Read The Waves by Virginia Woolf Online

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The Waves is often regarded as Virginia Woolf's masterpiece, standing with those few works of twentieth-century literature that have created unique forms of their own. In deeply poetic prose, Woolf traces the lives of six children from infancy to death who fleetingly unite around the unseen figure of a seventh child, Percival. Allusive and mysterious, The Waves yields newThe Waves is often regarded as Virginia Woolf's masterpiece, standing with those few works of twentieth-century literature that have created unique forms of their own. In deeply poetic prose, Woolf traces the lives of six children from infancy to death who fleetingly unite around the unseen figure of a seventh child, Percival. Allusive and mysterious, The Waves yields new treasures upon each reading....

Title : The Waves
Author :
Rating :
ISBN : 18189505
Format Type : Paperback
Number of Pages : 241 Pages
Status : Available For Download
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The Waves Reviews

  • Seddrah
    2018-10-19 19:44

    a great recommendation from a friend. Seems like it could be life-changing, or possibly a little sad or maybe both. The hand-written inscription in the copy I found used was worth the entire purchase anyway, read it:2/14/84Martin-I'm sure you know that you've been on my mind a great deal over the last few days. I've struggled for words to capture my own grief at your mom's death, to express my appreciation for yours, and perhaps, to offer some solace by explaining to you how strong an impression she made on me during the few months that I knew her.I haven't yet decided which of my memories of Elma will be my favorite--her stealing my blackberry pie, fingering my brand new Perry Ellis coat as a potential rug, beating the pants off me at Shanghia Rummy, or just gazing out the window at the beach. But I do know that she was a deeply loving and strong woman, who had the grace and breadth of vision to raise a lovely, creative, and infinitely diverse family; and who was able to make me feel welcome and cared for within minutes of entering her home.Your mom's spirituality also affected me powefully. In fact it was while I was thinking over the weekend about this aspect of her personality that it occured to me to give you a copy of The Waves. The Waves is not "about" anything so much as it is a chronicle of the pain of separation, and a celebration of the spiritual unity that finally connects everyone and everything that is, irrespective of death. It's a lovely, mystical, and moving work, that I believe will comfort you more than anything which could ever come from my pen.Laurene.[and then in darker pen, it continues]Finished first reading March 5, 1984.

  • Violet wells
    2018-11-12 18:35

    For the unprepared reader the first fifty pages can be as baffling as an unknown code. But once the code is cracked, the whole experiment has a brilliant simplicity. Imagine this: a biography of you and your five best friends. From early childhood to death. Told not within the usual matrix of bald accountable facts, social landmarks of achievement and failure. But through a linguistic transposition of the ebb and flow, the forging and eroding, of the waves of our inner life. Those secret and unspoken moments known only to ourselves when we feel at our most isolated or connected, our most transfigured, lost or unknowable. The narrative a fluid continuum where all six of you are continually merging and separating in a fellowship and divorce of feeling. The six of you ultimately becoming one voice endeavouring to give shape to this one shared life. So The Waves is the biography of six characters, all of whom speak for the other five as much as for themselves. But it's a new kind of biography. A biography of sensibility. A kind of archaeology excavating identity entirely from what’s buried and sacrosanct. Epiphanies, private moments of triumph and failure - or what Virginia Woolf called "moments of being". Virginia Woolf speaks somewhere of her earliest childhood memory – of being in bed as a very young child and listening to the sound of the waves distantly breaking on the beach out in the night. She believed the experience remained at the very heart of her inner life, a kind of oracle. The native ground from where all her shoots would spring forth. Authenticity, for her, was to be found in the secret and unspoken experiences of life, her “moments of being”. All six characters in The Waves experience a similar crucible childhood moment. A haunting moment of sensibility which will subsequently act as a motif in the quest to know intimacy and achieve identity. The opening section of The Waves, a depiction of the dawning of day, calls to mind the act of creation itself. For she is questioning the origins and nature of consciousness in this novel. Except no god appears. Instead we see nature as a dispassionate encompassing force locked into its relentless merciless rhythms. The first section introduces us to the six children and their first impressions of the world around them. Baptism comes here, not in church, but when the nurse squeezes a sponge and sends rivulets of sensation down the spines of the six children. An early indication of how Woolf will concentrate on private rather than public events to build the biographies of her six characters. By the end of the first part all six are identifying themselves in relation to each other, all six are struggling with fears and insecurities, all six jarred and flailing in their attempts to achieve identity – as for example Rhoda: “Let me pull myself out of these waters. But they heap themselves on me; they sweep me between their great shoulders; I am turned; I am tumbled; I am stretched among these long lights, these long waves, these endless paths, with people pursuing, pursuing.”Each section depicts the next phase in the lifespan of the characters. And in each section prevails the endless repetition of the sound and rhythm of the waves. Ultimately the suggestion is that it’s only through sensibility, our creative inner life, that we are able to achieve love, forge abiding worth and find the fellowship that are the principle sources of light and warmth in life. It’s left to Bernard, the writer, to draw some sort of conclusion: “And in me too the wave rises.it swells; it arches its back. I am aware once more of a new desire, something rising beneath me like the proud horse whose rider first spurs and then pulls back. What enemy do we now perceive advancing against us, you whom I ride now, as we stand pawing this stretch of pavement? It is death. Death is the enemy. It is death against whom I ride with my spear couched and my hair flying back like a young man’s, like Percival’s, when he galloped in India. I strike spurs into my horse. Against you I will fling myself, unvanquished and unyielding, O Death.”

  • Jonathan
    2018-11-12 18:35

    The Waves Playlist Pop songs, not classical or Jazz. https://www.dropbox.com/sh/7q9qxb4kvl...The charactersRules: One song each. Gender matching. Must express as many of the key character traits as possible. I must love it. Bernard: Bob Dylan – To RamonaSusan: Kate bush - Mrs. BartolozziRhoda: Throwing Muses – FearNeville: Anthony and the Johnsons – Crazy in LoveJinny: Julia Holter - Gold Dust Woman Louis: Jeff Buckley - A Satisfied Mind [Percival: John Cage - 4'33]The novel4 rules here - reference to water in title or song (mist or fog counts), thematic connection over and above this to the novel, something about the feel matches the novel too, and it has to be a song I love. Grouper – Heavy Water/I'd rather be sleepingJoanna Newsom - Time, a symptom Joanna Newsom - DiversSmog - Rock bottom riserJudee Sill - Kiss Julie Holter - Sea calls me home Beach house - On the sea*******************This is It. This is The Book. The One. The collection of carefully crafted words I hold most dear in the world. It is for this very reason I cannot write a reasonable review, I cannot simply tell you that this is a masterpiece, that this deals with the most profound and important issues of Being in the most beautiful ways imaginable, nor can I simply say that, though I have read it many times, I still find new pearls to treasure in almost every line. So I will take a quote, a relatively famous one, and ramble on a little about what makes it so wonderful. From this one can extrapolate the rest…Towards the end of the novel, Bernard says the following:"How tired I am of stories, how tired I am of phrases that come down beautifully with all their feet on the ground! Also, how I distrust neat designs of life that are drawn upon half-sheets of note-paper. I begin to long for some little language such as lovers use, broken words, inarticulate words, like the shuffling of feet on the pavement. I begin to seek some design more in accordance with those moments of humiliation and triumph that come now and then undeniably. Lying in a ditch on a stormy day, when it has been raining, then enormous clouds come marching over the sky, tattered clouds, wisps of cloud. What delights me then is the confusion, the height, the indifference and the fury. Great clouds always changing, and movement; something sulphurous and sinister, bowled up, helter-skelter; towering, trailing, broken off, lost, and I forgotten, minute, in a ditch. Of story, of design, I do not see a trace then." This is, of course, a comment by Woolf on her art, and illuminates some of her key concerns as they relate to the confused and tattered nature of reality. But I do not wish to speak of that here. I want to talk about the music of this passage, the song of her writing. We begin with an old Rhetorical trick: repetition. He is tired, that much is clear, and do we not feel a similar fatigue? The fall of those sentences, like an exhausted sigh raising themselves up to the exclamation point at the end. Then alliteration, that echo of anglo-saxon origin, propels us through the next, short sentence. All those hard "d"s, the rippling between "life" and "half" (deep ripples those, though I will not explore them here)…And the alliterative magic continues, bouncing like bows on taught strings, "L"'s for longing, little, language and lovers, the repetition of "words", shuffling the sentence like those feet on the pavement. Then, as if to prove such shattering and shuffling inevitable, a sentence which falls on its own sword, ending with its feet over its head and undeniably unstuck. But we shall right ourselves. Pulled back by the gentle arms of another "L", and those commas, like the beats of a conductor's baton, getting us back up to speed, ready for the pounding out of those key words "confusion", "height", "indifference" and "fury". And we understand how fury can be delightful, how indifference can fill us with joyous awe.The next sentence is, according to Microsoft Word, incorrect. It is a fragment which I should consider revising. But how can one truly speak of the fragmented without using broken and un-finished lines? Here too all our alliterative friends return – those "C"s, "L"s, "D"s and "S"s, the repetition of "ing", like light and dancing footsteps following the music they themselves create. This is Design. This is Song. This is the tension between the beauty and craft of great prose, and the dirty, broken Truth of the World. Woolf is the Master of this tension, she walks on the thin thread tied tight between them. And when the thread broke, she drowned and the World lost too much to be easily comprehended. Of all books in the world, of all the voices I have been lucky enough to overhear through the magic of literature, hers is the one I love most, and the one I miss most. Read her. Read all of her. Then go back and start all over again.

