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Reading books fiction Have you ever thought about what fiction is? Probably, such a question may seem surprising: and so everything is clear. Every person throughout his life has to repeatedly create the works he needs for specific purposes - statements, autobiographies, dictations - using not gypsum or clay, not musical notes, not paints, but just a word. At the same time, almost every person will be very surprised if he is told that he thereby created a work of fiction, which is very different from visual art, music and sculpture making. However, everyone understands that a student's essay or dictation is fundamentally different from novels, short stories, news that are created by professional writers. In the works of professionals there is the most important difference - excogitation. But, oddly enough, in a school literature course, you don’t realize the full power of fiction. So using our website in your free time discover fiction for yourself.



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The genre of fiction is interesting to read not only by the process of cognition and the desire to empathize with the fate of the hero, this genre is interesting for the ability to rethink one's own life. Of course the reader may accept the author's point of view or disagree with them, but the reader should understand that the author has done a great job and deserves respect. Take a closer look at genre fiction in all its manifestations in our elibrary.



Read books online » Fiction » Night and Day by Virginia Woolf (websites to read books for free .TXT) 📖

Book online «Night and Day by Virginia Woolf (websites to read books for free .TXT) 📖». Author Virginia Woolf



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one resumed

life after a morning among the dead, proved to be of an utterly thin

and inferior composition.

 

The worst of it was that she had no aptitude for literature. She did

not like phrases. She had even some natural antipathy to that process

of self-examination, that perpetual effort to understand one’s own

feeling, and express it beautifully, fitly, or energetically in

language, which constituted so great a part of her mother’s existence.

She was, on the contrary, inclined to be silent; she shrank from

expressing herself even in talk, let alone in writing. As this

disposition was highly convenient in a family much given to the

manufacture of phrases, and seemed to argue a corresponding capacity

for action, she was, from her childhood even, put in charge of

household affairs. She had the reputation, which nothing in her manner

contradicted, of being the most practical of people. Ordering meals,

directing servants, paying bills, and so contriving that every clock

ticked more or less accurately in time, and a number of vases were

always full of fresh flowers was supposed to be a natural endowment of

hers, and, indeed, Mrs. Hilbery often observed that it was poetry the

wrong side out. From a very early age, too, she had to exert herself

in another capacity; she had to counsel and help and generally sustain

her mother. Mrs. Hilbery would have been perfectly well able to

sustain herself if the world had been what the world is not. She was

beautifully adapted for life in another planet. But the natural genius

she had for conducting affairs there was of no real use to her here.

Her watch, for example, was a constant source of surprise to her, and

at the age of sixty-five she was still amazed at the ascendancy which

rules and reasons exerted over the lives of other people. She had

never learnt her lesson, and had constantly to be punished for her

ignorance. But as that ignorance was combined with a fine natural

insight which saw deep whenever it saw at all, it was not possible to

write Mrs. Hilbery off among the dunces; on the contrary, she had a

way of seeming the wisest person in the room. But, on the whole, she

found it very necessary to seek support in her daughter.

 

Katharine, thus, was a member of a very great profession which has, as

yet, no title and very little recognition, although the labor of mill

and factory is, perhaps, no more severe and the results of less

benefit to the world. She lived at home. She did it very well, too.

Any one coming to the house in Cheyne Walk felt that here was an

orderly place, shapely, controlled—a place where life had been

trained to show to the best advantage, and, though composed of

different elements, made to appear harmonious and with a character of

its own. Perhaps it was the chief triumph of Katharine’s art that Mrs.

Hilbery’s character predominated. She and Mr. Hilbery appeared to be a

rich background for her mother’s more striking qualities.

 

Silence being, thus, both natural to her and imposed upon her, the

only other remark that her mother’s friends were in the habit of

making about it was that it was neither a stupid silence nor an

indifferent silence. But to what quality it owed its character, since

character of some sort it had, no one troubled themselves to inquire.

It was understood that she was helping her mother to produce a great

book. She was known to manage the household. She was certainly

beautiful. That accounted for her satisfactorily. But it would have

been a surprise, not only to other people but to Katharine herself, if

some magic watch could have taken count of the moments spent in an

entirely different occupation from her ostensible one. Sitting with

faded papers before her, she took part in a series of scenes such as

the taming of wild ponies upon the American prairies, or the conduct

of a vast ship in a hurricane round a black promontory of rock, or in

others more peaceful, but marked by her complete emancipation from her

present surroundings and, needless to say, by her surpassing ability

in her new vocation. When she was rid of the pretense of paper and

pen, phrase-making and biography, she turned her attention in a more

legitimate direction, though, strangely enough, she would rather have

confessed her wildest dreams of hurricane and prairie than the fact

that, upstairs, alone in her room, she rose early in the morning or

sat up late at night to … work at mathematics. No force on earth

would have made her confess that. Her actions when thus engaged were

furtive and secretive, like those of some nocturnal animal. Steps had

only to sound on the staircase, and she slipped her paper between the

leaves of a great Greek dictionary which she had purloined from her

father’s room for this purpose. It was only at night, indeed, that she

felt secure enough from surprise to concentrate her mind to the

utmost.

