sarraute-motionless

She did not move. And about her the entire house, the street, seemed to encourage her, seemed to consider this motionlessness natural.

“What is a modern Poet’s fate?
To write his thoughts upon a slate;—
The Critic spits on what is done,—
Gives it a wipe,—and all is gone.”

Thomas Hood | “Dedication, to the Reviewers”