I went from one to the other holding my
sorrow – no, not my sorrow but the
incomprehensible nature of this our life –
for their inspection. Some people go
to priests; others to poetry; I to my friends,
I to my own heart, I to seek among
phrases and fragments something unbroken
I to whom there is no beauty
enough in moon or tree; to whom the touch
of one person with another is all,
yet who cannot grasp even that, who am so
imperfect, so weak, so
unspeakably lonely.
– Virginia Woolf, 1931
*no comment on perfection…