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daisyishere 's review for:
The Waves
by Virginia Woolf
"I rose and walked away - I, I, I; not Byron, Shelley, Dostoevsky, but I, Bernard. I even repeated my own name once or twice. I went, swinging my stick, into a shop, and bought - not that I love music - a picture of Beethoven in a silver frame, not that I love music, but because the whole of life, its masters, its adventures, then appeared in long ranks of magnificent human beings behind me; and I was the inheritor."