  • Garima
    2018-11-04 20:26

    The sun rose. Its rays 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 my copy of ‘The Waves’ became alive as the clouds on the cover page started floating in resplendent movements and the water of the ocean moved swiftly over the edges of several dog-eared pages carrying along thousands of words written upon them, to a world they rightfully belongs to. Drifting in the cradle of nature, under the roof of blue/black sky, amidst beauty they could equate with. Merging into the ubiquitous elements of the cosmos, they were finally home. The waves...finally broke out.I’m stunned. I’m in a dire need of phrases. Right phrases. Perfect phrases. Phrases that can describe a smidgen of splendor this book contain. But I’m inadequate. Immensely inadequate. I wish I were a poet or a writer. I’m neither and I have no one to blame. Yet I’m vacillating between being angry and being envious. Angry with? Envious Of? I better avoid questions and negative words. This is not the right place when this is THE right book. I’m in awe of Virginia Woolf. That’s more like it. I’m...I, I, I, she busted this very ‘I’ with her mesmerizing sentences in The Waves. Waves that can’t exist in isolation. They need water, they need wind, and they need rhythm. They need to be the ‘sum total’ to be a ‘whole’. Likewise, Bernard, Susan, Louis, Jinny, Neville and Rhoda, who have their individual lives but they also exist to fulfill other lives. The lives of their friends, their lovers and eventually, their own.This is my second outing with Virginia Woolf. By way of To the Lighthouse, I treaded my path towards the shore while assessing the depth of the ocean and the vastness of horizon in order to prepare myself to tackle the waves. But kindly mark my words here: nothing can prepare you for that. I have taken a vow after reading The Waves that I’ll never entitle any book as my favorite until and unless I read all the great novels the world of literature has to offer. It seems improbable but fascinating to think of because otherwise I believe it’s nothing but a folly, an unfair judgment on our part. I can say ‘never before’ though. Yes. Never before I’ve read a book like this. Its beauty is excruciating to the extent that on several occasions I had to stop reading it. It was intolerable to carry on with so much magnificence on display as if you’re witnessing the creation of the world with your naked eyes. The book follows the lives of six friends and their individual thought processes from childhood to their youth, from marriage to children, from middle age to death. The whole book is in the form of internal monologues with few initial elucidations about who is thinking what but that too is later withdrawn by Woolf with a belief in readers (I suppose!) that they’ll identify the characters through their cerebration only. This does make it sound a bit difficult and apparently boring but it’s not, it can’t be. It can be slightly demanding of your concentration but it’s sure to hook you from the very first sentence so it won’t be hard to focus except when you start ruminating about your life only. That’s where another brilliance of this novel lies. It’s so easy to relate with it. May be not with specifics but the generalities it implies.We have chosen now, or sometimes it seems the choice was made for us—a pair of tongs pinched us between the shoulders. I chose. I took the print of life not outwardly, but inwardly upon the raw, the white, the unprotected fibre. I am clouded and bruised with the print of minds and faces and things so subtle that they have smell, colour, texture, substance, but no name. Our lives are nothing but a multitude of moments, of choices made, of friends found and lost, of replacements, of connections made, of books read, of words written, of mistakes committed, of lessons learnt, of stories told, of finding ourselves. We know all this to some extent and probably Woolf also knew that everybody know this but still she went on to write something unique to show rather than tell. She aimed at finding a thread, a fine thread that binds us all together. She shows what makes us all different and yet makes us one. She shows the power of one single person, one single moment which is enough to act as a unifying force. There is poetry, yes. There is lyrical prose too. There is music and rhythm. There is no plot- I’m writing the waves to a rhythm not to a plot. True. There is saturation of every atom. Everything is here, everything. In the process of my reading, I was wondering if she used custom made words but no, I’ve come across them before but they never sound so enchanting to me. And that’s how it is. Sometimes we read thousands of words and not a single one of them rings true and sometimes we happen upon a book like The Waves in which every single word is conveying a truth of our being. I’m not sure how consciously I have been able to follow the stream of thoughts of various characters but I know this much- I have read this book now and I found a part of my past in musings of Jinny and Louis, a part of my present in musings of Susan and Bernard, an appreciation and anticipation for my future in musings of Rhoda and Neville. I’ll read this book again, hoping to find a part of my then past, present and future. The equation of tenses will change but the words shall remain intact in their truth and beauty. Those of you, who haven’t read it, please do yourself a favor and read it soon. Read it coming Thursday or Saturday. Read it coming July or September. Read it in 2014 or 2025. Just read it before you die. Now begins to rise in me the familiar rhythm; words that have lain dormant now lift, now toss their crests, and fall and rise, and fall and rise again. I am a poet, yes.

  • Lizzy
    2018-11-04 17:35

    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.As I turn the pages of The Waves, Virginia Woolf talks to me, to my heart, my spirit and my soul, like I could not have imagined. Such splendor and beauty come to me through her words, and I feel like singing with her. She sings life, a life that begins and goes on and on. So I keep reading and hope to get lost, to blend with the pages whose sounds are just like the very waves that come and go inexorably.The sun had not yet risen. The sea was indistinguishable from the sky, except that the sea was slightly creased as if a cloth had wrinkles in it. Gradually as the sky whitened a dark line lay on the horizon dividing the sea from the sky and the grey cloth became barred with thick strokes moving, one after another, beneath the surface, following each other, pursuing each other, perpetually.If only I could write, if only I were a poet. If only I knew who I was, but I feel the six of them as if they shared my soul. Yes, there are six, and I am only one. But each talks to a part of me. A part that I recognize or a part that I try to hide. As a woman, I am Jinny, Susan, and Rhoda and at the same time, I am not. But I am also Bernard, Neville, and Louis in their daily struggles, despite sometimes feeling so foreign to them. But I am all of them, and they are me. ‘I do not know myself sometimes, or how to measure and name and count out the grains that make me what I am.’ We play on along, and we live, we are human in our frailty and our imperfections. We live in our different scenarios, but all in the same planet. And I weep and smile with them for what they fought and are loved for, for their fears and for their insecurities, and their lovers. The activity is endless. And tomorrow it begins again; tomorrow we make Saturday. Some take train for France; others ship for India. Some will never come into this room again. One may die tonight. Another will beget a child. From us every sort of building, policy, venture, picture, poem, child, factory, will spring. Life comes; life goes; we make life. So you say.I that had for long forgotten to look inside myself, now crave to know why I lost so many friends or was lost by them. I am jealous of their friendship, as I sometimes feel so solitary and desperate for that human connection that seems some days so far away. I am a chameleon, for I am all six at the same time. Even Percival, for I have died even having survived.‘How curious one is changed by the addition, even at a distance, of a friend.’ And I still feel the sorrow of those friends that I do not see anymore, and so seem dead to me. He is all the friends I lost, their long gone memories, and all the friends I gave up. He is the isolation that I built for myself. Was it pride or simply forgetfulness? I grieve and want to yell for help. Is there still time? Could we meet for dinner and perhaps share all our happiness, our misgivings, and our sufferings? I have had one moment of enormous peace. This perhaps is happiness. Now I am drawn back by pricking sensations; by curiosity, greed (I am hungry) and the irresistible desire to be myself. I think of people to whom I could say things: Louis, Neville, Susan, Jinny and Rhoda. With them I am many-sided. They retrieve me from darkness. We shall meet tonight, thank Heaven. Thank Heaven, I need not be alone.Despite all that I imagine I have in common with all six of them, I feel a special connection with Bernard. Why is that so? Should it not have been with Susan, a female with her family life and her children? I that am also a mother. But no, it is Bernard that talks most to me. Maybe that is because he is the storyteller of the group of friends, what keeps them together. Or perhaps he is one but is at the same time all six of them.Light almost pierced the thin swift waves as they raced fan-shaped over the beach. The girl who had shaken her head and made all the jewels, the topaz, the aquamarine, the water-coloured jewels with sparks of fire in them, dance, now bared her brows and with wide-opened eyes drove a straight pathway over the waves.I watch as the waves break close to my feet and I cannot devise how it feels to be confronted with such force and immensity, to hear its deafening bellows as it crashes and almost kills me. ‘The waves fell; withdrew and fell again, like the thud of a great beast stamping.’ And I feel I am always eavesdropping on Bernard, Neville, Louis, Jinny, Susan and Rhoda, and I listen to them and journey with them from day to day. I now can say that I met the grave and quiet Neville and understood his love for another part of himself – ‘The leaves now are thick in country lanes, sheep cough in the damp fields; but here in your room we are dry. We talk privately.’ I encountered the ambitious and insecure outsider Louis – ‘I repeat, “I am an average Englishman; I am an average clerk”, yet I look at the little men at the next table to be sure that I do what they do.’ I shared experiences with Susan, her idyllic visions of family and rustic life – ‘At this hour, this still early hour, I am the field, I am the barn, I am the trees; mine are the flocks of birds, and the young hare who leaps, at the last moment when I step almost on him.’ Yes, I have felt for Rhoda’s fear of life, her terror of always being lost and unheard – ‘Identity failed me. We are nothing. I said, and fell.’ I encountered the passionate Jinny and her volatility and her need to feel loved – ‘Now with a little jerk, like a limpet broken from a rock, I am broken off: I fall with him; I am carried off. We yield to this slow flood. We go in and out of this hesitating music.’ And I know Bernard, the eternal storyteller who failed in his first love but unites the friends not only with words – ‘Who am I thinking of? Byron of course. I am, in some ways, like Byron. Perhaps a sip of Byron will help put me in the vein. Let me read a page.’I am in love with their names and their destinies, I am always with them and outside of it all, but present in spirit.‘Words and words and words, how they gallop—how they lash their long manes and tails, but for some fault in me I cannot give myself to their backs; I cannot fly with them, scattering women and string bags. There is some flaw in me—some fatal hesitancy, which, if I pass it over, turns to foam and falsity. Yet it is incredible that I should not be a great poet.’I read each word, Virginia Woolf’s words, and her lyricism makes me feel very luxurious inside. She uses words that are metaphors for our everyday life, such as waves and storms. Words that are each and every one a treasure to our intellect and our souls. She is a poet and reminds me of Fernando Pessoa and The Book of Disquiet. She has led me through an ephemeral life, or better, six lives, and I feel replete and indulged. And I feel alive despite dying in the end. And now I ask, “Who am I?” I have been talking of Bernard, Neville, Jinny, Susan, Rhoda and Louis. Am I all of them? Am I one and distinct? I do not know.

