....where no star shines and no birds sing....
“…a non-stop waggling of the backside as he hands out, on a salver, sentence after sentence.... So what? One feels, reaching the end of the drama in a resounding box, where no star shines and no bird sings."
Dorothy Richardson on the writing of James [Henry?]

from the originator of ‘stream of consciousness’ writing – she preferred the term ‘interior monologues’ ] predating Jack of the perpetual pen........

It was only when she was alone and in the intervals of quiet reading that she came into possession of her hands. With others they oppressed her by their size and their lack of feminine expressiveness. No one could fall in love with such hands. Loving her, someone might come to tolerate them. They were utterly unlike Eve's plump, white, inflexible little palms. But they were her strength. They came between her and the world of women. They would be her companions until the end. They would wither. But the bones would not change. The bones would be laid, unchanged and wise, in her grave.
- from Dorothy Richardson 'Pilgrimage'