The Lighthouse
Time Passes
The Window
“But,” said his father, stopping in front of the drawing-room window, “it won’t be fine.”
It was done; it was finished. Yes, she thought, laying down her brush in extreme fatigue, I have had my vision.
He rose and stood in the bow of the boat, very straight and tall, for all the world, James thought, as if he were saying, “There is no God,” and Cam thought, as if he were leaping into space
There! Cam thought, addressing herself silently to James. You’ve got it at last. For she knew that this was what James had been wanting, and she knew that now he had got it he was so pleased that he would not look at her or at his father or at any one.
What do you want? they both wanted to ask. They both wanted to say, Ask us anything and we will give it you. But he did not ask them anything.
What had she done with it, Mrs Ramsay wondered, for Rose’s arrangement of the grapes and pears, of the horny pink-lined shell, of the bananas, made her think of a trophy fetched from the bottom of the sea, of Neptune’s banquet, of the bunch that hangs with vine leaves over the shoulder of Bacchus (in some picture), among the leopard skins and the torches lolloping red and gold
Mr Ramsay, stumbling along a passage one dark morning, stretched his arms out, but Mrs Ramsay having died rather suddenly the night before, his arms, though stretched out, remained empty
A shell exploded. Twenty or thirty young men were blown up in France, among them Andrew Ramsay, whose death, mercifully, was instantaneous.]
So she was dead; and Mr Andrew killed; and Miss Prue dead too, they said, with her first baby; but everyone had lost some one these years.
There was this expedition—they were going to the Lighthouse, Mr Ramsay, Cam, and James.