“I am alone; I am alone! she cried, by the fountain in Regent’s Park (staring at the Indian and his cross), as perhaps at midnight, when all boundaries are lost, the country reverts to its ancient shape, as the Romans saw it, lying cloudy, when they landed, and the hills had no names and rivers wound they knew not where—such was her darkness.”
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“It might be possible, Septimus thought, looking at England from the train window, as they left New-haven; it might be possible that the world itself is without meaning.”
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“This he had preserved. Death was defiance. Death was an attempt to communicate; people feeling the impossibility of reaching the centre which, mystically, evaded them; closeness drew apart; rapture faded, one was alone. There was an embrace in death. But this young man who had killed himself—had he plunged holding his treasure? ‘If it were not to die, ‘twould be most happy,’ she had said to herself once, coming down in white.”
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-Virginia Woolf, Mrs. Dalloway
