To the Lighthouse (Review)

by practicalspactical

Woolff (?) writes with the langue of urging and feeling and thought and calm passion — some what of the forever not knowing, the forever reaching towards another and the forever not getting there — the spaces between us and behind us and beyond us — the warm calm bosom of time, it will shake us dead eventually but till then an close and loving companion — for in that room of time, our lives our beatiful crystaline perfect (admixtures of joy and suffering and self-reflection and other-reflection) unfold like Japanese flower arrangements, like an organized picture —

Forces. There are forces. And yet a will and a mind — so as if to say if some other intelligence were to come upon these records of our lives, these empty houses, or a book left on the beach, or a painting stowed under a couch, or somethingsomething else any of it — it would detect a counter intelligence — the touch of the Rational Being