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A review by blueyorkie
Mrs. Dalloway by Virginia Woolf
5.0
I have just returned from an extraordinary trip to Virginia. There was one before Mrs. Dalloway. There will be an after, but everything I read from now on will come up against this love. Yes, to that love, because indeed, I loved it that it is about. Can we say why we love?
Do not look for history in Mrs. Dalloway because history there is none! I looked at it, however, and the novel fell out of my hands towards page 50; I was so confused that nothing was happening. And then, suddenly, as in those images that take a long time to fixate on a world in 3-D, I plunged into this abundant and fascinating universe: the world of Virginia! The writing is magnificent, with sensitivity and poetry I had never encountered before. In it, she describes the wind blowing in the trees. I felt this wind on my cheek. I could smell the scents of the bark. Mrs. Dalloway was, for me, above all, a sensory journey.
But even more, this book is a beautiful hymn to femininity. Mrs. Dalloway, it's Virginia, me, my mother, my sister, and all women simultaneously; they had held their pain and hope there.
I remember reading it during my studies. It had bothered me, and now I understand why. There is a time to read Mrs. Dalloway. You must have felt the anger and the desire for life growling within you. And then later to have felt, on his shoulders, all the weight of regret. We must have loved, cried, and finally found appeasement.
I would have never liked to finish the book, and I did everything to prolong the reading, rereading the same passages several times and continually returning.
"Despite everything, that one day succeeds another day; Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday. That we wake up in the morning; that we see the sky; that we walk in the park; that we meet Hugh Whitbread; then suddenly Peter came in; then those roses; that was enough. After that, death was inconceivable. The idea that it had to end; and no one in the world would know how much she loved it all; how, to every moment..."
Yes, can we always say why we love? I loved Mrs. Dalloway for her beauty and her grace.
Do not look for history in Mrs. Dalloway because history there is none! I looked at it, however, and the novel fell out of my hands towards page 50; I was so confused that nothing was happening. And then, suddenly, as in those images that take a long time to fixate on a world in 3-D, I plunged into this abundant and fascinating universe: the world of Virginia! The writing is magnificent, with sensitivity and poetry I had never encountered before. In it, she describes the wind blowing in the trees. I felt this wind on my cheek. I could smell the scents of the bark. Mrs. Dalloway was, for me, above all, a sensory journey.
But even more, this book is a beautiful hymn to femininity. Mrs. Dalloway, it's Virginia, me, my mother, my sister, and all women simultaneously; they had held their pain and hope there.
I remember reading it during my studies. It had bothered me, and now I understand why. There is a time to read Mrs. Dalloway. You must have felt the anger and the desire for life growling within you. And then later to have felt, on his shoulders, all the weight of regret. We must have loved, cried, and finally found appeasement.
I would have never liked to finish the book, and I did everything to prolong the reading, rereading the same passages several times and continually returning.
"Despite everything, that one day succeeds another day; Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday. That we wake up in the morning; that we see the sky; that we walk in the park; that we meet Hugh Whitbread; then suddenly Peter came in; then those roses; that was enough. After that, death was inconceivable. The idea that it had to end; and no one in the world would know how much she loved it all; how, to every moment..."
Yes, can we always say why we love? I loved Mrs. Dalloway for her beauty and her grace.