"Always...before exchanging the flow of life for the concentration of painting she had a few moments of nakedness when she seemed like an unborn soul, a soul reft of body, hesitating on some windy precipice and exposed unprotected, to all the blasts of doubt."
During my trip to Missouri I had the time to luxuriate in "To the Lighthouse". My copy is a loan from my friend and poet Sarah. I am floored by how eloquently Virginia Woolf describes the feeling of vulnerability and the raging cacophony of threats from within that usually assail one before settling in to make art. (I also like how I come away from her writing feeling that I have permission to go bananas with run on sentences and adjectives, though that may be a burden for my readers.)