The Evening Party - Woolf.

   'Ah, we're an ungrateful race! When I look at my hand upon the window sill and think what pleasure I've had in it, how it's touched silk and pottery and hot walls, laid itself flat upon wet grass or sun-baked, let the Atlantic spurt through its fingers, snapped bluebells and daffodils, plucked ripe plums, never for a second since I was born ceased to tell me of hot and cold, damp and dryness, I'm amazed that I should use this wonderful composition of flesh and nerve to write the abuse of life. Yet that's what we do. Come to think of it, literature is the record of out discontent.'

   'Our badge of superiority; our claim for preferment. Admit, you like the discontented people best.'

   'I like the melancholy sound of the distant sea.'