lighthousses 's review for:

The Waves by Virginia Woolf

4.0

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I went from one to the other holding my sorrow—no, not my sorrow but the incomprehensible nature of this our life for their inspection. some people go to priests; others to poetry; I to my friends, I to my own heart, I to seek among phrases and fragments something unbroken—I to whom there is not beauty enough in moon or tree; to whom the touch of one person with another is all, yet who cannot grasp even that, who am so imperfect, so weak, so unspeakably lonely. There I sat.