THE LIGHTHOUSEwith his women can’t write, women can’t paint,his irritating ways, and[∧]there it VW: lassoed with line to caret —peter.shillingsburgstayed in the mind affectingone almost like a work of art.

"Like a work of art," she repeated, lookingfrom her canvas to the drawing-room steps andback again. She must rest for a moment. And,resting, looking from one to the other vaguely, theold question which traversed the sky of the soulperpetually, the vast, the general question whichwas apt to particularise itself at such moments asthese, when she released faculties that had beenon the strain, stood over her, paused over her,darkened over her. What is the meaning of life?That was all—a simple question; one that tendedto close in on one with years. The great revela-tion had never come. The great revelationperhaps never did come. Instead there were littledaily miracles, illuminations, matches struck un-expectedly in the dark; here was one. This, that,and the other; herself and Charles Tansley andthe breaking wave; Mrs. Ramsay bringing themtogether; Mrs. Ramsay saying "Life stand stillhere"; Mrs. Ramsay making of the momentsomething permanent (as in another sphere Lilyherself tried to make of the moment somethingpermanent)—this was of the nature of a revelation.In the midst of chaos there was shape; thiseternal passing and flowing (she looked at the249
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