So my Irish friends are staying in the Artto Hotel in Glasgow. I walk them round, thinking I’ll get a taxi at Central Station, but before we say goodbye a final drink is suggested. Just come in for a quick one, they say. Aye, why not. We walk in and I’m immediately questioned by the…
For now she need not think about anybody. She could be herself, by herself. And that was what now she often felt the need of—to think; well, not even to think. To be silent; to be alone. All the being and the doing, expansive, glittering, vocal, evaporated; and one shrunk, with a sense of solemnity, to being oneself, a wedge-shaped core of darkness, something invisible to others. Although she continued to knit, and sat upright, it was thus that she felt herself; and this self having shed its attachments was free for the strangest adventures.
To the Lighthouse