I want to post something here, a passage from a book, that always seems to creep back into my life in these sad and sorry times. It's from Mrs Dalloway by Virginia Woolf. I found my well-worn and dog-eared old copy in the early hours of the 26th, and reading this again made me smile. So now I want to share it.
Did it matter then, she asked herself, walking towards Bond street, did it matter that she must inevitably cease completely; all this must go on without her; did she resent it; or did it not become consoling to believe that death ended absolutely? but that somehow in the streets of London, on the ebb and flow of things, here, there, she survived, Peter survived, lived in each other, she being part, she was positive, of the trees at home; of the house there, ugly, rambling all to bits and pieces as it was; part of people she had never met; being laid out like a mist between the people she knew best, who lifted her on their branches as she had seen the trees lift the mist, but it spread ever so far, her life, herself...
I think it's an unbelievably comforting sentiment. Maybe someone else will get some use out of it, too. <3
Rest in peace, George! (Who will always survive because of his amazing talent and beautiful spirit!)
plus I stan the very intro of the video, it's a gif I love.