on specificity

dispensing with ambiguity...

"Suddenly, as if the movement of his hand had released it, the load of her accumulated impressions of him tilted up, and down poured in a ponderous avalanche all she felt about him. That was one sensation. Then up rose in a fume the essence of his being. That was another. She felt herself transfixed by the intensity of her perception; it was his severity; his goodness. I respect you (she addressed silently him in person) in every atom; you are not vain; you are entirely impersonal; you are finer than Mr. Ramsay; you are the finest human being that I know; you have neither wife nor child (without any sexual feeling, she longed to cherish that loneliness), you live for science (involuntarily, sections of potatoes rose before her eyes); praise would be an insult you; generous, pure-hearted heroic man! But simultaneously, she remembered how he had brought a valet all the way up here; objected to dogs on chairs; would prose for hours (until Mr. Ramsay slammed out of the room) about salt in vegetables and the iniquity of English cooks." - Virginia Woolf, To the Lighthouse

she just says it, says it exactly, and it sings. To join the modernists then? Pin down ephemeral thoughts, create a simulated mind on the page, a mind stretched out, wings and legs articulated with those pins, for careful consideration? Seems rational enough...leave God for those white spaces between the words...the ground to our figures etched into the page?