iv. Or a novel…
The sun had not yet risen. The sea was indistinguishable from the sky, except that the sea was slightly creased as if a cloth had wrinkles in it. Gradually as the sky whitened a dark line lay on the horizon dividing the sea from the sky and the grey cloth became barred with thick strokes moving, one after another, beneath the surface following each other, pursuing each other, perpetually.¹
‘So of course,’ wrote Betty Flanders, pressing her heels rather deeper in the sand. ‘there was nothing for it but to leave.’²
¹ Virginia Woolf, The Waves, 1931.
² Virginia Woolf, Jacob’s Room, 1922.