  • Fionnuala
    2018-10-25 20:32

    I am in a fever. Awareness is heightened. Words have purple shadows. Sentences gleam yellow-greenParagraphs are lined in reddish goldEverything shimmers, sharp as waves in sunlight. The normal is abolishedVoices roll towards me, one upon another, declaim their truth and roll away again, one upon another, the arc of each voice different, the rhythm the same: Bernard, Susan, Louis, Bernard. Rhoda, Neville, Jinny, Bernard. Louis, Neville, Susan, BernardSusan, Louis, Neville, Bernard,Bernard, Bernard, Bernard, Bernard.Six names, six faces, surging toward the light. Six names, six faces, falling away, each in turn, Until only one remains: Bernard.And Bernard says, Sit with me, and I do. And he describes the voices, describes them all. And he drops phrases one upon another. Measures out life, drop by drop, I strike the table with a spoon. If I could measure things with compasses I would, but since my measure is a phrase, I make phrases.And meantime, women shuffle past the window And the clock ticks on. And Bernard makes his phrases.I conceive myself called upon to provide, some winter’s night, a meaning for all my observations, a line that runs from one to anothera summing up that completes...But soliloquies in back streets soon pall.I need an audience. That is my downfall.Bernard punctuates with repetitions, a symphony with its concord and its discord, and its tunes on top and its complicated bass beneath. And meantime, women shuffle past with shopping bagsAnd always the chained beast stamping.And Bernard's phrases.I only come into existence when the plumber, or the horse-dealer, or whoever it may be, says something which sets me alight. Then how lovely the smoke of my phrase is, rising and falling, flaunting and falling, upon red lobsters and yellow fruit, wreathing them into one beauty.And meantime, women carrying baskets And the tablecloth and its yellow stain And the recurring drop that falls.And time, says Bernard, lets fall its drop. The drop that has formed on the roof of the soul falls. On the roof of my mind time, forming, lets fall its drop....This falling drop is time tapering to a point.As a drop falls from a glass heavy with some sediment, time falls.And meantime, women carrying pitchers on their headsAnd the constant naming of the days: Tuesday follows Monday: Wednesday, Tuesday. Each spreads the same ripple. Drop upon drop, says Bernard, silence falls. It forms on the roof of the mind and falls into pools beneath. For ever alone, alone, alone - hear silence fall and sweep its rings to the farthest edges. Gorged and replete, solid with middle-aged content, I, whom loneliness destroys, let silence fall, drop by drop..............................................................There is the recurring theme of the shark fin, revolving far out in the waves, the fin of inspiration:...leaning over this parapet I see far out a waste of water. A fin turns,the fin that rises in the wastes of silence, and then..sinks back into the depths, spreading around it a little ripple of satisfaction, content...There are the sheep, advancing remorselessly through the narrative in that wooden way of theirs, step by step on stiff, pointed legsThere is the grindstone, the rush of the great grindstone within an inch of my head.There are moths, which sailing through the room had shadowed the immense solidity of chairs and tables with floating wingsAndJinny’s yellow scarf is moth coloured in the lightThere is love and hate.There is the colour purple.There is a red carnation in a vaseThere are stoats nailed to stable doors.There are white petal ships floating in brown oceans.And Bernard's voice, no longer making phrases:Nothing, nothing, nothing broke with its fin that leaden waste of watersBut always the waves fell; withdrew and fell again, like the thud of a great beast stamping.

  • Seemita
    2018-11-16 20:50

    Hi. || Hi. || Is it you? || Yes, I am. || You look different. || Should I have been same? || Mmm... I don’t know. But you have my color. || In setting auburn, yes. || But it still looks content on your skin; that color – like a sheet of fine, wet porcelain covering a tired, antique statue. || And you look dazed, as if an army of nebulous thoughts have held you captive. || Is it so evident? || Yes. || I met a few people – Bernard, Susan, Louis… || …Jinny, Neville and Rhoda. I know. || Do you remember them? || They never left me. || Even after so many years? || Time has shuffled what was detached from me; what was within me, was always out of its reach. || So it all begun from where I stand. || And it walked with you till where I stand. || In the same form? || In what form you say? || I don’t know. But it feels like my mind and body dissolved its hinges and fused into that of those six people who combed through life with the precision of a surgeon… || …and the flamboyance of an artist. They let their vial overflow and got injected into your veins, sprucing your limp persona to rise like a volcanic sapling, splashing your vision with hues, bunched and scattered. You became them and you permitted it. || How could I not? Were you not present when we picked abandoned pebbles of insecurities on the way and held them hidden in our clothes of opaque vanity? Were you not a witness to the swinging that erupted from our trees of longing, long enough to allow crystallization with birches of affection in our hair? Would you deny the scene where we luxuriated at the thought of being serenaded by that young traveler, eventually kissing the rutted soil that he kicked with his indifferent boots on his voyage away from us? Were you not a secret enthusiast when we paused to bite into the luscious fruits of solitude only to experience a lonely taste hijacking our mouths in the most nauseous of sensations? Did you not skip a beat at the sight of us, lain ambushed behind the currant trees of ambition that were trimmed by parental legacy exposing our being to a twisted life bearing resemblance to an encumbered ball of alien proclivity? Did you not? || I did. With apprehension. And with h… || Then why did you not stop us? Stop ME? || Because amid everything, I saw you with hope. And revitalizing continuity. I am not surprised you let the streams of incredulity flow into the six, for they made the river that I am today. || But the streams were fledgling! Didn’t you see? In the vast ocean of my life, our pulses flickered like inconsolable dreams; now made and now thrashed. We were young, confused, hopeful, repulsive, always standing by the window of expectation, ready to be swept away even under the winds of anonymity and recklessness. We could not say the good from the bad. If only a wedge named Percival could have stood on our fertile surfaces, we could have perhaps…. || …not lived the life that you did. But who is to say what life we have to make? Isn’t life what we can capture in a diary and sing as a song? Isn’t it the crisp bed we lie on after a day of hard work? Why else should…. || …Life is not the view from the perch of simplicity that you elucidate in eloquence. The rules of the society are painted in huge, black letters on the wall that envelop our breathing. And they are not erasable. || But interpretable. || Perhaps. Did I do a good job interpreting it? Did I read the rules and still make mine? Inserting a letter here and recoloring a word there? Have I ever come close to understanding life? Ever? || Well, in the suns that rise and moons that melt, we found meaning of life. In the rains that drench and frost that shrivels, we found meaning of life. I have bathed in the sun-kissed day that danced in your bright eyes and you have shivered in the wintriness of my hunched shoulders. I have collected the shells you shed in the corners of your bed when no one was looking and you have swung the lilies from the roof I lay prostrate on to lull the world beneath. I have stood witness when you opened the doors to stray dogs and cats and learnt the art to welcome a stranger when it was time. You have shared my marks of jealousy like an unhealed wound that acts as the reminder of impending tests spurting from the corners of our aspirations. I walked along with you on the path of love and loss, family and friends, victory and failures, reality and drama and never lost sense of the road. The road, this road, that you have been asked to traverse, that I have traversed in its unevenness, coarseness, unpredictability and lengthiness, is a lullaby that tampers with our sensory beams and evokes reactions not written in our palms. You say I stand like an antique statue? Well, I have learnt over my dainty walks and strained tapping that empty eyes speak the loudest. And the stoic porcelain continues to draw figures on my body that no one, but my silent eyes, can decipher. When the sun hides behind the restless waves and the white foam strips its light into shadows, I can still make a drawing in the sand and not be worried of its fate. || Even in its transience, there is meaning? || Yes. In its transience, there is meaning. Because there are memories. I am afraid if I were to render form to memories, I would view it as a long vestibuled train which rearranges its compartments to derive a faster, nimbler run but never coughs enough steam to disengage any one of them. You see, memories are creations. And there is no better role to acquire than that of a creator. The very best. || But being a creator is also a bane; sometimes he has to let fall the axe on what is unacceptable. || But what pride would you have if you never created anything on your own? You love your warm coffee in the morning and the soft pillow at night. But try giving space to a fading rose in your vase; or a rumpled shawl on your shoulders. Perhaps, you can draw a familiar aroma or feel an acquainted warmth. And if you get neither, don’t fret; they get magically synthesized into memory pearls that keep dotting the steady and sinking steps you take on the shore of life, much like navigators to lead you where you truly belong. || Would they be illuminating forever? || Indeed. || That is a resuscitating relief. But… You look different. || Do I? || Yes. Wait! Is it you? || Yes, I am you.

