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danielavornic 's review for:
The Waves
by Virginia Woolf
i love how the sea/waves are used as a symbolic representation to depict the fragmentation of a whole or individuals within the collective consciousness, along with the passage of time.
virginia woolf wrote the most exquisite prose i have ever read, without a doubt, despite being quite challenging at times. she's also the only author i've encountered who employs the stream-of-consciousness technique in her works, so i'm looking forward to reading more books in this style.
having said that, i admit i enjoyed to the lighthouse more. i plan to revisit them both in the future, definitely.
There is, then, a world immune from change. But I am not composed enough, standing on tiptoe on the verge of fire, still scorched by the hot breath, afraid of the door opening and the leap of the tiger, to make even one sentence. What I say is perpetually contradicted. Each time the door opens I am interrupted. I am not yet twenty-one. I am to be broken. I am to be derided all my life. I am to be cast up and down among these men and women, with their twitching faces, with their lying tongues, like a cork on a rough sea. Like a ribbon of weed I am flung far every time the door opens. I am the foam that sweeps and fills the uttermost rims of the rocks with whiteness; I am also a girl, here in this room.
virginia woolf wrote the most exquisite prose i have ever read, without a doubt, despite being quite challenging at times. she's also the only author i've encountered who employs the stream-of-consciousness technique in her works, so i'm looking forward to reading more books in this style.
having said that, i admit i enjoyed to the lighthouse more. i plan to revisit them both in the future, definitely.
There is, then, a world immune from change. But I am not composed enough, standing on tiptoe on the verge of fire, still scorched by the hot breath, afraid of the door opening and the leap of the tiger, to make even one sentence. What I say is perpetually contradicted. Each time the door opens I am interrupted. I am not yet twenty-one. I am to be broken. I am to be derided all my life. I am to be cast up and down among these men and women, with their twitching faces, with their lying tongues, like a cork on a rough sea. Like a ribbon of weed I am flung far every time the door opens. I am the foam that sweeps and fills the uttermost rims of the rocks with whiteness; I am also a girl, here in this room.