The Waves

Something is made. Yes, as we rise and fidget, a litle nervously, we pray, holding in our hands this common feeling, "Do not move, do not let the swing-door cut to pieces the thing that we have made, that globes itself here, among these lights, these peelings, this litter of bread crumbs and people passing. Holdi it forever" (...)

Forests and far countries on the other side of the world' said Rohda 'are in it; seas and jungles; the howlings of jackals and moonlight falling upon some high peak where the eagle soars.'

'Happiness is in it,' said Neville, 'and the quiet of ordinary things. A table, a chair, a book with a paperknife stuck between the pages. And the petal falling from the rose, and the light flickering as we sit silent, or, perhaps, bethinking us some trifle, suddenly speak.'

'Weekdays are in it,' said Susan, 'Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday; the horses going up to the fields, and the horses returning; rooks rising and falling, and catching the elm trees in their net, whether it is April, whether it is November.'

'What is to come is in it' said Bernard.

Virginia Woolf