Meanwhile in my head, I’m undergoing open-heart surgery. - Anne Sexton.
How I devour solitude! I shall smell a red rose; shall gently surge across the lawn, light a cigarette, take my writing board on my knee; and let myself down like a diver, very cautiously into the last sentence I wrote yesterday. Then perhaps after twenty minutes, or even more, I shall see a light in the depths of the sea, and stealthily approach - for one’s sentences are only an approximation, a net one flings over one sea pearl which may vanish; and if one brings it up it won’t be anything like what it was when I originally saw it, under the sea. Now these are the great excitements of life. Once I would have written this twice over; but now I can’t; It has to go, with its blood on its head. I have three days of solitude still. The others are packed with this damnable disease of seeing people. Please tell me what psychological necessity makes people to “go and see” so-and so? I never do. Do they resent obscurely, the effort that I make to be alone? - Virginia Woolf.