the waves
virginia woolf has yet again shown me that i will never write; something i've always known but talked myself out of only to fall back into the still waters of unrequited dreams.

i think that here we've really reached one of her depths. we know that plot is unimportant, generally, so we look for the brilliant descriptions, the liquid stream of thoughts, impressions, consciousness.. but to our great surprise we get it in 'verbal' form. as a result there are no external descriptions and actually no words that people 'speak' although we're told that they do. in a way this literalizes the metaphors, the hiddenness of life.. it moves everything to the surface.