Med meg i bagasjen til Gran Canaria hadde jeg blant annet The Waves. Jeg valgte utelukkende pocketbøker på grunn av vekten, ja bortsett fra Frankenstein, som jeg leste sammen med Ina. Jeg har lest omtrent halve boken, og liker den godt. Likevel, det er en svært annerledes roman enn det jeg er vant til. Også annerledes enn Til fyret. Jeg skal ikke si mer om det nå, det kommer i anmeldelsen når boken er ferdiglest. Her er i alle fall en liten smakebit. Skjønt, det er vanskelig å finne frem til én som kan vise bokens fortreffelighet.
The sun fell in sharp wedges inside the room. Whatever the light touched became dowered with a fanatical existence. A plate was like a white lake. A knife looked like a dagger of ice. Suddenly tumblers revealed themselves upheld by streaks of light. Tables and chairs rose to the surface as if they had been sunk under water and rose, filmed with red, orange, purple like the bloom on the skin of ripe fruit. The veins on the glaze of the china, the grain og the wood, the fibres of the matting became more and more finely engraved. Everything was without shadow. A jar was so green that the eye seemed sucked up through a funnel by its intensity and stuck to it like a limpet. Then shapes took on mass and edge. Here was the boss of a chair; here the bulk of a cupboard. And as the light increased, flocks of shadow were driven before it and conglomerated and hung in many-pleated folds in the background.