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A review by agenbite
Orlando by Virginia Woolf
3.0
On the surface an interesting, albeit facile examination of gender roles. Despite the warmth and opulence of the prose, I found myself missing the incisiveness of the other Woolf that I’ve read, which not insignificantly contributed to my sheer boredom for a majority of the book. It doesn’t help that Woolf can at times typify that arrogant, English proclivity of classism and mythologising; it detracts from the beauty of the work and masques what else is offered in a veil of tart pretension.
Yet, it’s undeniable there is a deeply personal and imaginative narrative being told here of love, artistry, legacy, and the anxiety of the passage of time. My scruples aside, this is an effusive portrait of Woolf’s mind, reveries and neuroses included.
Yet, it’s undeniable there is a deeply personal and imaginative narrative being told here of love, artistry, legacy, and the anxiety of the passage of time. My scruples aside, this is an effusive portrait of Woolf’s mind, reveries and neuroses included.