‘We shall meet to-night, thank Heaven. Thank Heaven, I need not be alone. Wes hall dine together. Wes hall say Good-bye to Percival, WHO GOES TO India. The hour is still distant, but I feel already those harbingers, those outriders, figures of one´s Friends in absence.’

The Waves

 

 

 

Close of her fifty, Virginia Woolf wrote a book, possibly the most experimental she´d ever write, where she gives free rein to the restlessness that she´d channel throughout her life through the pen.

I can say that it has been the most mysterious work of all that I´ve read by her, and there are already quite a few. For many scholars of her production, The Waves is an extraordinary poetic visión of the passing of life. And that´s what I think, modestly.

Specifically, the lines above with which I started this post are exactly the ones that my hand could have written if I had an iota of the creativity that this woman had, because the feeling with which she makes the characters speak is the same as it´s inside me these days.

From my Borstal.

LDR