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The book is alive, pulsating - each voice, each strand of a shared consciousness (“I do not altogether know who I am… or how to distinguish my life from theirs”) grows closer and pulls away, with the natural vagaries of time. They are always in orbit, a whole entity whose constituent parts ebb, flow, meet, drift apart, probing at deeper meaning or purpose. Six distinctive, poetic voices that remain unchanged in style from infancy to old age may be jarring - so, a day that is extended over a lifetime becomes for us a stabilising thread, familiar to return to, necessary breathing space. The linear passing day is some of the most beautiful and evocative writing in English. The Waves is, arguably, the peak of the modernist experiment, which in many ways keeps long passages at arm’s length; it’s a movement designed to alienate, keep at remove - I certainly can’t claim to have understood/absorbed it all fully. That Woolf spends so much time inhabiting the rather aloof/self-important Bernard is often frustrating (others are much more interesting/grounded to spend time with), though his thematic purpose as a narrative voice becomes apparent in the closing sequences, where he assumes the lead. Still mate, stop overthinking things!