But when the door shuts on us, all that vanishes. The shell–like covering which our souls have excreted to house themselves, to make for themselves a shape distinct from others, is broken, and there is left of all these wrinkles and roughnesses a central oyster of perceptiveness, an enormous eye. How beautiful a street is in winter!
Virginia WoolfAbout author
- Author's profession: Author, Composer, Writer
- Nationality: british
- Born: January 25, 1882
- Died: March 28, 1941
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Darkling I listen; and, for many a time I have been half in love with easeful Death, Call'd him soft names in many a musd rhyme, To take into the air my quiet breath; Now more than ever seems it rich to die, To cease upon the midnight with no pain, While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad In such an ecstasy!
John Keats