  • s.p
    2018-11-15 18:37

    Probably my favorite book ever written. The 'waves' become a compound metaphor of sheer brilliance; we are all a harmony in the chorus of life, a part of a whole but each an individual part of beauty equally beautiful in solidarity as the whole. I wish I could write a single sentence as glorious as Woolf.

  • Stephen P
    2018-11-18 16:28

    A review of second reading coming.Initial Review:We know so little of others. Barely we capture pieces of ourselves which can be cobbled together into what we believe ourselves to be; the unified presence necessary to calculate and cope with with the underside of the unfurling wave of life's chaos.The book opens upon a group of innocents, small sensitive children at a private school in the country. They take turns, perhaps in a game, naming what is happening around them. Would children speak in the perceptive elevation of poetics? The sentences are couched in, she said, or he said. Plain as...It could be what is in their minds; their unspoken thoughts. The group has been like a primordial cluster with the slight beginnings of tentative separations. "Up here Bernard, Neville, Jinny and Susan (but not Rhoda) skim the flower beds with their nets. They skim the butterflies from the nodding tops of the flowers. They brush the surface of the world. Their nets are full of fluttering wings.'Louis! Louis! Louis!' they shout. But they cannot see me. I am on the other side of the hedge. There are only little eyeholes among the leaves..."Their staid and structured lives parceled in prepared segments is disrupted as life seeps in. Louis, surprised, is kissed by Jinny,while making himself invisible within the bushes.The maid is kissed by a kitchen worker in the full dazzle of kitchen garden sunlight, "I saw Florrie in the garden," said Susan, as we came back from our walk, with the washing blown out around her, the pajamas, the drawers, the night-gowns blown tight.And Earnest kissed her. He was in his green baize apron cleaning silver; and his mouth was sucked like a purse in wrinkles and he seized her with the pajamas blown out hard between them. He was blind as a bull, and she swooned in anguish, only little veins streaking her white cheeks red. Now though they pass plates of bread and butter and cups of milk at tea-time I see a crack in the earth and hot steam hisses up; and the urn roars as Ernest roared, and I am blown out hard like the pajamas,even while my teeth meet in the soft bread and butter, and I lap the sweet milk...""Since I am supposed," said Neville, "to be too delicate to go with them, since I get so easily tired then am sick, I will use this hour of solitude, this reprieve from conversation, to coast round the purlieus of the house and recover, if I can, by standing on the same stair half-way up the landing, what I felt what when I heard about the dead man through the swing-door last night when cook was shoving in and out the dampers. He was found with his throat cut. The apple tree leaves became fixed in the sky; the moon glared; I was unable to lift my foot up the stair. He was found in the gutter. His blood gurgled down the gutter. His jowl was white as a dead cod-fish. I shall call this stricture, this rigidity, 'death among the apple trees,' forever...But we are doomed, all of us by the apple trees, by the immitigable tree which we cannot pass."Their reprieve is too watch Percival, this savior figure, a student muscular, carefree, not wounded by the burden of self-consciousness. He is watched but not joined. The group watches but does not join. Each remains within their precious starlit moments, perceptions, remarks. The, he saids, she saids, take place only within their minds. We are not invited. We are thrust in and reside there. We hear character's reflections upon themselves, others, as well as events we have heard within another's mind. This is not a book about the inner consciousness of characters-which I love-but a book where the reader lives within another's consciousness. This is where the genius of Woolf takes realism to new heights. Science cannot take us within the experience of another person, the uncountable experiences of the progression of moments through the hours of a day, a night. Woolf has. I believe she meant this poetic prose to be read a sentence a day. Each day giving it time to settle and surface within a spectered prism to cup within one's hands and cherish.Time passes easily within this book that is not a book when reading, which does not exist in any palpable form. As each get older and goes off, though only able to countenance the world through their mental existence as part of the primordial group, they become staid in their performance allotted to them of, philosophy, culture, attachment to nature, reason, love of the continuous flow of apt phrases, the crumbling of boundaries bringing about both fearsome and beatific images. They ride above life in a rarified atmosphere. Then news is received. The savior is dead. He has not risen. There had been a party to see him off to India. The trembles of fear of entering the world as adults haunts the party, their final separations. In India he died in a riding accident. Life, this world so inane in its appearances has flooded in with the concreteness, not of the remarkable-remark but the flow of guts and blood and...death.This is not an event that can be assimilated within their scope of existence. As when life earlier interceded their thoughts and diction, it prevented them from taking any further step up. They settled into lives incongruent with natures never found, perhaps never sought, though congruent with who they seemed. The desperate awkward reunion arranged by Bernard in mid-life is a painful listening to all that is not in their lives and now will never be. The high and mighty, who disdained those all-to-ready to sacrifice the anxieties of philosophical searchings for the existence of hum-drum survival, found themselves trapped within the trophies of their once heralded self-heard speeches. Compromises quieted and unnoticed pass in isolation. Poor Bernard seeks himself, not the parts that respond to who he is visiting or to a particular situation. When alone all he can do is come up with phrases to label feelings, others, events which have or are unfolding, as Neville, sitting alone will pull another book down off the shelf. None, are able to see things as they are and therefore cannot see what is beneath or is waiting. They are removed by a layer of film of their own making. What they thought brilliance was defense. What they lacked was the strength to face the onslaught. Bernard sees the next morning the city awakening as a resurrection. Woolf goes on to show us what follows. What life is. What we are called to and why. In her precise, poetic prose she does not hesitate, she does not falter.If allotted only enough time to read one last book this is the one I would choose. It is the only book I have read which so completely does not write but experiences the totality of life. All novels henceforth flowed and flows from this book. Each wittingly or unwittingly tries to gain its reach, its complexity, completion.

  • Rowena
    2018-10-23 23:29

    “No, but I wish to go under; to visit the profound depths; once in a while to exercise my prerogative not always to act, but to explore; to hear vague, ancestral sounds of boughs creaking, of mammoths, to indulge impossible desires to embrace the whole world with the arms of understanding, impossible to those who act.”- Virginia Woolf, The WavesVirginia Woolf never ceases to amaze me. If someone had told me a couple of years ago that I would actually enjoy books written in the stream-of-consciousness style, I would probably have laughed. I was definitely not a fan of this writing style and initially felt that it was one of the most difficult writing styles to follow; it actually infuriated me at times. However, I am now a convert and I see the beauty of that style. And Virginia Woolf is probably the most adept and poetic writer of this sort of writing.There’s no easy way for me to summarize this book. It follows the lives of a group of friends; Bernard, Susan, Rhoda, Neville, Jinny, Louis and Percival, from childhood through adulthood. We hear, in turn, the internal monologues of each of these characters and they help piece the story together, as well as inform us of the characters' personalities.Out of all the characters, I liked Bernard the most. I found him to be truly perceptive and sensitive to things around him, his relationship with others, and his own feelings. He sees the importance of language and is obsessed with words:“Words and words and words, how they gallop- how they lash their long manes and tails, but for some fault in me I cannot give myself to their backs; I cannot fly with them.”Woolf’s writing is truly brilliant, lyrical and poetic. It is also very sad, especially the philosophical musings written when the group members are older, the musings of people who are grappling with different desires in life and who are wondering whether they are happy with their lives, especially when they encounter death. I liked the descriptions of nature, waves in particular. They were many such references throughout the book, it was almost as if the whole story was saturated with water, giving it a bleak atmosphere: “But wait- I sat all night waiting- an impulse again runs through us; we rise, we toss back a mane of white spray; we pound on the shore; we are not to be confined.” I must admit, I wasn’t always 100% sure who was speaking but somehow I never lost track of the story. I’m sure that with a second reading, things will become clearer and I’ll be able to get more out of it.

  • Paul
    2018-11-08 16:39

    This is a wonderful novel; Woolf herself referred to it as a play-poem. Often when I’m thinking about a review I will read what others have written, do a bit of research about the context or author. In this case, that approach is not really possible because there is a whole industry around Woolf and her novels and people spend academic lifetimes on all this! Woolf said she was writing to a rhythm and not to a plot and the novel is a series of interludes and episodes revolving around six characters Susan, Jinny, Rhoda, Bernard, Louis and Neville. There is also Percival who does not feature in the novel, but is a focus for the others and whose early death in India has a significant effect on the others. Each character speaks over nine parallel episodes from childhood to late middle age. The wave metaphor appears and reappears and gives structure. Woolf tends to base her characters on people she knew and The Waves is no exception. Susan is Woolf’s sister Vanessa; Louis is most likely part Leonard Woolf and part T S Eliot; Neville is Lytton Strachey and possibly part Duncan Grant; Bernard creates some disagreement amongst critics who are split between Desmond McCarthy and E M Forster; Jinny is clearly part Woolf herself (Jinny was her father’s nickname for her), but also may be Kitty Maxse or Mary Hutchinson); Rhoda is also partly based on Woolf herself. The elusive and charismatic Percival around whom the group revolves is probably based on Thoby Stephen, Virginia’s brother, around whose memory the Bloomsbury group formed. Of course, this being Woolf, there are other views and some have argued that each of the voices/characters are actually part of Woolf herself and she is holding them in tension throughout, examining different parts of herself. She is certainly looking at the collective aspects of identity and the way the boundaries of identity merge and coalesce with that of the wider world. I think Woolf is in some ways thinking in a more musical or even symphonic way; as though each character were a different musical instrument, all combining to produce a greater whole. This fluidity and movement is also reflected in the descriptions of the waves, which are italicised and separate the nine parts of the novel. The sections relating to the waves cover one day, which is the whole lifetime of the characters. Percival represents solidity and reliability. The sort of certainty that the Empire, the upper middle classes and the Victorian and Edwardian era represented. It is no coincidence that Percival goes to India. His death represents the whole edifice crumbling and the innate uncertainty of life itself. It may represent Woolf’s feelings about the loss of her brother, her own distress at the abuse she endured at the hands of her step-brother, the cataclysm of the war, her own mental illness; nothing is sure. There have been critics who have argued that Woolf is being over mystical and visionary; but close reading does indicate that Woolf is making some political points as well; this is not far in time from A Room of One’s Own. She mocks the all-male public school system, particularly as it produces figures like Percival and is critiquing colonialism at the same time. The Waves is also Woolf’s reflection on the inexorable nature of death as Bernard sums up the whole thing in the closing pages. The end reminded me of Don Quixote astride Rocinante tilting at a windmill; the windmill being death. We all fling ourselves against “unvanquished and unyielding” Death; Woolf eventually chose how rather than wait for it. In “A Sketch of the Past” Woolf said “that the whole world is a work of art; that we are parts of the work of art … we are the words; we are the music; we are the thing itself.” In The Waves Woolf expresses these ideas in her play-poem in a beautiful and lyrical novel laden with images and reflections that dazzle, stretch the mind and ask difficult questions. I loved this; as broad in scope as the sea and intensely personal; written with great craft and style.

