Maybe Septimus couldn't stand your jibber-jabber.

“Mrs. Dalloway said she would buy the flowers herself. It was pretty fucking obvious nobody else was gonna do it. Try to get people to move their asses.

For Lucy had her work cut out for her. The doors would be taken off their hinges; Rumpelmayer’s men were coming. And then, thought Clarissa Dalloway, what a morning—fresh as if issued to children on a beach. But cold as fuck. Was it supposed to be so cold? That’s not what it said in the papers.

She had reached the Park gates. She stood for a moment, looking at the omnibuses in Piccadilly. The park, it smelled like shit, thought Mrs. Dalloway. They probably should clean that place more often. You think bums don’t urinate in there?

She would not say of any one in the world now that they were this or were that. She felt very young; at the same time unspeakably aged. Which really makes very little sense. I mean, I guess she was being poetic, but maybe she’s just middle-aged and confused. She sliced like a knife through everything; at the same time was outside, looking on. She had a perpetual sense, as she watched the taxi cabs, of being out, out, far out to sea and alone; she always had the feeling that it was very, very dangerous to live even one day. Especially if you don’t even know basic stuff like if you’re young or old. Life really is very fucking dangerous when you don’t even have rudimentary knowledge.

Her only gift was knowing people almost by instinct, she thought, walking on. If you put her in a room with some one, up went her back like a cat’s; or she purred. Which inevitably creeped out everyone. She remembered once throwing a shilling into the Serpentine. Because poor people had no use for that money. I bet one of the urinators in the park would have been really grateful for it. But every one remembered; what she loved was this, here, now, in front of her; the fat lady in the cab. But I’ll say one thing for the fat lady, I bet she at least knows if she’s young or old. She might be overweight, but she probably has some concept of time.

But what was she dreaming as she looked into Hatchards’ shop window? Was it that dream where you’re naked but nobody else notices? I hate that one. What was she trying to recover? What image of white dawn in the country, as she read in the book spread open:

Fear no more the heat o’ the sun
Nor the furious winter’s rages.

This late age of the world’s experience had bred in them all, all men and women, a well of tears. But it had not bred in them the ability to use a rhyming dictionary to save their fucking lives.”