But when the self speaks to the self, who is speaking?—the entombed soul, the spirit driven in, in, in to the central catacomb; the self that took the veil and left the world—a coward perhaps, yet somehow beautiful, as it flits with its lantern restlessly up and down the dark corridors.
ATTRIBUTION:
Virginia Woolf (1882–1941), British novelist. “An Unwritten Novel,” Monday or Tuesday (1921).
