To The Lighthouse

For now she need not think about anybody. She could be herself, by 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; and one shrunk, with a sense
of solemnity, to being oneself, a wedge-shaped core of darkness, something invisible to others.
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 adventures.