Virginia Woolf

But he would not go mad. He would shut his eyes; he would see no more.

A woman writes that she has to stop and kiss the page when she reads O[rlando] – Your race I imagine. The percentage of Lesbians is rising in the States, all because of you.

only the sensations of such an explorer into the buried vaults of a ruined city can compare with the riot of emotions that flooded Flush's nerves as he stood for the first time in an invalid's bedroom,

came to prefer the silence of the cat to the robustness of the dog; and human sympathy to either.

The human nose is practically non-existent. The greatest poets in the world have smelt nothing but roses on the one hand, and dung on the other. The infinite gradations that lie between are unrecorded. Yet it was in the world of smell that Flush mostly lived.

He held her hand. Happiness is this, he thought

His wife was crying, and he felt nothing; only each time she sobbed in this profound, this silent, this hopeless way, he descended another step into the pit.

So there was no excuse; nothing whatever the matter, except the sin for which human nature had condemned him to death; that he did not feel. He had not cared when Evans was killed; that was worst;

The verdict of human nature on such a wretch was death.

Conversion is her name and she feasts on the wills of the weakly, loving to impress, to impose, adoring her own features stamped on the face of the populace.