Is it not possible--I often wonder--that the things we have felt with great intensity have an existence independent of our minds; are in fact still in existence? And if so, will it not be possible, in time, that some device will be invented by which we can tap them? I see it--the past--as an avenue lying behind; a long ribbon of scenes, emotions. There at the end of the avenue still, are the garden and the nursery. Instead of remembering here a scene and there a sound, I shall fit a plug into the wall; and listen in to the past.
--Virginia Woolf, quoted in Hermione Lee, Virginia Woolf: A Biography
"What shall I do?" she cried; but already, as her stricken parents
begged her to stay, she had snatched up her cloak,
flung it over her shoulders, and mounted the dancing mare,
who galloped headlong into the fog and vanished
before the father could gather strength or wits to hold her.
--from my poem "The White Bear," in Same Old Story
--from an essay I'm writing