Every time I think of shuttering the door and pulling the curtains closed (on my blog) I cry. Not because of the quiet, still keyboard or the hush, hush sound of decay. 539 more words
Tags » Virginia Woolf
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The only thing in this world is music–music and books and one or two pictures. I am going to found a colony where there shall be no marrying–unless you happen to fall in love with a symphony of Beethoven–no human element at all, except what comes through Art–nothing but ideal peace and endless meditation.
The Waves is a journey through trauma, one that plays out collectively but also internally. It distills a set of lives into vignettes that are equal parts explosive and exquisite, each character reconciling themselves with senescence, change, and loss. 117 more words