The String Quartet by Virginia Woolf

Books at bedtime by calming anxiety, the string quartet by Virginia Woolf. Well, here we are. And if you cast your eye over the room, you will see that the tubes and trams and omnibuses, private carriages not a few, even, I venture to believe. And I'll swim with Baisen, but I've been busy at it, weaving threads from one end of London to the other.

Yet I begin to have my doubt. If indeed it's true, as they say, that Regent Street is up, and the Treaty signed, and the weather not cold for the time of year, and even at that rent not a flat to be had, and the worst of influenza, it's after effect. If I bathink me of having forgotten to write about the link in the ladder, and left my glove in the train, if the ties of blood require me, leaning forward to accept cordially the hand which is perhaps offered hesitantly, seven years since we met, the last time in Venice, and where are you living now? Well, the late half the noon suits me the best though.

If it weren't asking too much, but I knew you at one. Still the wall made a break. If the mind shot through such little arrows and the human society compelled it, no sooner is one launch than one another presses forward. If this indenders heat, and in addition they've turned in on the electric light.

If saying one thing does, in so many cases, leave behind it a need to improve and revise, stirring besides regrets, pleasures, fanaties and desires. If it's all the facts I mean, and the hats and the fur bows, and the gentlemen's swallow-tail coat, and pearl-type pins that come to the surface, what chance is there? Of what? It becomes every minute more difficult to say why, in spite of everything I sit here believing, I can't now say what, or even remember the last time it happened.

Did you see the procession? The king looked cold? No. No.

But what was it? She brought her house in Malmönsbury. How lucky to find one. On the contrary.

It seemed to me pretty sure that she, whoever she may be, is damned, since it's all a matter of facts and hats and seagulls, or so it seems to be for a hundred people sitting here, all well dressed, walled in, bird, reprieved. That I can boast. Since I too sit passive on a guilt-chair, only turning the earth above a buried memory, and as we all do, the bearer signs, if I am not mistaken, that we're all recalling something, furtively seeking something. Why fidget?

Why so anxious about the sit of clothes and gloves? Is it a button or unbutton? Then watch that elderly face against the dark canvas, a moment to go unbain and flushed, now taciturn and sad, and as if in shadow. Was it the sound of the second violin, tuning all the anti-room?

Here they come, four black figures carrying instrument, and they seat themselves, facing the white squares under the downpour of the light, rest the tips of their bows on the music stand, with a simultaneous movement to lift them, lightly poison, and looking across at the player opposite, the first violin counts one, two, three, flourish, spring, virgin, the first, the pear trim on the top of the mountain, bountains jet drops descend, but the waters of the Rome flow swift and deep, race under the arches, and sweep the treying water leans, washing shadows over the silver of them, the spotted fish rush down by the swift waters, now swept into an eddy wear, it's difficult list. Inglomeration of fish all in a pool, leaping, splashing, scraping sharp things, and such a boil of current that the yellow pebbles are churned round and round, round and round, free now, brushing down with, or even somehow ascending in exquisite spirals into the air, world like thin shavings, mandra plain, up and up, how lovely goodness is in those who stepping lightly, go smiling through the world. Also in jolly old fishwipes squatted under arches, obscene old women, how deeply they laugh and shake and roll it when they walk from side to side. It's an early moatsard, of course, but the tune, like all his tunes, makes one despair, I mean hope, what do I mean?

That's the worst of music, I want to dance, laugh, eat pink cakes, yellow cakes, drink thin, sharp wine, we're on our decent story now, I could relish that, the old one grows more like the ones in decency. I'm laughing, what are you said nothing, nor did the old gentleman opposite, but suppose, suppose, the melancholy river bears us on, when the moon comes through the trailing willow boughs, I see your face, I hear your voice, and the birds singing as we pass the arse of bed, what are you whispering, sorry, sorry, joy, joy woven together like reeds and moonlight, woven together, inextricably commingled bound in pain and shprune in sorrow, crash, the boat passing, rising the figures ascend, but now leap thin, tapering to a dusky rate, which fiery tip draws its twofold passion for my heart, for me it sings, unseals my sorrow, thaws compassion, blood's with the love of the sunless world, nor ceasing abates its tenderness, but deathly, subtly, weaves in and out until in this pattern this consummation, the cleft one unified, sore, sob, sink to rest, sorrow, and joy, why then greed, ask what, remain unsatisfied, I say, all's been settled, yes, laid to rest under a covalet of rosely, falling, falling, but they cease, one rosely, falling from an enormous height, like a little parachute, dropped from an invisible balloon, turned, flutters waveringly, it won't be true, no, no, no, I noticed nothing, that's the worst of music, these silly dreams, the second violin was late to you say, there's a hold Mrs. Monroe, feeling her way out, blind at each year, poor woman, on this slippery floor, eyeless old age, grey-headed swinks, there she stands on her pavement, beckoning, so sternly the red on the birth, how lovely, how well they play, how, how, the tongue is but a clapper, simplicity itself, the feathers and the hat next to me are bright and pleasing, as a child rattles, the leaf and the plain tree flashes green through the chin can occur, and very strained, very exciting, how, how, how, how, how, there are other lovers on the grass, if maddened will you take my hand, sir, I would trust you with my heart, moreover we have left our bodies in the bankwitting hall, those on the turf of the shadows of our songs, then these are their embraces of our songs, the lemons not ascent, the swan pushes from the bank and float streaming into the midstream, but to return he followed me down the corridor, and as we turn the corner, trot on the lace of my petticoat, what could I do but cry it, and stop to think of it, at which he drew his sword, made passes as if they were stabbing something to death and cried, mad, mad, mad, whereupon ice cream, and the prince was writing in the large vellum book in the oryall window, came out in his velvet skull cap and third slippers, snatched a rapier from the wall, the king of Spain's gift you know, on which I escape, flinging on this cloak to hide the ravages to my skirt, to hide, but listen, the horn, the gentleman replies so fast to the lady, and she runs up the scale with such witty exchange of compliment, now culminating in a sob of passion, that the words are indistinguishable, through the meaning is plain enough, love, laughter, flight, pursuit, celestial bliss, all, they floated out on the gaiest ripple, up tender and dearment, until the sound of a silver horns, at first far distant, gradually sounds more and more distinctly, as if the suner shells were saluting the dawn, or proclaiming ominously the escape of the lovers, the green garden, moonlit pool, lemons, lovers, and fish are all dissolved in the opal sky, across which, as the horns are joined by trumpets and supported by clarions, their eyes white arches, firmly planted on marble pillars, tramp and trumpeting, clang and clang are, firm establishment, fast foundation, march of myriads, confusion and chaos, trod to earth, but this city to which we travel has neither stone nor marble, hands in joy, stands unshakeable, nor does a face, nor does a flag greet or welcome, leave then to perish your hope, group in your desert, my joy, naked advarm, bear other pillars, auspicious itternut, casting no shade, resplendent severe, back then I fall, eganomeal, desiring only to go, find the street, mark the buildings, greet the apple women and say to the maid who opens the door, a starry night, good night, good night, you go this way, alas, I go there.