For now she need not think about anybody.
She could be herself. And that was what now, she often
felt the need of — to think; well not even to think.
To be silent; to be alone. All the being and the doing,
expansive, glittering, vocal, evaporated . . .
Although she continued to knit, and sat upright, it was
thus that she felt herself; and this self having
shed its attachments was free for the strangest adventure.
From To the Lighthouse, VIRGINIA WOOLF, 1927