  • Lee
    2018-11-15 16:40

    Best book ever, I said when I finished before returning to the first non-italicized page to re-read phrases that this time around didn't baffle (as much). A quarter through, as I started saying "wow" aloud at perfectly phrased phrases (that "land on two feet"), it was clear that this is and has always been an obvious canonical MVP. Tried reading it maybe ten years ago sitting in a Jiffy Lube waiting room, got to page 21 (dog-eared it), reading without retention, turning pages but not much else, and so didn't return to it after the oil change. Loved All That Man Is recently and recognized that it shared (or stole) its structure somewhat from this one; they both trace the long curve of life and are about life itself rather than some aspect of it. I'll have to adjust my rating for "All That Man Is" since this is about as good as it gets. Impressionistic, absolutely individuated, unpredictable, supremely insightful, and carefully crafted elevated language (phrases). No reference to Wittgenstein (as they do nowadays, creating an easy impression of intelligence). This is the real deal: original insight into the rhythms and texture of life. Essential: life and language reduced to their essence, which elevates everything. Ordinarily I'd rail against Disembodied Proper Noun Syndrome but disembodiment is part of the point; it emphasizes the voices, like a chorus of angels intoning perfectly weighted incantations to evoke what had been their corresponding bodies' lives. An exaggeratedly written text, self-consciously a compilation of phrases, the author's presence always benignly hovering over the words, and yet there's Bernard, Neville, Percival, Jinny, Rhoda, Susan, all of them I know now, all of them I see. Interesting to imagine what a contemporary version of this would be like, with childhood imaginations branded by Disney and Pixar (Lego Ninjas seem to occupy my daughter's imagination these days, usurping Paw Patrol, which vanquished Transformers) and young adult consciousnesses infiltrated by Instagram activity. But this, although ~85 years old at this point, is timeless, since it's abstracted; the grains in the wood of the door, the path through the sand, the red carnation, the textures, the rhythms, and the curve of time, the "sex scene" on page 103, and of course the bands of onrushing waves are timeless. Most semi-colons ever in a novel maybe? Ideal example of a novel that teaches you how to read it. "Immeasurably receptive, holding everything, trembling with fulness, yet clear, contained . . ." Will need to re-read multiple times of course. And now might re-read "The Sound and the Fury," which seems like it was influenced by this too.

  • Ian
    2018-10-26 19:24

    Novelplaypoem"The Waves" is arguably the greatest single work of literary Modernism, superior to Woolf’s own "Mrs Dalloway" and "To the Lighthouse" and potentially to Joyce’s "Ulysses". The first two of these works are temporally much more limited in scope, the last so stylistically diverse that it can’t be said to have a singular integrity (which is not to criticize it; this criterion is quite the opposite of its design and intent). "The Waves" extends beyond one occasion and encapsulates entire lives, not just of one or two characters, but six ("a six-sided flower, made of six lives"). Although it does so by alternating soliloquies (which initially are hard to relate to), by midway through, they became seamless. "Each sight is an arabesque scrawled suddenly to illustrate some haphazard and marvel of intimacy...I read the character of each love; how each was different." Each individual is unique, but also part of an aggregate, a collective, a community, a whole. "Am I all of them? Am I one and distinct? I do not know...we are divided...Yet I cannot find any obstacle separating us. There is no division between me and them." They talk not only to each other, but about each other. An awareness of the peer group as a whole, of people, of humanity, grows by accretion. "The truth is I am not one of those who find their satisfaction in one person, or in infinity." Whatever difficulties I encountered at the beginning were far outweighed by the superlative quality of the prose, if that’s the best term to describe it. Superficially, it’s a novel. However, Woolf called it a "playpoem". You could segregate any paragraph into verses and it would read beautifully. You could read any soliloquy aloud and it would sound Shakespearean. Ultimately, this thing that Woolf created is a "novelplaypoem". Not only is it written beautifully, it is timed perfectly. It consists of nine segments or acts, separated by sections printed in italics that map the progress of the sun across the course of a day. It starts before sunrise and ends after the sun has sunk beneath the horizon (sunrise to sunset, like a trilogy of Greek plays performed in one day). I can only marvel that one author sat in her room and sustained such a consistent and flawless level of creativity. "All is experiment and adventure." To be truly appreciated, it deserves multiple readings. Like a flower, it is so fulsome and complex, you could inspect and enjoy it multiple times, in multiple ways. "I distinguish too little and too vaguely...[Yet] I am titillated inordinately by some splendor." It is the ultimate "treasury of moments". "I detect, I perceive. Beneath my eyes opens — a book; I see to the bottom; the heart — I see to the depths. I know what loves are trembling into fire; how jealousy shoots its green flashes hither and thither; how intricately love crosses love; love makes knots; love brutally tears them apart. I have been knotted; I have been torn apart." To which Woolf adds, with humility but also pride, "I am also a girl, here in this room."Wave HaikuEach heart beat crashes,Like a wave, incessantly,On the shores of Death.SOUNDTRACK:Patti Smith - A Reading from Virginia Woolf's "The Waves"http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0UzS0d...Patti Smith - "Wave"http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1T-3BL...A Reading by Virginia Woolfhttp://www.youtube.com/watch?v=E8czs8...Seven families reside in Percival's street. (Photo taken on my walk this morning.) Kevin Pietersen’s First Innings, The Gabba, Brisbane, 2013 – 2014 Cricket Test Match Series[As told by Virginia Woolf]I hate darkness and sleep and night, and lie longing for the day to come. I long that the week of a Test Match should be all one day without divisions. When I wake early - and the birds wake me - I lie and watch the brass handles on the cupboard grow clear; then the basin; then the towel-horse. As each thing in the bedroom grows clear, my heart beats quicker. I feel my body harden, and become pink, yellow, brown. My hands pass over my legs and body. I feel its slopes, its thinness, its muscularity. I get out of my hotel bed. Here is another day, here is another day, I cry, as my feet touch the floor. It may be a bruised day, an imperfect day. As was yesterday. But I will do my best.Today we bat second, me at second drop. I will let the others get out before me. When it is my turn, I will sit still one moment before I emerge into that chaos, that tumult. I will not anticipate what is to come. Then, unexpectedly, a wicket falls and we are two out. It’s my turn to bat. I am ready, more ready than I’ve ever been. I will knock. I will enter. I will perform. I will excel.I hear the roar of the hostile mob as I step out from the balcony. Now I dry my hands, vigorously, so that neither umpire nor commentator can suspect that I am waving my fist at the infuriated mob that is the Gabba crowd. "I am your Emperor, people." My attitude is one of defiance. I am fearless. I will surely conquer.The day has already been full of ignominies and triumphs concealed from fear of laughter. I am often scolded. I am often in disgrace for idleness, for laughing; but even as Alastair Cook grumbles at my feather-headed carelessness, when I’m in the centre, I am here to catch sight of something moving - the red kookaburra ball – and smash it.In the middle of the wicket, I am now a boy only with a colonial accent holding my willow with my knuckles against Mitchell Johnson’s stitched leather ball. The moustchioed Johnson starts his run-up. Feet shuffle perpetually. I gather my strength and raise my bat, then punch it back down on the wicket. I feel the intensity of my power. To whom shall I give all that now flows through me, from my warm, my porous body? Why? Mitchell Johnson, of course! Now my body thaws; I am unsealed, I am incandescent. Then suddenly descends upon me the obscure, the mystic sense of adoration, of completeness that triumphs over chaos. Nobody sees my poised and intent figure as I stand upright at the wicket. They see only a colonial boy. Nobody guesses the need I have to offer my being to one god, the English batting god; so that Aussie bowlers might perish, and disappear. My blade descends; the Aussie vision broken. These are the things that forever interrupt the process upon which I am eternally engaged of finding some perfect shot that fits this very moment exactly. Now the energy flows through my body. The stream pours in a deep tide fertilizing, opening the shut, forcing the tight-folded, flooding free. Willow contacts leather. Two of my strokes race to the boundary. I’m feeling good. But I mis-hit one of Johnson’s balls and it rockets skyward. A man, a fielder positions himself beneath it. There is some check in the flow of my being; a deep stream presses on some obstacle; it jerks; it tugs; some knot in the centre resists. I am caught out! I tremble, I cry. Oh, this is pain, this is anguish! I faint, I fail. I step away from the platform, grasping tightly all that I possess - my one and only trusted bat. As I reach the edge of the oval, a huge uproar is in my ears. It sounds and resounds, under this southern sky like the surge of a sea. My sense of self almost perishes; my contempt. I become drawn in, tossed down, thrown sky-high.Once mighty England is cast down on the platform by the Aussies. We are whirled asunder. We will surely lose the Ashes, if we don’t lift our game. It’s up to me. Against you Aussies, I will fling myself, unvanquished and unyielding. I still live to take you on. I must return a hero. I must. I shall.The Mexican waves continue around the Gabba forum, until they break on the shore of Antipodean cricket enthusiasm. Someone in the crowd calls out, "Wanker!" Hah! Don't they respect class in Brisbane? Don't they know excellence when they see it?Notes:(view spoiler)["ENGLAND batsman Kevin Pietersen has taken aim at Brisbane, saying no one outside of Australia has heard of the city and he would rather watch paint dry than experience what it has to offer. "EARLIER this week, English batsman Kevin Pietersen delivered what was widely misconstrued as an ironic sledge against the city of Brisbane when he said 'No one has heard of Brisbane outside Oz!'"I've got to be confident in my ability," he said. "Clearly as a South African coming into England, I had to fight some tough battles. I had to be sort of single-minded in achieving what I've tried to achieve."I can't help that people think that I'm arrogant. I think a lot of great sportsman out there have that something little to them that makes them want to be the best. I call it confidence, you guys call it arrogance. It makes for a better headline."I think it's fantastic. I've had it for however many years, and know when I walk out, the Gabba is going to clout me."Courtesy: news.com.au (hide spoiler)]An Imperial Kevin Pietersen, padded up and raring to goPhoto Courtesy: Getty Images"I, who speak with an Australian accent, whose father [was] a banker in Brisbane, do not fear her as I fear the others."Louis in "The Waves"(view spoiler)[I speak with an Australian accent, I live in Brisbane, my father was a banker, and in 2013, I ceased to be afraid of Virginia Woolf. 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  • Marissa
    2018-11-14 22:41

