The elevation of Virginia Woolf is a paradox because it happened as a result of her descent into the depths of the waters of the Ouse River. As for Rhoda in “The Waves” the definitive embrace of the river’s waters was a natural return to the immortal sea from which, in the rhythms of her imagination, she never distanced herself. She didn’t want any more birds speaking Greek, hearing her dead parents or Edward VII talking dirty, nor her own conscience chattering faster than she, the hallucinated auditor, could put with.
No more words. The waters were the fundamental expression of nature, the same as her thoughts that flowed from her on her account and no longer served as a hold, pushing her out to sea with each wave. Fortunately for all of us, before giving up, she caught some of them and conjugated them, like a miracle, in that exquisite warp that her texts are.