Friday, July 16, 2010

mrs dalloway at the beach

So she would still find herself arguing in St. James's Park, still making out that she had been right--and she had too--not to marry him. For in marriage a little license, a little independence there must be between people living together day in day out in the same house; which Richard gave her, and she him. [...] But with Peter everything had to be shared; everything gone into. And it was intolerable, and when it came to that scene in the little garden by the fountain, she had to break with him or they would have been destroyed, both of them ruined, she was convinced; though she borne about with her for years like an arrow sticking in her heart the grief, the anguish; and then the horror of the moment when someone told her at a concert that he had married a woman met on the boat going to India! Never should she forget all that! Cold, heartless, a prude, he called her. Never could she understand how he cared. But those Indian women did presumably--silly, pretty, flimsy nincompoops. And she wasted her pity. For he was quite happy, he assured her--perfectly happy, though he had never done a thing they talked of; his whole life had been a failure. It made her angry still. --I loooooove Virginia Woolf