    I've read this book several times. The first attempt my mind drifted off half the time because there is no plot (which is perfectly fine). I wandered so much that I had to reread the final chapter but by the time I got to the last two pages I burst into tears. It vouches for the power of a book when the reader can be so moved by the ending after only truly paying attention to the final chapter.I love what The Waves says about being human, being flawed, the importance of small events, small moments, small thoughts, how they can infest your life, the evolution of a human being, what people mean to each other, how they try to interweave, the courage needed to live, the collective human experience. It took a second read for me to put the whole book together and have every page count (and every page does matter). This is my favorite novel (if you can really call it a novel) but I would understand not everyone loving it as I do. It may be a more acquired taste but give it a try, and another.

  • Ahmad Sharabiani
    2018-11-16 19:31

    654. The Waves, Virginia Woolfعنوانها: امواج (موج ها)؛ خیزابها ؛ ویرجینیا وولف (مهیا، صهبای دانش، افق) ادبیاتعنوان: امواج؛ اثر: ویرجینیا وولف؛ مترجم: فرشاد نجفی پور؛ تهران، محیا، 1377؛ در 248 ص؛ چاپ سوم 1388؛ شابک: 9789645577276؛ چاپ دیگر: تهران، صهبای دانش؛ 1389، شابک: 9786005692129؛ موضوع: داستانهای نویسندگان انگلیسی - قرن 20 معنوان: موجها؛ اثر: ویرجینیا وولف؛ مترجم: مهدی غبرائی؛ تهران، افق، چاپ دوم 1386؛ در 398 ص؛ چاپ سوم 1387؛ چاپ چهارم 1389؛ پنجم: 1393؛ شابک: 9789643692131؛ موضوع: داستانهای نویسندگان انگلیسی - قرن 20 مدر ادبیات انگلیس، دشوار می‌توان رمانی را یافت که بیش از موج‌ها به شعر نزدیک باشد. استیون اسپندر موج‌ها را بزرگ‌ترین دستاورد ویرجینیا وولف می‌داند، از رمانهای پیچیده و دشوارخوان ویرجینیا وولف است؛ که در سال 1931 میلادی انتشار یافت. موج‌ها که با تکنیک تک‌گویی درونی نوشته شده؛ وولف را در اوج تجربه‌ گرایی خویش نشان می‌دهد. خود وولف اثر خویش را یک شعر-نمایش خوانده؛ نه یک رمان. کتاب با طلوع آفتاب آغاز و با غروب آن تمام میشود. ا. شربیانی

  • Perry
    2018-11-12 16:40

    Who's got their claws in you my friend?Into your heart I'll beat againD.J. Matthews, 12/96Six classmates (3 girls and 3 boys) go through seven stages of life via a sequence of interior monologues, sprinkled with allusions to the Earth's relation to the Sun and to the moon's gravitational pull on the ocean--the tides--as time passes. This is my favorite Woolf novel; it's such a beautiful composition and an incredible feat to create the feel and sense that the characters are flowing and breaking into one another like waves on the shore. She rejected plot and character conventions in favor of a narrative driven solely by voices to show, I think, that human existence, like waves, means constantly experiencing fluidity and regeneration.

  • Julie Christine
    2018-10-27 22:38

    For three weeks I have looked at this book on my desk, trying to summon the necessary courage to write up my thoughts. Courage, because whatever I say will be an inadequate, tepid articulation of how The Waves made me feel.'I was running,' said Jinny, 'after breakfast. I saw leaves moving in a hole in the hedge. I thought "That is a bird on its nest." I parted them and looked; but there was no bird on a nest. The leaves went on moving. I was frightened. I ran past Susan, past Rhoda, and Neville and Bernard in the tool-house talking. I cried as I ran, faster and faster. What moved the leaves? What moves my heart, my legs? And I dashed in here, seeing you green as a bush, like a branch, very still, Louis, with your eyes fixed. "Is he dead?" I thought, and kissed you, with my heart jumping under my pink frock like the leaves, which go on moving, though there is nothing to move them. Now I smell geraniums; I smell earth mould. I dance. I ripple. I am thrown over you like a net of light. I lie quivering flung over you.'The Waves made me quiver. It made my heart jump under my frock like the leaves. I don’t know when I have read such a thing of beauty, a work that soars in joy and plummets elegiacally, rising and falling, ever in motion, and yet caught in stillness. A listening. Woolf writes the silence between the words, the spaces that we rush to fill with chatter and speeches. She writes the heartbeats we take for granted. Look, when I move my head I ripple all down my narrow body; even my thin legs ripple like a stalk in the wind. … I leap like one of those flames that run between the cracks of the earth; I move, I dance; I never cease to move and to dance. I move like the leaf that moved in the hedge as a child and frightened me. I dance over these streaked, these impersonal, distempered walls with their yellow skirting as firelight dances over teapots. I catch fire even from women's cold eyes. When I read, a purple rim runs round the black edge of the textbook. Yet I cannot follow any word through its changes. I cannot follow any thought from present to past. I do not stand lost, like Susan, with tears in my eyes remembering home; or lie, like Rhoda, crumpled among the ferns, staining my pink cotton green, while I dream of plants that flower under the sea, and rocks through which the fish swim slowly. I do not dream.The Waves transcends literary convention. It is beyond poetry, it defies prose. It loops in and around itself, carrying the characters through their linear lives—youth, the obligations of adulthood, the melancholy of aging—within the circular swell of internal thought. What is this book? What words can describe the effect the moon has on the tides, the tilt of the hemisphere has on the seasons? A colloquy of six characters. Streams of consciousness flowing into a sea that encompasses the whole of life. A tragedy like all of life is a tragedy. Is it something to love, to admire, to imitate, to despair of?Like and 'like' and 'like' – but what is the thing that lies beneath the semblance of the thing?'" How do words relate to the world? What is constant in the flux of identity? How do we know ourselves and each other, how do we understand a moment or a life in those terms?Bernard, the writer, is our anchor. If there is anything conventional to The Waves, it is Bernard who serves as a main character, like a Maypole around which the others twirl, their lives entangling, unraveling, dancing on. It is he who reminds us of the impermanence and unreliability of our personal narrative But in order to make you understand, to give you my life, I must tell you a story – and there are so many, and so many – stories of childhood, stories of school, love, marriage, death, and so on; and none of them are true. Yet like children we tell each other stories, and to decorate them we make up these ridiculous, flamboyant, beautiful phrases And what lives these are, these characters representative of Woolf’s England: the ex-patriate, the mother, the ingénue, the depressive, the artist, the scholar, and, in one character mourned for but who is never given a voice, the hero. Louis, stone-carved, sculpturesque; Neville, scissor-cutting, exact; Susan with eyes like lumps of crystal; Jinny dancing like a flame, febrile, hot, over dry earth; and Rhoda the nymph of the fountain always wet.As I neared the end of The Waves, I read through a conversation in an online writing group started by a writer who works as a first reader for a literary agent. She is tasked with culling through slush pile manuscripts, making the call whether or not a novel is sent on to the agent for the next round of consideration. She came into our group bemoaning the terrible state of many of these manuscripts and suggested several writing craft guides that she wished the hapless authors of those rejected manuscripts would have consulted as they wrote. Guides that trace character arcs into percentages and tidy packages of outlines and moments. I died a little inside as I witnessed other writers scrambling to write down the books she suggested. Books I have read. I get it. I understand. Convention sells books. But for one moment, I wished the human experience could be released from genres and arcs, released to ride the waves of thought and experience. How impossible to order them rightly; to detach one separately, or to give the effect of the whole – [...] like music. Then again, if dancing out-of-bounds became convention, it would lose its fragile, precious power.I am forever changed from reading The Waves. I am filled with the wonder and possibility of a mind freed from convention and embracing humanity, of what happens when we allow in silence and at last hear the roar of our own hearts.

