In a blind town, the one-eyed man is king.

I was sitting with the girl of my dreams on a bench in the Boston Public Garden watching the swan boats circle the little lagoon.

I allowed myself the supernatural, the transcendent, because, I told myself, our love of metaphor is pre-religious, born of our need to express what is inexpressible, our dreams of otherness, of more.

My own brain is to me the most unaccountable of machinery - always buzzing, humming, soaring roaring diving, and then buried in mud. And why? What's this passion for?

Written By Virginia Woolf

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