Waste Land to a Scream: A Gay Science

Novel 004

4. “Hope in reality is the worst of all evils because it prolongs the torments of man.” Nietzsche

October 2, 1914, Richmond Green south of London

It was decidedly Richmond Green, though colloquially just “The Green.” She knew this because the renter of their house had given her that sage piece of advice. All of the flora and fauna said so and who was Woolf to disagree? Though it was a trifle cold in the autumn months. She wondered on the grass and tried not to think of the terrors of the night. She stopped and looked at the European Elm trees which scattered missed the neo-everything conglomerations of buildings. She looked left and right and realized that this was the era of highborn and lowborn and everyone knew their place. This was not then. Now one had to search for the experience of living because dying is such an awful bore. She had tried this once. She did so again, but first, she had to give the world with a splay of witticisms which would scintillator the mind and enraged the intellect.

Of course, these would always be “anonymous” because only men had something important to say and put their name to. She often thought that every anonymous was a woman.

Then she wondered but had purpose because the white Georgian called to her and she did not know exactly why. It was serene in its splendor and step by step she paced its way out of all of the houses that were there. It was layered like a cake from the early part of the last century: all in white with decadent slabs.

She thought that there was something grand about its structure and she wanted to know why. She marched to the front with trellises decking the front and white towers which guarded the ramparts. She looked at the orthogonal parts and saw the orderliness that was the signature of the age. It was the age of block and square in buildings, in life, and in all that made up the sense of war and peace. For example, there was a lamp post which he did not touch.

But then there was a disorder to the order: a recursive xaos of a living thing which made life from (in its study trimming of the green: it was a gardener who was doing what he had always done: making Regiment of the cavalry of bushes and trees. It was she watched him with his gnarled hands and tethered arms. She could see why many people bought him to be another species entirely: as if it was a Morlock traipse around the sullen lush trees which he brought order to his disorder.

However, she saw a different light because he himself was thinking other thoughts about the tender scene: for him, it was a delicate sheen rather than a plaster organization. She looked at how he made each trollope a unique work of art. And this she realized was the core of the human intervention.

And then suddenly, she decided to knock on one of the doors, going inward to the center of the palatial centerpiece. She had to know what kind of person would be ensconced in a countryside town only a few miles from the Capital, whatever the cost. And then she raptures on the fenetre, and thus and so she waited for gigantic courage because at that instant she knew that she was an intruder. It took temerity to wrap a second time at the window between what was inside and what was outside.

And she was disappointed because the answerer was a Butler, all dressed for any occasion including the King if necessary. He opened the door and with great aplomb answered concisely: "Who may I say is calling?" there was a snide inference that he did not know her business but also that she was fair to form and regal in stature, so it must've been someone was of regal complexion. she gazed into his cold lifeless eyes and saw no viviparous sign of his birth.

"Could you tell your owner that a recent resident came calling and that she was interested in meeting her new neighbors on the Green?" Then she noticed that a slight innuendo had crossed the Butler's face: because if it had been done outsider, she would have mentioned "Richmond Green" because that is the description on the map rather than the description of the place which everyone used.

"And what may I say your name is?"

"You can call me Virginia Woolf." The name rang a bell in the Butler's mind but it was too distant a connection to the of use.

"Very good."

The Butler then bowed and closed the door because obviously, he was not going to disturb the owner over such a trivial matter. He was one and simple not complex and many.

It was at this moment she realized she wanted to write a novel about Silence, the things people don’t say.