From Virginia Woolf's "On Modern Fiction" (1925):

"If we fasten, then, one label on all these books [by such writers as H. G. Wells, Arnold Bennett, and John Galsworthy], on which is one word materialists, we mean by it that they write of unimportant things; that they spend immense skill and immense industry making the trivial and transitory appear the true and enduring . . . Whether we call it life or spirit, truth or reality, this, the essential thing, has moved off, or on, and refuses to be contained any longer in such ill-fitting vestments as we provide . . .  The writer seems constrained, not by his own free will but by some powerful and unscrupulous tyrant who has him in thrall, to provide a plot, to provide comedy, tragedy, love interest, and an air of probability embalming the whole so impeccable that if all his figures were to come to life they would find themselves dressed down to the last button of their coats in the fashion of the hour . . .

"Look within and life, it seems, is very far from being ‘like this'.  Examine for a moment an ordinary mind on an ordinary day.  The mind receives a myriad impressions – trivial, fantastic, evanescent, or engraved with the sharpness of steel.  From all sides they come, an incessant shower of innumerable atoms; and as they fall, as they shape themselves into the life of Monday or Tuesday, the accent falls differently from of old; the moment of importance came not here but there; so that, if a writer were a free man and not a slave, if he could write what he chose, not what he must, if he could base his work upon his own feeling and not upon convention, there would be no plot, no comedy, no tragedy, no love interest or catastrophe in the accepted style, and perhaps not a single button sewn on as the Bond Street tailors would have it.  Life is not a series of gig lamps symmetrically arranged; life is a luminous halo, a semi-transparent envelope surrounding us from the beginning of consciousness to the end.  Is it not the task of the novelist to convey this varying, this unknown and uncircumscribed spirit, whatever aberration or complexity it may display, with as little mixture of the alien and external as possible? . . .  Let us record the atoms as they fall upon the mind in the order in which they fall, let us trace the pattern, however disconnected and incoherent in appearance, which each sight or incident scores upon the consciousness.  Let us not take it for granted that life exists more fully in what is commonly thought big than in what is commonly thought small . . ."

Stephen Dedalus in Ulysses (1922), a fragment of interior monologue in which thinks about a debt he owes to the poet AE:  "Wait. Five months. Molecules all change. I am other I now. Other I got pound. . . . But I, entelechy, form of forms, am I by memory because under everchanging forms. . . . I, I and I. I."
"stream of consciousness," a phrase borrowed from the philosopher William James (Henry's brother) to describe the representation of consciousness as flux in modern fiction:  in the stream of thought "the knowledge of some other part of the stream, past or future, near or remote, is always mixed in with our knowledge of the present thing." (First borrowed by the novelist May Sinclair to describe the fiction of Dorothy Richardson in 1918.)

Henri Berson on "duration" vs. mechanical or clock time