Mrs. Dalloway

was macerated until only the nerve fibres were left. It was spread
like a veil upon a rock.

He lay back in his chair, exhausted but upheld. He lay resting,
waiting, before he again interpreted, with effort, with agony, to
mankind. He lay very high, on the back of the world. The earth thrilled
beneath him. Red flowers grew through his flesh; their stiff leaves
rustled by his head. Music began clanging against the rocks up here.
It is a motor horn down in the street, he muttered; but up here it
cannoned from rock to rock, divided, met in shocks of sound which rose
in smooth columns (that music should be visible was a discovery) and
became an anthem, an anthem twined round now by a shepherd boy’s piping
(That’s an old man playing a penny whistle by the public-house, he
muttered) which, as the boy stood still came bubbling from his pipe,
and then, as he climbed higher, made its exquisite plaint while the
traffic passed beneath. This boy’s elegy is played among the traffic,
thought Septimus. Now he withdraws up into the snows, and roses hang
about him--the thick red roses which grow on my bedroom wall, he
reminded himself. The music stopped. He has his penny, he reasoned it