As discussed in class, one of the precepts of the modernist tradition is in making the small big. In Mrs. Dalloway, we get this in the physical book itself: one day is stretched across two hundred pages of a fully formed novel. This aesthetic of magnification applies to the story’s characters as well. When Clarissa ascends the stairs to her attic room, she does so “like a nun withdrawing, or a child exploring a tower” (Woolf, 31).  Instead of being confined to Clarissa’s world, we discover fragments from other worlds as well: the nun in her convent, and the child in the tower.  While Clarissa mends her green dress, her thoughts wander and the motions of her needle and thread become waves rolling on a beach during a summer’s day (Woolf, 46).  When she and Peter sit side-by-side on the sofa, “horses paw the ground; toss their heads” and “the light shines on their flanks; their necks curve” (Woolf, 44).  Clarissa gets up from the sofa, and she moves “as a woman gathers her things together, her cloak, her gloves, her opera glasses, and gets up to go out of the theater into the street” (47). The physical realm does not dictate the psychological landscape. Leaning in for a kiss does not make Clarissa think to herself that she’s nervous or feel her heart flutter. Instead it gives a fugitive glimpse of “plumes like pampas grass in a tropic gale,” (Wool, 46).  The character’s internal worlds are vast and innumerable, and in some ways more expansive than the physical realm. Because the outside world is relatively large compared to our bodies, it is easy to think of us as small and finite. However, Woolf shows that our minds cover a much broader scope, and individuals hold within themselves their own universe.