Now is the time, she would say to herself at a certain moment, when without doing anything violent I can show the meaning of all this. And she would begin - how unmistakable that quickening is! - beckoning and summoning, and there would rise up in memory, half forgotten, perhaps quite trivial things in other chapters dropped by the way. And she would make their presence felt while some one sewed or smoked a pipe as naturally as possible, and one would feel, as she went on writing, as if one had gone to the top of the world and seen it laid out, very majestically, beneath.

 

Virginia Woolf, A Room of One's Own