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- Вирджиния Вульф
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'
The
woods
had
vanished
;
the
earth
was
a
waste
of
shadow
.
No
sound
broke
the
silence
of
the
wintry
landscape
.
No
cock
crowed
;
no
smoke
rose
;
no
train
moved
.
A
man
without
a
self
,
I
said
.
A
heavy
body
leaning
on
a
gate
.
A
dead
man
.
With
dispassionate
despair
,
with
entire
disillusionment
,
I
surveyed
the
dust
dance
;
my
life
,
my
friends
'
lives
,
and
those
fabulous
presences
,
men
with
brooms
,
women
writing
,
the
willow
tree
by
the
river
--
clouds
and
phantoms
made
of
dust
too
,
of
dust
that
changed
,
as
clouds
lose
and
gain
and
take
gold
or
red
and
lose
their
summits
and
billow
this
way
and
that
,
mutable
,
vain
.
I
,
carrying
a
notebook
,
making
phrases
,
had
recorded
mere
changes
;
a
shadow
.
I
had
been
sedulous
to
take
note
of
shadows
.
How
can
I
proceed
now
,
I
said
,
without
a
self
,
weightless
and
visionless
,
through
a
world
weightless
,
without
illusion
?
'
The
heaviness
of
my
despondency
thrust
open
the
gate
I
leant
on
and
pushed
me
,
an
elderly
man
,
a
heavy
man
with
grey
hair
,
through
the
colourless
field
,
the
empty
field
.
No
more
to
hear
echoes
,
no
more
to
see
phantoms
,
to
conjure
up
no
opposition
,
but
to
walk
always
unshadowed
,
making
no
impress
upon
the
dead
earth
.
If
even
there
had
been
sheep
munching
,
pushing
one
foot
after
another
,
or
a
bird
,
or
a
man
driving
a
spade
into
the
earth
,
had
there
been
a
bramble
to
trip
me
,
or
a
ditch
,
damp
with
soaked
leaves
,
into
which
to
fall
--
but
no
,
the
melancholy
path
led
along
the
level
,
to
more
wintriness
and
pallor
and
the
equal
and
uninteresting
view
of
the
same
landscape
.
'
How
then
does
light
return
to
the
world
after
the
eclipse
of
the
sun
?
Miraculously
.
Frailly
.
In
thin
stripes
.
It
hangs
like
a
glass
cage
.
It
is
a
hoop
to
be
fractured
by
a
tiny
jar
.
There
is
a
spark
there
.
Next
moment
a
flush
of
dun
.
Then
a
vapour
as
if
earth
were
breathing
in
and
out
,
once
,
twice
,
for
the
first
time
.
Then
under
the
dullness
someone
walks
with
a
green
light
.
Then
off
twists
a
white
wraith
.
The
woods
throb
blue
and
green
,
and
gradually
the
fields
drink
in
red
,
gold
,
brown
.
Suddenly
a
river
snatches
a
blue
light
.
The
earth
absorbs
colour
like
a
sponge
slowly
drinking
water
.
It
puts
on
weight
;
rounds
itself
;
hangs
pendent
;
settles
and
swings
beneath
our
feet
.
'S
o
the
landscape
returned
to
me
;
so
I
saw
the
fields
rolling
in
waves
of
colour
beneath
me
,
but
now
with
this
difference
;
I
saw
but
was
not
seen
.
I
walked
unshadowed
;
I
came
unheralded
.
From
me
had
dropped
the
old
cloak
,
the
old
response
;
the
hollowed
hand
that
beats
back
sounds
.
Thin
as
a
ghost
,
leaving
no
trace
where
I
trod
,
perceiving
merely
,
I
walked
alone
in
a
new
world
,
never
trodden
;
brushing
new
flowers
,
unable
to
speak
save
in
a
child
's
words
of
one
syllable
;
without
shelter
from
phrases
--
I
who
have
made
so
many
;
unattended
,
I
who
have
always
gone
with
my
kind
;
solitary
,
I
who
have
always
had
someone
to
share
the
empty
grate
,
or
the
cupboard
with
its
hanging
loop
of
gold
.
'
But
how
describe
the
world
seen
without
a
self
?
There
are
no
words
.
Blue
,
red
--
even
they
distract
,
even
they
hide
with
thickness
instead
of
letting
the
light
through
.
How
describe
or
say
anything
in
articulate
words
again
?
--
save
that
it
fades
,
save
that
it
undergoes
a
gradual
transformation
,
becomes
,
even
in
the
course
of
one
short
walk
,
habitual
--
this
scene
also
.
Blindness
returns
as
one
moves
and
one
leaf
repeats
another
.
Loveliness
returns
as
one
looks
,
with
all
its
train
of
phantom
phrases
.
One
breathes
in
and
out
substantial
breath
;
down
in
the
valley
the
train
draws
across
the
fields
lop-eared
with
smoke
.
'
But
for
a
moment
I
had
sat
on
the
turf
somewhere
high
above
the
flow
of
the
sea
and
the
sound
of
the
woods
,
had
seen
the
house
,
the
garden
,
and
the
waves
breaking
.
The
old
nurse
who
turns
the
pages
of
the
picture-book
had
stopped
and
had
said
,
"
Look
.
This
is
the
truth
.
"
'S
o
I
was
thinking
as
I
came
along
Shaftesbury
Avenue
to-night
.
I
was
thinking
of
that
page
in
the
picture-book
.
And
when
I
met
you
in
the
place
where
one
goes
to
hang
up
one
's
coat
I
said
to
myself
,
"
It
does
not
matter
whom
I
meet
.
All
this
little
affair
of
'
being
'
is
over
.
Who
this
is
I
do
not
know
;
nor
care
;
we
will
dine
together
.
"
So
I
hung
up
my
coat
,
tapped
you
on
the
shoulder
,
and
said
,
"
Sit
with
me
.
"
