One minute I'm sitting on a chair on the red bricked patio reading Virginia Woolf''s first novel, The Voyage Out.
It's quite tiresome really, compared with the others. I don't really like the main character, Rachel. She's dull and I couldn't care less whether or not she gets together with the other guest. But I do like the descriptions of South America.
Suddenly there is a flash.
I see myself, sitting in the garden, reading.
I remember that I am a person, in the world.
Who am I ?
What is this?
In an instant it all seems so ridiculous. To be a person, sitting in the garden, reading a novel.
My mind goes quiet.
The words once again rear up in front of my eyes. I'm back into the story.
But what story am I back into?
Virginia Woolf's or mine?
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