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xanadu_'s review against another edition
challenging
emotional
slow-paced
- Plot- or character-driven? Character
- Strong character development? Yes
- Loveable characters? It's complicated
- Diverse cast of characters? No
- Flaws of characters a main focus? Yes
4.25
vanluna's review against another edition
challenging
dark
reflective
sad
slow-paced
- Plot- or character-driven? Character
- Strong character development? Yes
- Loveable characters? It's complicated
- Diverse cast of characters? No
- Flaws of characters a main focus? It's complicated
2.75
fionnualalirsdottir's review against another edition
I am in a fever.
Awareness is heightened.
Words have purple shadows.
Sentences gleam yellow-green
Paragraphs are lined in reddish gold
Everything shimmers, sharp as waves in sunlight.
The normal is abolished
Voices 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, Bernard
Susan, 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 another
a 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 bags
And 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 heads
And 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 legs
There 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 wings
And Jinny’s yellow scarf is moth coloured in the light
There is love and hate.
There is the colour purple.
There is a red carnation in a vase
There 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 waters
But always the waves fell; withdrew and fell again, like the thud of a great beast stamping.
Awareness is heightened.
Words have purple shadows.
Sentences gleam yellow-green
Paragraphs are lined in reddish gold
Everything shimmers, sharp as waves in sunlight.
The normal is abolished
Voices 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, Bernard
Susan, 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 another
a 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 bags
And 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 heads
And 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 legs
There 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 wings
And Jinny’s yellow scarf is moth coloured in the light
There is love and hate.
There is the colour purple.
There is a red carnation in a vase
There 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 waters
But always the waves fell; withdrew and fell again, like the thud of a great beast stamping.
crowtober's review against another edition
5.0
one of my favorite books that has remained in my heart and soul
marc129's review against another edition
3.0
Evocation of how the brains of six different people work. Very difficult read, but fascinating: gradually chaos is dissipating. Important role of language. Is clearly for the die hard -Woolf fans. (2.5 stars)
warmestblood's review against another edition
emotional
reflective
slow-paced
- Plot- or character-driven? Character
- Strong character development? Yes
- Loveable characters? N/A
- Diverse cast of characters? No
- Flaws of characters a main focus? Yes
mimihihi's review against another edition
5.0
Tried reading it a few years ago and didnt get her but i get her now <3