Миссис Дэллоуэй

           Sinceshewaslyingonthesofa,cloistered,exempt,thepresenceofthisthingwhichshefelttobesoobviousbecamephysicallyexistent;withrobesofsoundfromthestreet,sunny,withhotbreath,whispering,blowingouttheblinds.ButsupposePetersaidtoher,“Yes,yes,butyourparties—what’sthesenseofyourparties?”allshecouldsaywas(andnobodycouldbeexpectedtounderstand):They’reanoffering;whichsoundedhorriblyvague.ButwhowasPetertomakeoutthatlifewasallplainsailing?—Peteralwaysinlove,alwaysinlovewiththewrongwoman?What’syourlove?shemightsaytohim.Andsheknewhisanswer;howitisthemostimportantthingintheworldandnowomanpossiblyunderstoodit.Verywell.Butcouldanymanunderstandwhatshemeanteither?aboutlife?ShecouldnotimaginePeterorRichardtakingthetroubletogiveapartyfornoreasonwhatever.

           Buttogodeeper,beneathwhatpeoplesaid(andthesejudgements,howsuperficial,howfragmentarytheyare!)inherownmindnow,whatdiditmeantoher,thisthingshecalledlife?Oh,itwasveryqueer.HerewasSo-and-soinSouthKensington;someoneupinBayswater;andsomebodyelse,say,inMayfair.Andshefeltquitecontinuouslyasenseoftheirexistence;andshefeltwhatawaste;andshefeltwhatapity;andshefeltifonlytheycouldbebroughttogether;soshedidit.Anditwasanoffering;tocombine,tocreate;buttowhom?

           Anofferingforthesakeofoffering,perhaps.Anyhow,itwashergift.