Take a photo of a barcode or cover
lil_juulnieb 's review for:
Mrs Dalloway
by Virginia Woolf
Wouldn't have finished this if it wasn't for an assignment.
Woolf is so eager to be poetic and evocative that she just slapped all the metaphors, images and ';'s she could think of in here in the hope that at least one would pull on your heartstrings. Example:
'Such are the visions which proffer great cornucopias full of fruit to the solitary traveller, or murmer in his ear like sirens lolloping away on the green sea waves, or are dashed in his face like bunches of roses, or rise to the surface like pale faces which fishermen flounder through floods to embrace.'
Christ, Virginia. Just pick one and move on. It's not that the imagery isn't good, but when you're constantly being bombed with image after image about the same thing it just wears you down and undermines the poignancy of all of them. Because of this, I think the book really shines when it doesn't try so hard to be something it doesn't have to be, which is ironic given the overarching theme of the novel - at least in my view - is precisely the difficulty of being (oneself).
To my complete and utter dismay, the poetry barrage succeeded occassionaly, with the highlight being the vignettes about Rezia and Septimus, a couple struggling with the husband's post-war PTSD.
Overwrought, inauthentic and pretentious. Exactly what she critiques her own characters of being.
Woolf is so eager to be poetic and evocative that she just slapped all the metaphors, images and ';'s she could think of in here in the hope that at least one would pull on your heartstrings. Example:
'Such are the visions which proffer great cornucopias full of fruit to the solitary traveller, or murmer in his ear like sirens lolloping away on the green sea waves, or are dashed in his face like bunches of roses, or rise to the surface like pale faces which fishermen flounder through floods to embrace.'
Christ, Virginia. Just pick one and move on. It's not that the imagery isn't good, but when you're constantly being bombed with image after image about the same thing it just wears you down and undermines the poignancy of all of them. Because of this, I think the book really shines when it doesn't try so hard to be something it doesn't have to be, which is ironic given the overarching theme of the novel - at least in my view - is precisely the difficulty of being (oneself).
To my complete and utter dismay, the poetry barrage succeeded occassionaly, with the highlight being the vignettes about Rezia and Septimus, a couple struggling with the husband's post-war PTSD.
Overwrought, inauthentic and pretentious. Exactly what she critiques her own characters of being.