“Indeed his own life was a miracle; let him make no mistake about it; here he was in the prime of his life, walking to his house in Westminster to tell Clarissa that he loved her. Happiness is this, he thought.” Woolf, Virginia. Mrs. Dalloway. San Francisco: Harcourt Inc., 1981. Print. (117)
“For he would say it in so many words, when he came into the room. Because it is a thousand pities never to say what one feels” (116).
“But he could not bring himself to say he loved her; not in so many words” (118).
I found this passage (pp 115-119) to be moving and yet frustrating. Richard Dalloway has been struck with the realization that he loves his wife, that his life and love are a miracle. “Happiness is this, he thought” is repeated several times in the passage. Yet time has passed and time keeps passing (Big Ben) and this epihany gets lost in time, lost in life, and he never expresses it. It seems to be meaning and purpose, yet so elusive and taken for granted.