Yet I have some restless searcher in me. Why is there not a discovery in life? Something one can lay hands on and say "this is it?" I'm looking; but that's not it - that's not it. What is it? And shall I die before I find it? Then (as I was walking through Russell Square last night) I see the mountains in the sky: the great clouds; and the moon which is risen over Persia; I have a great and astonishing sense of something there, which is "it" - It is not exactly beauty that I mean. It is that the thing is in itself enough: satisfactory; achieved. A sense of my own strangeness, walking on the earth is there too: of the infinite oddity of the human position; trotting along Russell Square with the moon up there, and those mountain clouds.
- Virginia Woolf, Diaries Volume III
[而之后我們幸福了片刻。]