dot dot is dead

How then did it work out, all this? How did one judge people, think of them? How did one add up this and that and conclude that it was liking one felt, or disliking? And to those words, what meaning attached, after all? Standing now, apparently transfixed, by the pear tree, impressings poured in upon her of those two men, and to follow her thought was like following a voice which speaks too quickly to be taken down by one's pencil, and the voice was her own voice saying without prompting undeniable, everlasting, contradictory things, so that even the fissures and humps on the bark of the pear tree were irrevocably fixed there for eternity. You have greatness, she continued...

eight pages forward,

"Yet, she's no more aware of her beauty than a child," said Mr. Bankes. ... For always, he thought, there was something incongruous to be worked into the harmony of her face. She clapped a deer-stalker's hat on her head; she ran across the lawn in goloshes to snatch a child from mischief. So that if it was her beauty merely that one thought of, one must remember the quivering thing, the living thing (...), and work it into the picture; or if one thought of her simply as a woman, one must endow her with some freak of idiosyncrasy -- she did not like admiration -- or suppose some latent desire to doff her royalty of form as if her beauty bored her and all that men say of beauty, and she wanted only to be like other people, insignificant. He did not know. He did not know. He must go to his work.

The hes and shes only partly line up -- Lily compares Mr. Bankes and Mr. Ramsay, while Mr. Bankes gets distracted by Mrs. Ramsay. I wonder what is to become of Lily and Mr. B. -- I could so do better at Mrs. Jackson's 12th grade english class, today. This post is dedicated to Lily Briscoe. (Virginia Woolf, To the Lighthouse)