Remember my post from a few months ago that included thoughts on Virginia Woolf's novel, To the Lighthouse? Well, I'm still currently reading the book, for its complexity of thought--as well as its glorious sentence structure--have me not quite spellbound, but nevertheless intrigued. (Plus, I am a very slow reader.) I have found myself rereading paragraphs twice, and then one more time, in order to grasp their entirety: It's almost as if each sentence comprises multiple sentences, such that each sentence serves a deeper, analytical purpose. Furthermore, the poignant intimacy and painful vulnerability that is woven into certain relationships and/or characters in the novel is pure brilliance--the depths of loneliness and the difficulty of true interaction are heavily explored, built on the stream-of-consciousness perspective. But I need not say this about V. Woolf, one of the most celebrated literary figures of all time, correct?
A quote from To the Lighthouse:
"All was silence. Nobody seemed yet to be stirring in the house. She looked at it there sleeping in the early sunlight with its windows green and blue with the reflected leaves. The faint thought she was thinking of Mrs. Ramsay seemed in consonance with this quiet house; this smoke; this fine early morning air. Faint and unreal, it was amazingly pure and exciting. She hoped nobody would open the window or come out of the house, but that she might be left alone to go on thinking, to go on painting. She turned to her canvas."
In my opinion, being lost in early morning thought is a privilege, one that is oftentimes overlooked and taken for granted. It is a sane act in this increasingly crazy, go-go-go world. What an indelible treat it is to be able to sit still for even fifteen minutes a day, just observing and thinking--hushing the constant stream of thoughts rushing through your mind like an endless river of anxiety. To quell anxiety, even if just for a little while, is a day well spent.
This, to me, is unfiltered, unobtrusive beauty in its truest form.
