The
idea has come to me that what I want now to do is to saturate every
atom. I mean to eliminate all waste, deadness, superfluity: to give
the moment whole; whatever it includes. Say that the moment is a
combination of thought; sensation; the voice of the sea. Waste,
deadness, come from the inclusion of things that dont belong to the
moment; this appalling narrative business of the realist: getting on
from lunch to dinner: it is false, unreal, merely conventional. Why
admit any thing to literature that is not poetry–by which I mean
saturated?
The Diary of Virgina Woolf, vol. 3 (1825-30)
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