jadąc autobusem z Tate Britain do domu (domu.. prawdziwy dom będzie za tydzień), ma się czas. Czas do zagospodarowania. Bo przedzieranie się przez zakorkowane Westminster, Piccadily i Regent Street trwa. I trwa.. wtedy jest czas na książkę.

I leap like one of those flames that run between the cracks of the earth; I move, I dance; I never cease to move and to dance. I move like the leaf that moved in the hedge as a child and frightened me. I dance over these streaked, these impersonal, distempered walls with their yellow skirting as firelight dances over teapots. I catch fire even from women's cold eyes. When I read, a purple rim runs round the black edge of the textbook. Yet I cannot follow any word through its changes. I cannot follow any thought from present to past. I do not stand lost, like Susan, with tears in my eyes remembering home; or lie, like Rhoda, crumpled among the ferns, staining my pink cotton green, while I dream of plants that flower under the sea, and rocks through which the fish swim slowly. I do not dream.

[Virginia Woolf, The Waves]


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