 

Perhaps the unwomanly nature of the science made her instinctively

wish to conceal her love of it. But the more profound reason was that

in her mind mathematics were directly opposed to literature. She would

not have cared to confess how infinitely she preferred the exactitude,

the star-like impersonality, of figures to the confusion, agitation,

and vagueness of the finest prose. There was something a little

unseemly in thus opposing the tradition of her family; something that

made her feel wrong-headed, and thus more than ever disposed to shut

her desires away from view and cherish them with extraordinary

fondness. Again and again she was thinking of some problem when she

should have been thinking of her grandfather. Waking from these

trances, she would see that her mother, too, had lapsed into some

dream almost as visionary as her own, for the people who played their

parts in it had long been numbered among the dead. But, seeing her own

state mirrored in her mother’s face, Katharine would shake herself

awake with a sense of irritation. Her mother was the last person she

wished to resemble, much though she admired her. Her common sense

would assert itself almost brutally, and Mrs. Hilbery, looking at her

with her odd sidelong glance, that was half malicious and half tender,

would liken her to “your wicked old Uncle Judge Peter, who used to be

heard delivering sentence of death in the bathroom. Thank Heaven,

Katharine, I’ve not a drop of HIM in me!”

CHAPTER IV

At about nine o’clock at night, on every alternate Wednesday, Miss

Mary Datchet made the same resolve, that she would never again lend

her rooms for any purposes whatsoever. Being, as they were, rather

large and conveniently situated in a street mostly dedicated to

offices off the Strand, people who wished to meet, either for purposes

of enjoyment, or to discuss art, or to reform the State, had a way of

suggesting that Mary had better be asked to lend them her rooms. She

always met the request with the same frown of well-simulated

annoyance, which presently dissolved in a kind of half-humorous, half-surly shrug, as of a large dog tormented by children who shakes his

ears. She would lend her room, but only on condition that all the

arrangements were made by her. This fortnightly meeting of a society

for the free discussion of everything entailed a great deal of moving,

and pulling, and ranging of furniture against the wall, and placing of

breakable and precious things in safe places. Miss Datchet was quite

capable of lifting a kitchen table on her back, if need were, for

although well-proportioned and dressed becomingly, she had the

appearance of unusual strength and determination.

 

She was some twenty-five years of age, but looked older because she

earned, or intended to earn, her own living, and had already lost the

look of the irresponsible spectator, and taken on that of the private

in the army of workers. Her gestures seemed to have a certain purpose,

the muscles round eyes and lips were set rather firmly, as though the

senses had undergone some discipline, and were held ready for a call

on them. She had contracted two faint lines between her eyebrows, not

from anxiety but from thought, and it was quite evident that all the

feminine instincts of pleasing, soothing, and charming were crossed by

others in no way peculiar to her sex. For the rest she was brown-eyed,

a little clumsy in movement, and suggested country birth and a descent

from respectable hard-working ancestors, who had been men of faith and

integrity rather than doubters or fanatics.

 

At the end of a fairly hard day’s work it was certainly something of

an effort to clear one’s room, to pull the mattress off one’s bed, and

lay it on the floor, to fill a pitcher with cold coffee, and to sweep

a long table clear for plates and cups and saucers, with pyramids of

little pink biscuits between them; but when these alterations were

effected, Mary felt a lightness of spirit come to her, as if she had

put off the stout stuff of her working hours and slipped over her

entire being some vesture of thin, bright silk. She knelt before the

fire and looked out into the room. The light fell softly, but with

clear radiance, through shades of yellow and blue paper, and the room,

which was set with one or two sofas resembling grassy mounds in their

lack of shape, looked unusually large and quiet. Mary was led to think

of the heights of a Sussex down, and the swelling green circle of some

camp of ancient warriors. The moonlight would be falling there so

peacefully now, and she could fancy the rough pathway of silver upon

the wrinkled skin of the sea.

 

“And here we are,” she said, half aloud, half satirically, yet with

evident pride, “talking about art.”

 

She pulled a basket containing balls of differently colored wools and

a pair of stockings which needed darning towards her, and began to set

her fingers to work; while her mind, reflecting the lassitude of her

body, went on perversely, conjuring up visions of solitude and quiet,

and she pictured herself laying aside her knitting and walking out on

to the down, and hearing nothing but the sheep cropping the grass

close to the roots, while the shadows of the little trees moved very

slightly this way and that in the moonlight, as the breeze went

through them. But she was perfectly conscious of her present

situation, and derived some pleasure from the reflection that she

could rejoice equally in solitude, and in the presence of the many

very different people who were now making their way, by divers paths,

across London to the spot where she was sitting.

 

As she ran her needle in and out of the wool, she thought of the

various stages in her own life which made her present position seem

the culmination of successive miracles. She thought of her clerical

father in his country parsonage, and of her mother’s death, and of her

own determination to obtain education, and of her college life, which

had merged, not so very long ago, in the wonderful maze of London,

which still seemed to her, in spite of her constitutional

level-headedness, like a vast electric light, casting radiance upon

the myriads of men and women who crowded round it. And here she was at

the very center of it all, that center which was constantly in the

minds of people in remote Canadian forests and on the plains of India,

when their thoughts turned to England. The nine mellow strokes, by

which she was now apprised of the hour, were a message from the great

clock at Westminster itself. As the

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