In those mirrors, the minds of men, in
those pools of uneasy water, in which clouds forever turn and shadows form, dreams
persisted, and it was impossible to resist the strange intimation which every
gull, flower, tree, man and woman, and the white earth itself seemed to declare
(but if you questioned at once to withdraw) that good triumphs, happiness
prevails, order rules, or to resist the extra ordinary stimulus to range hither
and thither in search of some absolute good, some crystal of intensity remote
from the known pleasures and familiar virtues, something alien to the processes
of domestic life, single, hard, bright, like a diamond in the sand, which would
render the possessor secure. Moreover, softened and acquiescent, the spring with her bees humming and gnats dancing threw her cloud about her, veiled her
eyes, averted her head, and among passing shadows and flights of small rain
seemed to have taken upon her a knowledge of the sorrows of mankind.
To
the Lighthouse (136)
RIP: David Bowie and Alan Rickman
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