On the Particular Sadness of Virginia Woolf

Someone really ought to write a letter to the Times about

the sky. The way its cinema of untapped resources plays to

an empty house night after night after night after night…And yet!

What an a-list star the sky becomes in one’s dreams. What manifold

roles it plays, parading unversed and versatile treasures one after another.

Out here on the outskirts of acquaintance, there are no high-rises to obstruct

our view. And there is a virgin forest in each of us, a snowfield where even the

prints of birds are unknown. So why must we wait on the wrong side of a two-way

mirror, where the edges of clouds burn sharp and solid as stone, where constellations of

Apollo’s winged chariot radiate freedom, the way steam swirls from a beaker in an empty lab?

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