She felt somehow very like him--the young man who had killed himself. She felt glad he had done it; thrown it away. The clock was striking. The leaden circles dissolved in the air. He made her feel the beauty; made her feel the fun. But she must go back. She must assemble. She must find Sally and Peter. And she came in from the little room.
Had I made it to the Kelly Writers House for yesterday's marathon reading of Mrs. Dalloway in time for my assigned 5:50 slot, I would've gotten one of the many exquisite party passages, but not the party passage, which came to me at 6:10. As it was, I had to fidget a little too noticeable as the woman before me pressed beyond her 10-minute slot to say, "Oh! thought Clarissa, in the middle of my party, here's death, she thought," clearly knowing the treasure that lay ahead -- the climax of the entire book. But thanks to Max McKenna and the good people of the KWH, I got to pick up with the Bradshaws, and what business they had to talk of death at Clarissa's party, and it really was the perfect way to end the week.
author of The Violet Hour, reader, prodigious eater of ice cream