which is the seat of the soul, not that hard little electric light which we call brilliance,
as it pops in and out upon our lips, but the more profound, subtle, and subterranean glow,
which is the bright yellow flame of rational intercourse.
No need to hurry. No need to sparkle. No need to be anybody but oneself.
We are all going to heaven and Vandyck is of the company- in other words,
how good life seemed, how sweet its rewards, how trivial this grudge or that grievance,
how admirable friendship and the society of one's kind, as, lighting a good cigarette,
one sunk among the cushions in the window seat"
A Room of One's Own