What's life?, we ask...

Clouds pass, thin or thick, with some disturbance of the colour of the grass beneath. The sundial registers the hour in its usual cryptic way. One's mind begins tossing up a question or two, idly, vainly, about this same life. Life, it sings, or croons rather, like a kettle on a hob, Life, life, what art thou?  Light or darkness, the baize apron of the under footman or the shadow of the starling on the grass?...

Having ask them all and grown no wiser, but only older and colder... back we must go and say straight out to the reader who waits a-tiptoe to hear what life is - alas, we don't know...

Virginia Woolf, Orlando

Foto por: Yael

But I'm not your son

"For the philosopher is right who says that nothing thicker than a knife's blade separates happiness from melancholy; and he goes on to opine that one is twin to the other; and draws from this the conclusion that all extremes of feeling are allied to madness... For that was the way his mind worked now, in violent see-saws from life to death, stopping at nothing in between..."

Virginia Woolf - Orlando


(y puedo ser orgullosa, terca... a veces)

¿y porqué así?

...But there is no single scent, no single body for me to follow. And I have no face. I am like the foam that races over the beach or the moonlight that falls arrowlike here on a tin can, here on a spike of the mailed sea holly, or a bone or a half-eaten boat. I am whirled down caverns, and flap like paper against endless corridors, and must press my hand against the wall to draw myself back.

'But since I wish above all things to have lodgment, I pretend...

...Para mi, en cambio, no existe presa ni cuerpo que seguir. Y carezco de rostro. Soy semejante a la espuma que se precipita sobre la arena o al rayo de luna que atraviesa como una flecha un vaso de cristal o la espina de un cardo de mar, o un viejo hueso o la madera podrida de un bote. Soy arrojada como un remolino al fondo de las cavernas, me golpeo como un trozo de papel contra corredores interminables y debo apoyar mis manos contra el muro para poder sujetarme y volver hacia atrás. 

Pero, como por sobre todas las cosas deseo encuadrarme dentro del marco del mundo, finjo...

The waves/ Las olas

Imagen: Helen Frakenthaler

Lo sé...

It is far more difficult to murder a phantom than a reality.

Virginia Woolf

"I wish I could hit upon a pleasant track of thought, a track indirectly reflecting credit upon myself, for those are the pleasantest thoughts, and very frequent even in the minds of modest, mouse-coloured people, who believe genuinely that they dislike to hear their own praises."....Virginia Woolf -"The Mark on the Wall"