Words rose above the intolerably laden dumb oxen plodding through the mud. Words without meaning - wonderful… — Virginia Woolf

Mrs Swithin took her knitting from the table. 'Did you feel,' she asked, 'what he said: we act different parts but are the same?'

'That was the burden,' she mused, 'laid on me in the cradle; murmured by waves; breathed by restless elm trees; crooned by singing women; what we must rememeber; what we would forget.'

Books are the mirrors of the soul.