Excerpt from The Years, Fiction, English
Description
Vocal Characteristics
Language
EnglishVoice Age
Young Adult (18-35)Transcript
Note: Transcripts are generated using speech recognition software and may contain errors.
From the years by Virginia Woolf, heartless brute. She thought, but his indifference pleased her. He asked nothing of her either. She stretched her hand for a cigarette. And what would Martin say? She wondered as she took the enamel box that turned green from blue and opened it hideous vulgar possibly. But what did it matter what people said? Criticism seemed as light as smoke this morning. What did it matter what he said what they said, what anybody said since she had a whole day to herself, since she was alone and there they are still asleep in their houses. She thought, standing at the window, looking at the gray green grass after their dances after their parties. The thought pleased her. She threw away her cigarette and went upstairs to change her clothes. The sun was much stronger when she came down again. The garden had already lost its look of purity. The mist was off the woods. She could hear the squeak of the lawnmower as she stepped out of the window, the rubber shoed pony was pacing up and down the lawns leaving a pale wake in the grass behind him. The birds were singing in their scattered way. The Starlings and their bright mail were feeding on the grass. Dew shone red violet gold on the trembling tips of the grass blades. It was a perfect May morning. She sauntered slowly along the terrace as she passed, she glanced in the long windows of the library. Everything was shrouded and shut up. But the long room looked more than usually stately, its proportion seemly and the brown books in their long rows seemed to exist silently with dignity by themselves for themselves. She left the terrace and strolled along the long grass path. The garden was still empty. Only a man in his shirt sleeves was doing something to a tree but she needed to speak to nobody. The chow stalked after her. He too was silent. She walked on past the flower beds to the river there. She always stopped on the bridge with the cannonballs at intervals. The water always fascinated her. The quick northern river came down from the moors. It was never smooth and green, never deep and placid like southern rivers. It raced, it hurried. It splayed itself red green and clear brown over the pebbles over the bed, resting her elbows on the balustrade. She watched it, Eddie round the arches, she watched it make diamonds and sharp arrow streaks over the stones. She listened, she knew the different sounds it made in summer and winter. Now it hurried. It raced. But the chow was bored. He marched on. She followed him. She went up the green ride towards the snuffer shaped monument on the crest of the hill. Every path through the woods had its name. There was Keeper's Path, lover's walk. Ladies' mile and here was the earl's ride. But before she went into the woods, she stopped and looked back at the house. Times out of number, she had stopped here. The castle looked gray and stately asleep this morning with the blinds drawn and no flag on the flags stepp, very noble. It looked and ancient and enduring. Then she went on into the woods. The wind seemed to rise as she walked under the trees, it sang in their tops, but it was silent beneath the dead leaves crackled underfoot. Among them sprang up the pale spring flowers. The loveliest of the year. Blue flowers and white flowers, trembling on cushions of green moss. Spring was sad. Always. She thought it brought back memories, all passes, all changes. She thought as she climbed up the little path beneath the trees, nothing of this belonged to her. Her son would inherit. His wife would walk here after her. She broke off a twig. She picked a flower and put it to her lips. But she was in the prime of her life. She was vigorous. She strode on the ground rose sharply. Her muscles felt strong and flexible as she pressed her thick soled shoes into the ground. She threw away her flower. The trees thinned as she strode higher and higher. Suddenly she saw the sky between two striped tree trunks, extraordinarily blue. She came out the top, the wind ceased. The country spread wide all around her. Her body seemed to shrink her eyes to widen. She threw herself on the ground and looked over the billowing lands that went, rising and falling away and away. Until somewhere far off it reached the sea, uncultivated, uninhabited, existing by itself for itself without towns or houses. It looked from this height, dark wedges of shadow, bright breaths of light lay side by side. Then as she watched, light moved and dark moved, light and shadow went, traveling over the hills and over the valleys. A deep murmur sang in her ears. The land itself singing to itself. A chorus alone. She lay there listening. She was happy. Completely. Time had ceased.
Tags
Homemaker, Upper Class, Articulate, Dynamic, Engaging, Imaging, Moody, Thoughtful