  • Libros Prestados
    2018-10-22 19:29

    Han pasado varios días desde que lo terminé y aún no encuentro las palabras para describir esta novela.Es fascinante. Rara como un perro verde, pero un ejercicio de estilo que si te atrapa, no te suelta. Posiblemente es un libro de extremos (o lo amas o lo odias, no creo que pueda dejar indiferente a nadie), pero tan alejado de lo corriente y tan lírico y tan devoto a su estilo (Woolf tiene muy claro en su cabeza cómo quiere escribir esta historia y lo hace hasta sus últimas consecuencias), que no puedo sino admirarlo.Y sí, es triste y melancólico, ¡pero tan bonito y poético!

  • Edward
    2018-11-16 21:36

    The Waves is is an incredible novel. It beautifully and poetically captures the experience of living and growing throughout one's life, from the slow gathering of consciousness in childhood, and the formation of identity, to the energy and wild optimism of young adulthood, to the eventual bitterness, desperation and regret (and perhaps clarity) of later life. The novel blurs the lines between the individual and the collective experience, acknowledging the importance of others in constructing our sense of self, bringing out our ambitions and setting the very course of our lives. The six voices are distinct, but interact and combine, complement and destroy, like the ripples created by pebbles thrown into a pond – the individual can be perceived as a fragment of a chaotic system. We define others, and are in turn shaped by others’ perception of us. This process of self-definition provides purpose and direction, but also limits our choices. If we say that we are like this and not like that, or we imagine that certain actions can only be taken by certain kinds of people, then we restrict ourselves to the path of expectation, and it is not until later that we realise that other paths were open to us also.Unlike a lot of experimental writing, the structure of The Waves does not get in the way. In fact it harmonises wonderfully with themes of the novel in ways that complement and amplify them. The metaphor of waves is far-reaching and creates a grand thematic unity. The voices of the characters come in waves, as the relentless beating of waves on the shore, as the arc of our lives, as the rise and fall of the sun, the waves of successive days, months, years, generations, the cycle of life and death, as the respiration of breath itself. By depicting life in brief, intense snatches, the novel emphasises life's transience, the compounding effects of actions, and the extent to which it can be out of our control. The Waves is a rare achievement. It's messy and experimental, yet possesses a beautiful simplicity, and conveys a vast wisdom of experience.

  • João Fernandes
    2018-11-04 23:22

    "How then does light return to the world after the eclipse of the sun? Miraculously. Frailly. In thin stripes. It hangs like a glass cage. It is a hoop to be fractured by a tiny jar. There is a spark there. Next moment a flush of dun. Then a vapour as if earth were breathing in and out, once, twice, for the first time. Then under the dullness someone walks with a green light. Then off twists a white wraith. The woods throb blue and green, and gradually the fields drink in red, gold, brown. Suddenly a river snatches a blue light. The earth absorbs colour like a sponge slowly drinking water. It puts on weight; rounds itself; hangs pendant; settles and swings beneath our feet."'The Waves' is one of Virginia Woolf's most famous works, written soon after the author's brother died at the young age of 26. One could consider this book a reflection of Woolf's grief, as her character go through the lost of their beloved friend Percival.This novel follows the lives of six childhood friends from their infancy to their deaths, not through one narrator but by the six characters themselves, in rotating inner monologues, which means it can be quite a confusing read if you're not paying attention. Rather than form, what truly brings Woolf out as a literary genius is the prose, if one can even call it prose, because it resembles poetry in its purest, unadulterated sense. Everything is a metaphor, everything is noted, everything exposed, characters announce their feelings and thoughts outright, which in the case of another writer could have been disastrous but in Woolf's words works perfectly.The six characters are all fantastic archetypes of the human spirit: Louis, the insecure, rational man; Bernard the wannabe Byron, ever trying to force beauty instead of letting it happen; Neville, emotionally distant, who I'm quite sure may be gay; Rhoda the misanthrope, scared as much of everyone as she is the world; Jinny, the uninhibited player; and Susan, who seeks solace in the beauty of calmness and nature.Why is this book about these flawed characters, these grieving men and women who cry for their charismatic, possibly great or possibly asshole-ish friend, but cry even louder for their own passions and desires or fears and pains, called 'The Waves'?"Into the wave that dashes upon the shore, into the wave that flings its white foam to the uttermost corners of the earth, I throw my violets, my offering to Percival."Throughout the book we are given beautiful passages about the shoreline, the playing waves in the sunset. Any one section could be taken out and made into a beautiful poem. "There is nothing staid, nothing settled, in this universe. All is rippling, all is dancing; all is quickness and triumph."All these waves are metaphors. The waves, much like Bernard, who narrates the ending of the book, are part of a whole. Waves crash and join with each other, different in motion and strength, but made of salt and water all the same. They burst in white foam and then they recede, ashamed. They act in random motion, unable to stop, warm on the surface and bathed in golden light but dark and calm in the utterly invisible beneath. Capable of beauty and destruction. Individual, but slaves to the whole, the unrelenting immortal sea. No man is an island, but Woolf teaches us every one is a wave, ephemeral, yet eternal.

  • Dolors
    2018-10-26 17:28

    Poetry in prose.Woolf writes without rules, no punctuation, no paragraphs, pure sensations, disarrayed and irrational thoughts, explosion of feelings.We see life through the eyes of six characters, three men and three women, each one strikingly different from the other but close friends and lovers, from childhood to old age.Early innocence, pure thoughts, playful games become more and more complicated when the characters grow up. It was devastating to witness how everyday life could break the characters' dreams, how bitter disappointment and regret can be, how lonely we are all in the end.But what was more horrifying was the truth behind those words. Life is sad, everything beautiful is ephemeral, nothing lasts even though we believe we are eternal. It hurts when you are reminded in such a cruel way as Woolf does in this novel, her words are like sweet venom which slowly gets into your system, and you can't let it go, even if you want to.A sad but beautiful reading.

  • Aubrey
    2018-10-22 17:44

    What is that quote, that one that says that you cannot read some books, you can only reread them. Here is one. Rampant poetry that you ride, crest in and crest out of the waves of words that flow in such a way that one sentence is one of many, a social construct like the bees and the birds flocking in the sky. Fluidity does little justice to this book. One word does not exist without all the rest, and it is better to float through the sentences rather than tear them down and open into some semblance of meaning. Reread to your pleasure until the meanings flow through without excessive force on your part, otherwise they'll drip through your fingers as fast as thought. Oh Bernard, you and your phrases, ones that at the end did not show your friends to the world in the way that they have melded together and to you. They cannot convey Neville's love, Susan's hate, Louis' past lives, Jinny's aesthetics, Rhoda's water, your story. Virginia herself may not have accomplished it, for who can say they have compared and contrasted between these pages and her mind. We do get a small insight though. And that is worth everything.

  • Luís C.
    2018-10-27 00:38

    Difficult to make a critique of The Waves, it is a text that feels but only in an absolute way. Invasive as the flow of the mind, emotions, the deep course of existence ... I read it long ago, it is always present in my memory, it lives and enriched me. Not only because of my resonance with the essence of what is delivered there (and the extracts I have piously relieved from it), rather by the wonder of discovering there a form of perfection in literature. The form is released but to better vibrate and diffuse, with a richness that many current novels, boring and cold by dint of wanting stripped of constraints, have never been able to equal. It is a dream, but the time of this dream is the essence of life that passes ...

  • Duane
    2018-11-17 22:41

    This novel is without a doubt a work of art, a masterpiece, one of the best of the 20th century by, quite possibly, the greatest female writer who ever lived. The beauty, the poetry of the written word in this book is beyond description. She must have been so proud when she finished writing this, she had to know it was special. This book has my highest recommendation.

  • Laura
    2018-10-28 22:30

    Magnífico.Completamente seductor como una ola.

