Sublime

most of

inventing differences, when people, heaven knows,

The essay ends in a kind of dream—with the image of a plush red curtain clasped and crushed in grief. And we’re happy to follow Woolf there, in part, because of that dash in her opening sentence, which denotes a passage from the dream-fugue of sickness, depression, and undirected reading into the dirigible madness of writing.

Men, and women too, letting go the multiplicity of things, had allowed themselves with her the relief of simplicity.

different enough without that.