Quickly as if she were recalled by something over there, she turned to her canvas. There it was, her picture. Yes, with all its green and blues, its lines running up and across, its attempt at something. It would be destroyed. But what did it matter? she asked herself, taking up her brush again. She looked at the steps; they were empty; she looked at her canvas; it was blurred. With a sudden intensity, as if she saw it clear for a second, she drew a line there, in the centre. It was done; it was finished. Yes, she thought, laying down her brush in extreme fatigue, I have had my vision.
To The Lighthouse/ Virginia Woolf (Son Paragraf)
Onaylanma ihtiyacından tamamen arınmış olmak... Hiçbir şeyin anlam ifade etmesine gerek yok.
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