  • Poncho
    2018-10-29 21:48

    "Things have dropped from me. I have outlived certain desires; I have lost friends, some by death […] others through sheer inability to cross the street. I am not so gifted as at one time seemed likely. Certain things lie beyond my scope. I shall never understand the harder problems of philosophy."I opened the book, hoping to find a distracting and entertaining novel that could take me into oblivion and make me forget what I've been through lately. It began in a very particular prose — a literary experiment perhaps. It's a day that begins with the sun and the birds and the trees and the waves — everything starting off. It's a very long day that passes unaware of its way through time. It's life what begins. So I want to keep reading and get lost, to blend into the pages whose sound as they turn is as the very waves’. But I'm rather found in so alluring a prose that my whole persona begins to unfold. Thus, my life, sown in the soil of memory and watered by Woolf's lovely words, flowers."I do not know myself sometimes, or how to measure and name and count out the grains that make me what I am."This is the kind of writer who knows how our minds, our hearts and our souls work: she knows what being a human is like. I feel it's impossible to express what it made me feel, specially since I'm not good with words; so perhaps only through osmosis I could do so. It's hard for me to describe something I don't even have a name for. Not even in a phrase notepad like Bernard's, filled with logs from a lifetime, I would find the exact term. But I remember it made me feel like the time I saw Terrence Malick's The Tree of Life, which I've been trying to recommend to almost everyone I've come across; unsuccessfully, for every time I try to articulate something concerning it, I fall mute. Then I try to recall some of its quotes. "The nuns thought us there were two ways through life: the way of nature and the way of grace." Why, that's pretty much like The Waves. Virginia, however, seems to make her own way in-between.These, Bernard, Neville, Louis, Jinny, Susan and Rhoda, are true human beings: craving for a soulmate; loving, raging; feeling passionate, cast away, desperate, solitary, jealous. I'm them and they are me. They turn my insight towards my own self, whom I had long ago forgotten, since I, like Bernard, focused of changing and adapting my being according to whomsoever approached my interpersonal space, like a chameleon that needs to camouflage in order to survive. Percival, on the other hand, is the outward insight. He's the fictional incarnation of all this year's sorrows. He’s the friend I lost, for whom I grieved and wept and sobbed and ached. But he’s also the friends I lost to pride; who now won't talk to me because I decided to dwell in isolation instead of reaching out for help. He’s S. whom I met and whom I fell in love with: a one-way toxic love — and yet he’s also the brightness kindling my soul when I see him. Percival is the beautiful memories of my dearest friend who passed away. He is, overall, the outward sensations that weaken me and make me feel vulnerable, anxious and desiring — and nonetheless,  sentient and somewhat enthusiastic — what, therefore, gives my consciousness the awareness of existence."I condemn you. Yet my heart yearns towards you. I would go with you through the fires of death. Yet am happiest alone."I'm all of them and they are me. We play along, just in different scenarios. Yet I feel I have a special connection with Neville. It pained me what pained him, and so many remembrances awake in my mind, suddenly, as a rush as I read his woes. It's about Neville and Percival, then the person he compares to Percival after the latter's gone. I try to shout out and explain how much attached I feel to this particular part of the story. I do so when I meet with a friend. "You are not S.", I thought, as Neville would have said. "Even though both of your names ressemble, you are not S. Both are, however, miscreants towards me; specially as my love for you grows larger and larger. Your faces look alike each other with those feline eyes that captivated me and still turn my mouth to stone, like Medusa, every time I try to utter a caring word, perhaps a poem by T. S. Eliot. But you are not S. You are not as learned as him. You don’t understand what I talk about when I read aloud from The Waves and say that "the poem is only your voice speaking.” But you listen to me and will try to understand my twisted character anyway. And yet, in foolish tantrum I’ll still crave for S." It was this name I try to hide — S. — what had been ringing in my mind all day in a solo. But now Virginia comes and accompanies it with a phrase — in both senses of the word: wordily and musically. She's playing her own String Quartet."He will forget me. He will leave my letters lying about among guns and dogs unanswered. I shall send him poems and he will reply with a picture post card. But it is for that that I love him. I shall propose meeting—under a clock, by some Cross; and shall wait, and he will not come. It is for that that I love him. Oblivious, almost entirely ignorant, he will pass from my life. And I shall pass, incredible as it seems, into other lives; this is only an escapade perhaps, a prelude only."After the loss I experienced I prayed and cried, in an incessant effort to put myself to sleep, to forget and not to think. "Take me, Lord, somewhere nice. Blow me away like the wind in The birth of Venus." Always looking for an answer to enlighten me. And even though I haven't found it yet, The Waves by Virginia Woolf was for me an embrace in this questioning and this search for meaning. I felt its words lit a fire within me and warm my soul and my mind. I could swear I tasted them as I read every night and fell in a soothing somnolence — not the kind that makes one feel tired, but rather the one that acts as a motherly and sweet lullaby. For how long I've been trying to pour my heart out in conversations in which I'd let my mouth run like a fool, getting no more answer than a condescending empathy that only made me feel as remote as Rhoda or as full of hatred as Susan. Then I prayed again, but this time I thanked God, for The Waves, for Virginia Woolf, for the share of sorrow, for literature. "Come, pain, feed on me. Bury your fangs in my flesh. Tear me asunder. I sob, I sob."

  • Kim
    2018-11-08 16:44

    Virginia Woolf referred to this work not as a novel, but as a “playpoem”. It consists of monologues spoken by six characters, three female and three male, who recount their lives from childhood to old age and death. The various stages of the characters’ lives are interspersed with nine brief third person accounts of the seaside at different stages of the day from sunrise to sunset. The work is in effect an extended poem, with the various voices of the characters sometimes separate, sometimes flowing into each other and intermingling into a group consciousness. The characters’ voices and personalities are distinct and yet linked, as if they represent different facets of the same person. Listening to the audiobook version of the work brought out not only its poetry, but also its inherent musicality. I felt like I was sitting in a recital hall listening to a cantata or an oratorio with six soloists and a choir. The soloists’ voices soar in solos and duets and at times all six sing together in harmony or in counterpoint. The choir sings the interludes, their voices coming together like the waves breaking on the shore. And the music and the voices transport me. If I have any criticism to make of the audiobook version it’s that the narrator was only partly successful in creating an Australian accent for Louis, the outsider who desperately wants to fit in. It was mostly okay, but Australians don’t pronounce the “a” in grass and pass in the same way as the “a” in cat. Hearing Louis do so made me wince. That said, listening to the audiobook is an excellent way to access the poetry and the music of Woolf’s writing. As a reader who is more auditory than visual, the audiobook brought out the rhythms of Woolf’s language in a way which may have escaped me had I read the book. This is a work of haunting beauty and great complexity. While it’s not going to appeal to a reader with a preference for plot or character development over language, I was mesmerised from start to finish.

  • Proustitute
    2018-11-13 22:46

    Thus when I come to shape here at this table between my hands the story of my life and set it before you as a complete thing, I have to recall things gone far, gone deep, sunk into this life or that and become part of it; dreams, too, things surrounding me, and the inmates, those old half-articulate ghosts who keep up their hauntings by day and night; who turn over in their sleep, who utter their confused cries, who put out their phantom fingers and clutch at me as I try to escape—shadows of people one might have been; unborn selves.My umpteenth reading of The Waves and it still floors me. There's not a wasted word here: Woolf's attention to rhythm—she was listening to Beethoven's String Quartet in B-flat Minor, Opus 130 while writing this novel, and Beethoven's nuances are found in her prose at all turns—and the ways in which she questions subjectivity, interpersonal relations, the ways in which we are connected and yet disparate from those around us are on display here more so than in any of her other fictional works. The last section is sadly not as famous as the last section in Joyce's Ulysses, but it may well be even more gut-wrenchingly brutal in its philosophical underpinnings and the ways in which Woolf engages with poetics to sustain the flow of her inquiries into what it means to be human. On each reading there is something more to be found here, something more to be learned, something to relish and treasure, some keen diamond-edged truth that slices just as much as it illuminates.A book that can never have an equal, hands down.

  • Deepthi
    2018-10-31 19:27

    “And the poem, I think, is only your voice speaking.”From the very first line, Woolf throws her reader into six different minds; we see what they see, hear what they listen to and feel what they touch or are touched by. These six narrators show us glimpses of their childhood, their surroundings, their fears, their midlife, their loves, their ambitions, their failures, their sacrifices, their old age and lastly, their deaths. Somehow all these glimpses are stained by some sort of sadness; at times this stain is hardly recognizable and at times it is deep and dark to an extent that it might suffocate the reader. But what can the reader do? One just have to witness these lives living, breathing, feeling, loving, wailing, contemplating and dying, as Woolf stitches them and their memories to the reader's mind by using her words as a needle and her poetical prose as a thread. The reader is forced to feel this pain and to suffer this suffocation of being alive. Now as a one single being, the reader looks at himself/herself but finds that self looking at these six different people; at times individually, at times everyone at once. They tell their stories, the reader listens. The reader questions, they answer. At times, they decide to remain silent but the reader gets the answer he/she was looking for. How wonderful! How magical! Just like a dream, waiting far away; fading slowly. It is yours and it is not. They are you and they are not.As the reader would turn the last page of The Waves, he/she would find himself/herself similar to and yet distinguished from these characters. As the reader would turn the last page of The Waves, he/she would find that his/her heart's throbbing has been replaced by the music of the waves clashing the shore. One tries to relate to The Waves subconsciously, and each one is gifted with a different result. The Waves might not provide the right answers for everyone but it asks right questions; the questions about life and death, being and existence, reality and dreams, and most importantly, about you and I.

  • Vessey
    2018-11-13 22:47

    I wish to thank my friend Seemita for insisting for me to get to “The Waves” as soon as possible. I am not sorry that I did. I also thank her for her glowing, brilliant review which in itself is a recommendation enough. Thank you, my friend.I was incredibly moved by all the sweeping intensity and beauty laid at the heart of this novel. It was a tremendous, exceptional experience. It isn’t really a story. It’s more like a lyrical feast. If you want a story and characters, this book isn’t for you. However, if you wish to be swept away by Virginia Woolf’s unique voice and be pulled under those eternal, dark waves, always awaiting somewhere deep within you, always whispering of all the dead and not yet born selves, of all the possible choices that lay ahead of you and all the mysteries waiting to be solved, if you feel like exploring the darkest and most delicate corners of your soul with the intense, tantalizing thirst of an explorer and adventurer, if you wish to be a traveler in the realm of your mind, this book is for you. Be not afraid of the shadows of your past, present and future selves. Embrace them.read count: 1