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VirginiaWoolf(1882–1941).MondayorTuesday.1921.TheMarkontheWallPERHAPSitwasthemiddleofJanuaryinthepresentthatIfirstlookedupandsawthemarkonthewall.Inordertofixadateitisnecessarytorememberwhatonesaw.SonowIthinkofthefire;thesteadyfilmofyellowlightuponthepageofmybook;thethreechrysanthemumsintheroundglassbowlonthemantelpiece.Yes,itmusthavebeenthewintertime,andwehadjustfinishedourtea,forIrememberthatIwassmokingacigarettewhenIlookedupandsawthemarkonthewallforthefirsttime.Ilookedupthroughthesmokeofmycigaretteandmyeyelodgedforamomentupontheburningcoals,andthatoldfancyofthecrimsonflagflappingfromthecastletowercameintomymind,andIthoughtofthecavalcadeofredknightsridingupthesideoftheblackrock.Rathertomyreliefthesightofthemarkinterruptedthefancy,foritisanoldfancy,anautomaticfancy,madeasachildperhaps.Themarkwasasmallroundmark,blackuponthewhitewall,aboutsixorseveninchesabovethemantelpiece.Howreadilyourthoughtsswarmuponanewobject,liftingitalittleway,asantscarryabladeofstrawsofeverishly,andthenleaveit....Ifthatmarkwasmadebyanail,itcan’thavebeenforapicture,itmusthavebeenforaminiature—theminiatureofaladywithwhitepowderedcurls,powder-dustedcheeks,andlipslikeredcarnations.Afraudofcourse,forthepeoplewhohadthishousebeforeuswouldhavechosenpicturesinthatway—anoldpictureforanoldroom.Thatisthesortofpeopletheywere—veryinterestingpeople,andIthinkofthemsooften,insuchqueerplaces,becauseonewillneverseethemagain,neverknowwhathappenednext.Theywantedtoleavethishousebecausetheywantedtochangetheirstyleoffurniture,sohesaid,andhewasinprocessofsayingthatinhisopinionartshouldhaveideasbehinditwhenweweretornasunder,asoneistornfromtheoldladyabouttopouroutteaandtheyoungmanabouttohitthetennisballinthebackgardenofthesuburbanvillaasonerushespastinthetrain.Butasforthatmark,I’mnotsureaboutit;Idon’tbelieveitwasmadebyanailafterall;it’stoobig,tooround,forthat.Imightgetup,butifIgotupandlookedatit,tentooneIshouldn’tbeabletosayforcertain;becauseonceathing’sdone,nooneeverknowshowithappened.Oh!dearme,themysteryoflife;Theinaccuracyofthought!Theignoranceofhumanity!Toshowhowverylittlecontrolofourpossessionswehave—whatanaccidentalaffairthislivingisafterallourcivilization—letmejustcountoverafewofthethingslostinonelifetime,beginning,forthatseemsalwaysthemostmysteriousoflosses—whatcatwouldgnaw,whatratwouldnibble—threepalebluecanistersofbook-bindingtools?Thentherewerethebirdcages,theironhoops,thesteelskates,theQueenAnnecoal-scuttle,thebagatelleboard,thehandorgan—allgone,andjewels,too.Opalsandemeralds,theylieabouttherootsofturnips.Whatascrapingparingaffairitistobesure!ThewonderisthatI’veanyclothesonmyback,thatIsitsurroundedbysolidfurnitureatthismoment.Why,ifonewantstocomparelifetoanything,onemustlikenittobeingblownthroughtheTubeatfiftymilesanhour—landingattheotherendwithoutasinglehairpininone’shair!ShotoutatthefeetofGodentirelynaked!Tumblingheadoverheelsintheasphodelmeadowslikebrownpaperparcelspitcheddownashootinthepostoffice!Withone’shairflyingbacklikethetailofarace-horse.Yes,thatseemstoexpresstherapidityoflife,theperpetualwasteandrepair;allsocasual,allsohaphazard....Butafterlife.Theslowpullingdownofthickgreenstalkssothatthecupoftheflower,asitturnsover,delugesonewithpurpleandredlight.Why,afterall,shouldonenotbebornthereasoneisbornhere,helpless,speechless,unabletofocusone’seyesight,gropingattherootsofthegrass,atthetoesoftheGiants?Asforsayingwhicharetrees,andwhicharemenandwomen,orwhethertherearesuchthings,thatonewon’tbeinaconditiontodoforfiftyyearsorso.Therewillbenothingbutspacesoflightanddark,intersectedbythickstalks,andratherhigherupperhaps,rose-shapedblotsofanindistinctcolour—dimpinksandblues—whichwill,astimegoeson,becomemoredefinite,become—Idon’tknowwhat....Andyetthatmarkonthewallisnotaholeatall.Itmayevenbecausedbysomeroundblacksubstance,suchasasmallroseleaf,leftoverfromthesummer,andI,notbeingaveryvigilanthousekeeper—lookatthedustonthemantelpiece,forexample,thedustwhich,sotheysay,buriedTroythreetimesover,onlyfragmentsofpotsutterlyrefusingannihilation,asonecanbelieve.Thetreeoutsidethewindowtapsverygentlyonthepane....Iwanttothinkquietly,calmly,spaciously,nevertobeinterrupted,nevertohavetorisefrommychair,toslipeasilyfromonethingtoanother,withoutanysenseofhostility,orobstacle.Iwanttosinkdeeperanddeeper,awayfromthesurface,withitshardseparatefacts.Tosteadymyself,letmecatchholdofthefirstideathatpasses....Shakespeare....Well,hewilldoaswellasanother.Amanwhosathimselfsolidlyinanarm-chair,andlookedintothefire,so—AshowerofideasfellperpetuallyfromsomeveryhighHeavendownthroughhismind.Heleanthisforeheadonhishand,andpeople,lookinginthroughtheopendoor,—forthissceneissupposedtotakeplaceonasummer’sevening—Buthowdullthisis,thishistoricalfiction!Itdoesn’tinterestmeatall.IwishIcouldhituponapleasanttrackofthought,atrackindirectlyreflectingcredituponmyself,forthosearethepleasantestthoughts,andveryfrequenteveninthemindsofmodestmouse-colouredpeople,whobelievegenuinelythattheydisliketoheartheirownpraises.Theyarenotthoughtsdirectlypraisingoneself;thatisthebeautyofthem;theyarethoughtslikethis:“Andthe