'But now disembodied, passing over fields without lodgment - (there is a river; a man fishes; there is a spire, there is the village street with its bow-windowed inn) - all is dreamlike and dim to me. These hard thoughts, this envy, this bitterness, make no lodgment in me. I am the ghost of Louis, an ephemeral passer-by, in whose mind dreams have power, and garden sounds when in the early morning petals float on fathomless depths and the birds sing. I dash and sprinkle myself with the bright waters of childhood. Its thin veil quivers. But the chained beast stamps and stamps on the shore.'
Frå Virginia Woolf, The Waves.
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