Friday, March 28, 2003

From Mrs. Dalloway.....

She began to go slowly upstairs, with her hand on the bannister, as if she had left a party, where now this friend now that had flashed back her face, her voice; had shut the door and gone out and stood alone, a single figure against the appalling night, or rather, to be accurate, against the stare of this matter-of-fact June morning; soft as the glow of rose petals for some, she knew, and felt it, as she paused by the open staircase window which let in blinds flapping, dogs barking, let in, she thought, feeling herself suddenly shrivelled, aged, breastless, the grinding, blowing, flowering of the day, out of doors, out of the window, out of her body and brain which now failed, since Lady Bruton, whose lunch parties were said to be extraordinarily amusing, had not asked her.

That my friend is one descriptive sentence isn't it?

The Clarica translation: Mrs. Dalloway is pissed off because she wasn't invited to the party.

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