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Chapter 1

Then she called hesitatingly, as if the person she wanted might not be there, ‘Orlando?’ For if there are (at a venture) seventy-six different times all ticking in the mind at once, how many different people are there not—Heaven help us—all having lodgment at one time or another in the human spirit?

. . . So that it is the most usual thing in the world for a person to call, directly they are alone, Orlando?

(if that is one’s name) meaning by that, Come, come!

I’m sick to death of this particular self. I want another.

—Virginia Woolf, Orlando