A haunted house that holds the mystery of the human heart; a challenge to read the contents of a library -- that reveals how dismally bad all too many books are. Five faces in a train compartment that among them become an unwritten novel. . . . a garden that holds the memory of love. Monday or Tuesday contains eight beautiful tales from the strange beautful mind of Virginia Woolf, one of the 20th century's most innovative -- and most disturbing, and most disturbed -- writers. This gorgeous collection reveals Woolf's style and imagination in all their delicate brilliance.
Whatever hour you woke there was a door shutting. From room to room they went, hand in hand, lifting here, opening there, making sure—a ghostly couple. "Here we left it," she said. And he added, "Oh, but here too!" "It's upstairs," she murmured. "And in the garden," he whispered. "Quietly," they said, "or we shall wake them." But it wasn't that you woke us. Oh, no. "They're looking for it; they're drawing the curtain," one might say, and so read on a page or two. "Now they've found it," one would be certain, stopping the pencil on the margin. And then, tired of reading, one might rise and see for oneself, the house all empty, the doors standing open, only the wood pigeons bubbling with content and the hum of the threshing machine sounding from the farm. "What did I come in here for? What did I want to find?" My hands were empty. "Perhaps it's upstairs then?" The apples were in the loft. And so down again, the garden still as ever, only the book had slipped into the grass.