To the Lighthouse

by Virginia Woolf

listening. If only he could be alone in his room working, he thought, among his books. That was where he felt at his ease.

Human relations were all like that, she thought, and the worst (if it had not been for Mr Bankes) were between men and women.

What passes for cookery in England is an abomination

The autumn trees gleam in the yellow moonlight, in the light of harvest moons, the light which mellows the energy of labour, and smooths the stubble, and brings the wave lapping blue to the shore.