"Who shall blame him? Who will not secretly rejoice when the hero puts his armour off, and halts by the window and gazes at his wife and son, who, very distant at first, gradually come closer and closer, till lips and book and head are clearly before him, though still lovely and unfamiliar from the intensity of his isolation and the waste of ages and the perishing of the stars, and putting his pipe in his pocket and bending his magnificent head before her--who will blame him if he does homage to the beauty of the world?"

- Virginia Woolf, To the Lighthouse

I know it doesn't make perfect sense, but--believe me--even in context it doesn't make a whole lot of sense. But I can only marvel at Woolf's writing--the imagery, the rhythm, the poetry embedded deep, the beauty of it all.

I was hesitant to blog about this, because I do have misgivings about Woolf. But I've spent the last week and a half with her, and I am un-done by her writing. Especially Moments of Being. You can probably look forward to more quotes later, but for now, I just had to confess and pay "homage to the beauty of the world."