Lightly though she took it at first, calling it a lark, a jeu d’espirit, it soon turned into what all book writing always turns into: work, work, work. And soon enough she is bemoaning: how endless the writing and the rewriting, how tedious the research, how dull and slow the whole business and how she longs only to be quit of it– (29).
Though she shared in the conversation and heard every word, Virginia never stopped taking in what was happening around them. A writer, said her father’s old friend Henry James, must be someone who notices everything. (So avidly did Virginia observe this rule, Leonard sometimes had to chide her in public for staring). The changing light, the changing colors of the sky, the flight of swallow and bat, when the nightingale sang and when it did not–none of this was missed by Virginia (2-3).
Futures not achieved are only branches of the past: dead branches (29).