She rises from bed and goes into the bathroom….In the bathroom, she washes her face. She does not look directly into the oval mirror that hangs above the basin. She is aware of her reflected movements in the glass but does not permit herself to look. The mirror is dangerous; it sometimes shows her the dark manifestation of air that matches her body, takes her form, but stands behind, watching her, with porcine eyes and wet, hushed breathing. She washes her face and does not look, certainly not this morning, not when the work is waiting for her and she is anxious to join it the way she might join a party that had already started downstairs, a party full of wit and beauty certainly but full, too, of something finer than wit or beauty; something mysterious and golden; a spark of profound celebration, of life itself, as silks rustle across polished floors and secrets are whispered under the music. –The Hours, by Michael Cunningham
Currently reading The Hours by Michael Cunningham. This part is from a section in the narrative about Virgina Woolf, a fictional account of her life. Or a part thereof….The entire book is a fascinating read.
Photo: Mirror by In The Cold Breeze