It was as if someone had taken a tiny bead of pure life and decking it as lightly as possible with down and feathers, had set it dancing and zigzagging to show us the true nature of life.
Virginia WoolfAbout author
- Author's profession: Author, Composer, Writer
- Nationality: british
- Born: January 25, 1882
- Died: March 28, 1941
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The survivors ran through the fields, escaping. From themselves, knowing they wouldn't return. For a hundred years. Before them were spread. Those quicksands where a tree changes into nothing, Into an anti-tree, where no borderline. Separates a shape from a shape, and where, Amid thunder, the golden house of is. Collapses, and the word becoming ascends.
Czeslaw Milosz