There it was before her - life. Life: she thought but she did not finish her thought. She took a look at life, for she had a clear sense of it there, something real, something private, which she shared neither with her children nor with her husband. A sort of transaction went on between them, in which she was on one side, and life was on another, and she was always trying to get the better of it, as it was of her; and sometimes they parleyed (when she sat alone); there were, she remembered, great reconciliation scenes; but for the most part, oddly enough, she must admit that she felt this thing that she called life terrible, hostile, and quick to pounce on you if you gave it a chance.

Virginia Woolf | To the Lighthouse

Photos: Ingmar Bergman | Riten

  1. kurdistan0000mahabad reblogged this from petitmal
  2. go-uh reblogged this from petitmal
  3. she-seeing reblogged this from petitmal
  4. vonkleist66 reblogged this from carlosbalboag
  5. carlosbalboag reblogged this from petitmal
  6. tirez-sur-le-pianiste reblogged this from petitmal
  7. petitmal posted this