Una habitacion propia de Virginia Woolf (fragmento original).
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Here then was I (call me Mary Beton, Mary Seton, Mary Carmichael or by
any name you please--it is not a matter of any importance) sitting on
the banks of a river a week or two ago in fine October weather, lost in
thought. That collar I have spoken of, women and fiction, the need of
coming to some conclusion on a subject that raises all sorts of
prejudices and passions, bowed my head to the ground.
To the right and
left bushes of some sort, golden and crimson, glowed with the colour,
even it seemed burnt with the heat, of fire. On the further bank the
willows wept in perpetual lamentation, their hair about their shoulders.
The river reflected whatever it chose of sky and bridge and burning
tree, and when the undergraduate had oared his boat through the
reflections they closed again, completely, as if he had never been.
There one might have sat the clock round lost in thought. Thought--to
call it by a prouder name than it deserved--had let its line down into
the stream. It swayed, minute after minute, hither and thither among the
reflections and the weeds, letting the water lift it and sink it
until--you know the little tug--the sudden conglomeration of an idea at
the end of one's line: and then the cautious hauling of it in, and the
careful laying of it out? Alas, laid on the grass how small, how
insignificant this thought of mine looked; the sort of fish that a good
fisherman puts back into the water so that it may grow fatter and be one
day worth cooking and eating. I will not trouble you with that thought
now, though if you look carefully you may find it for yourselves in the
course of what I am going to say.......................
