Following is an excerpt from a book I am reading. The book is called “The Hours”, and is written by Michael Cunningham. It, deservedly, won the Pulitzer Prize in 1999, and also the Pen/Faulkner Prize in the same year.
“…Virginia sips her coffee, sets it down, and stretches her arms. This is one of the most singular, waking on what feels like a good day, preparing to work but not yet actually embarked. At this moment there are infinite possibilities, whole hours ahead. Her mind hums.
This morning she may penetrate the obfuscation, the clogged pipes, to reach the gold. She can feel it inside her, all about the indescribable second self, or rather parallel, purer self. If she were religious, she would call it the soul. It is more than the sum of her intellect and her emotions, more than the sum of her experiences, though it runs like veins of brilliant metal through all three. It is an inner faculty that recognises the animated mysteries of the world because it is made of the same substance, and when she is very fortunate she is able to write directly through that faculty. Writing in that state is the most profound satisfaction she knows, but her access to it comes and goes without warning. She may pick up her pen and follow it with her hand as it moves across the paper; she may pick up the pen and find that she’s merely herself, a woman in a housecoat holding a pen, afraid and uncertain, only mildly competent, with no idea about where to begin or what to write.
She picks up her pen…”
P.S. Thanks to Ammar for lending me this treasure.