Pääsen lähemmäs ja lähemmäs kokemuksellista lukemista täällä. Yhtäkkiä kirjat ovatkin tiloja, paikkoja ja kokemuksia; eivät objekteja, dead linet ylittäviä työkohteita.
Tässä muistiinpano keväistä Lontoon matkaa varten: kaupunki kirjallisena tilana Helen Humphreys'in Lost Gardenista.
The streets are almost empty. I look up as we drive along the Vauxhall Bridge Road and from between two buildings I see a flicker of green that leads to Vincent Square and the stone face of the Royal Horticultural Society looking down into the Westminster Play Ground. (4)
I have said my farewells to my fellow boarders at Mrs. Royce's house on Denbigh Street. (5)
I remember that moon was up, and that when I crossed Tavistock Square the gardens were flooded with light. It took me a while even to notice the tall shadowy figure of a woman, walking ahead of me through the gardens of the square. But when I did notice her, it was as if I also noticed everything else for the first time, and the watery flume of traffic streaming by in the Southampton Row was suddenly hushed. The air smelled of flowering trees and that scent was the scent of possibility, of hopefulness.
There is a vocabulary to existing, to taking up living space in the world, that cannot be translated over the chasm of death.
I saw the tall, slightly stooped figure of Virginia Woolf walking through the night square in a flowing dress the colour of dusk. What words can I possibly use to truly cover this experience?
A mauve dress. The colour of lilacs. It hangs around the body, drapes it like smoke, ghostly in the rise of moonlight over the London houses. We were alive. We were on fire. I sit in this rocking train carriage, years later, words floating around me, wisping down in thin, grey threads. Nothing I can hold in my hands. Smoke, these words are smoke. (9-10.)