• I enjoy almost everything. Yet I have some restless searcher in me. Why is there not a discovery in life? Something one can lay hands on and say “This is it”? My depression is a harassed feeling. I’m looking: but that’s not it — that’s not it. What is it? And shall I die before I find it?

    Virginia Woolf (2003). “A Writer's Diary”, p.97, Houghton Mifflin Harcourt