But as for that mark， I’m not sure about it； I don’t believe it was made by a nail after all； it’s too big， too round， for that. I might get up， but if I got up and looked at it， ten to one I shouldn’t be able to say for certain； because once a thing’s done， no one ever knows how it happened. Oh！ dear me， the mystery of life； The inaccuracy of thought！ The ignorance of humanity！ To show how very little control of our possessions we have— what an accidental affair this living is after all our civilization—let me just count over a few of the things lost in one lifetime， beginning， for that seems always the most mysterious of losses—what cat would gnaw， what rat would nibble—three pale blue canisters of book-binding tools？ Then there were the bird cages， the iron hoops， the steel skates， the Queen Anne coal-scuttle， the bagatelle board， the hand organ—all gone， and jewels， too. Opals and emeralds， they lie about the roots of turnips. What a scraping paring affair it is to be sure！ The wonder is that I’ve any clothes on my back， that I sit surrounded by solid furniture at this moment. Why， if one wants to compare life to anything， one must liken it to being blown through the Tube at fifty miles an hour—landing at the other end without a single hairpin in one’s hair！ Shot out at the feet of God entirely naked！ Tumbling head over heels in the asphodel meadows like brown paper parcels pitched down a shoot in the post office！ With one’s hair flying back like the tail of a race-horse. Yes， that seems to express the rapidity of life， the perpetual waste and repair； all so casual， all so haphazard…But after life， The slow pulling down of thick green stalks so that the cup of the flower， as it turns over， deluges one with purple and red light.
Why， after all， should one not be born there as one is born here， helpless， speechless， unable to focus one’s eyesight， groping at the roots of the grass， at the toes of the Giants？ As for saying which are trees， and which are men and women， or whether there are such things， that one won’t be in a condition to do for fifty years or so. There will be nothing but spaces of light and dark， intersected by thick stalks， and rather higher up perhaps， rose- shaped blots of an indistinct colour—dim pinks and blues—which will， as time goes on， become more definite， become—I don’t know what…And yet that mark on the wall is not a hole at all. It may even be caused by some round black substance， such as a small rose leaf， left over from the summer， and I， not being a very vigilant housekeeper—look at the dust on the mantelpiece， for example， the dust which， so they say， buried Troy three times over， only fragments of pots utterly refusing annihilation， as one can believe.
The tree outside the window taps very gently on the pane… I want to think quietly， calmly， spaciously， never to be interrupted， never to have to rise from my chair， to slip easily from one thing to another， without any sense of hostility， or obstacle. I want to sink deeper and deeper， away from the surface， with its hard separate facts. To steady myself， let me catch hold of the first idea that passes… Shakespeare… Well， he will do as well as another. A man who sat himself solidly in an arm-chair， and looked into the fire， so—A shower of ideas fell perpetually from some very high Heaven down through his mind. He leant his forehead on his hand， and people， looking in through the open door， —for this scene is supposed to take place on a summer’s evening—But how dull this is， this historical fiction！ It doesn’t interest me at all. I wish I could hit upon a pleasant track of thought， a track indirectly reflecting credit upon myself， for those are the pleasantest thoughts， and very frequent even in the minds of modest mouse-coloured people， who believe genuinely that they dislike to hear their own praises. They are not thoughts directly praising oneself； that is the beauty of them； they are thoughts like this：