause for wonder and speculation in the differences of qualities and designs.

The finest specimens he would bring home and place upon his mantelpiece were, however, their duty was more and more of an ornamental nature. Since papers needing a weight to keep them down became scarce at the skater. He neglected his duties, perhaps or discharged them absent mindedly, and his constituents, when they visited him, were unfurably impressed by the appearance of his mantelpiece. At any rate, he was not elected to represent them in Parliament, and his friend Charles taking it much to heart and hurrying to condole with him, found him so little cast down by the disaster that he could only suppose that it was too serious some matter for him to realise all at once. In truth, John had been that day to Barnes Common, and there, under a first bush, had found a very remarkable piece of iron. It was almost identical with the glass in shape, messy and globular, but so cold and heavy, so black and metallic, that it was evidently alien to the earth, and had its origins in one of the dead stars, or was itself the cinder of a moon. It weighed in his pocket, it weighed the mantelpiece down, it radiated cold, and yet the meatright stood upon the same ledge with a lump of glass and the star-shaped china. As his eyes passed from one to another, the determination to possess objects that even surpassed these tool-mended young man, he devoted himself more and more, more resolutely to the surge.

If he had not been consumed by ambition and convinced that one day some newly discovered rubbish heap would reward him, the disappointment he had suffered, let alone the fatigue and the indirection would have made him give up the pursuit, provided with a bag and a long stick fitted with an adaptable hook, he ransacked all deposits of earth, raked beneath matted tangles of shrub, searched all alleys and spaces between walls where he had learned to expect to find objects of this kind thrown away. As his standard became higher and his taste more severe, the disappointments were innumerable, but always some gleam of hope, some piece of china or glass curiously marked or broken, they lured him on, day after day passed. He was no longer young, his career, that is his political career, was a thing of the past, people gave up visiting him, he was too silent to be worth asking to dinner, he never talked to anyone about his serious ambitions, their lack of understanding was apparent in their behaviour, leaned back in his chair now and watched Charles lift the stones on the mantle piece, a dozen times and put them down emphatically to mark what he was saying about the conduct of the government, without once noticing their existence. What was the truth of it John, asked Charles suddenly, turning and facing him, what made you give it up like that all in a second? I've not given it up John replied, but you're not the ghost of a chance now, said Charles rutely, I don't agree with you there said John with conviction, Charles looked at him and was profoundly uneasy, the most extraordinary doubts possessed him, he had a queer sense that they were talking about different things, he looked round to find some relief for his horrible depression, but the disorderly appearance of the room depressed him still further, what was that stick and the old carpet bag hanging against the wall and then those stones, looking at John, something fixed and distanced in his expression alarmed him, he knew only too well that his mere appearance upon a flat wall was out of the question, pretty stones he said as cheerfully as he could and saying that he had an appointment to keep, he left John forever.