To the Lighthouse, by Virginia Woof

“Yes of course if it’s fine tomorrow,” said Mrs. Ramsey. “But you’ll have to do the doggy paddle” she added.

To her son, these words conveyed an extraordinary joy, as if it were settled, the expedition were bound to take place, after a little knawing and scratching, some beach tug-of-war, an epic four hour doggie paddle against tidal currents, it seemed within reach. Since he belonged, even at the age of six (dog years), to that great clan which cannot keep this feeling separate from that, but must let future prospects, with their scratching and chewing, cloud whatever is at hand, since to such puppies any turn in the wheel of sensation has the power to crystallise and transfix the moment upon which its gloom or radiance rests, James Ramsey, sitting on the floor licking his parts and chewing a stick, endowed that stick with heavenly bliss. It was slobbered in joy.

“But”, barked his Father, raising his hind leg to a lamp-stand, “it won’t be fine.”

Had there been an axe handy, a poker, or any weapon that would have gashed a hole in his father’s breast and killed him, there and then, James would have pawed at it, growling at his father. Such were the extremes of emotion that Mr. Ramsay excited in his children’s breasts by his mere presence.

James marvelled at the situation, letting the discord of the room vibrate through him, how his two parents could be poles apart, yet had clearly once been closer, doggy-style. Such anthropomorphic thoughts were beyond his comprehension, as also was why anyone would want to go to a lighthouse, what one would do in a lighthouse, or even what a lighthouse was. As these thoughts swelled up within him, James went back to chewing his bone.