Mrs. Dalloway

Jun 11, 2012 Jason rated it 5 of 5 stars · review of another edition

Shelves: for-kindle, wine-club, 2012, reviewed, thrill-me-chill-me-fulfill-me

Experiencing Mrs. Dalloway is like being a piece of luggage on an airport conveyor belt, traversing lazily through a crowd of passengers, over and around and back again, but with the added bonus of being able to read people’s thoughts as they pass; this one checking his flight schedule, that one arguing with his wife, the one over there struggling with her cart, bumping into those arguing and checking. For the most part, the ride is smooth as Woolf transitions from one consciousness to another....more Experiencing Mrs. Dalloway is like being a piece of luggage on an airport conveyor belt, traversing lazily through a crowd of passengers, over and around and back again, but with the added bonus of being able to read people’s thoughts as they pass; this one checking his flight schedule, that one arguing with his wife, the one over there struggling with her cart, bumping into those arguing and checking. For the most part, the ride is smooth as Woolf transitions from one consciousness to another. But at times, I find myself falling off the conveyor belt. Whether this is a result of my own inabilities or whether Woolf’s dreamy style leads me naturally astray into my own wanderings, I do not know. But I do know that the effort to get back onto her belt are handsomely rewarded.

In short, this novel contains some of the most beautiful writing I’ve ever seen in ~~print~~ e-ink (welcome to the 21st century, Mrs D). But although quoting long passages in a Goodreads review is not usually my modus operandi, I feel I must do so here just to demonstrate my point. Have you ever had your mind so preoccupied with “stuff” that sometimes a passing comment triggers a strange feeling of not quite right–ness, a feeling which stems from the ability of your subconscious to somehow absorb the comment even while the conscious part of your brain has not yet had time to process it? This happens to me all the time, and that nagging feeling persists until I find time to reflect on what has caused it. Here Woolf captures the moment perfectly:

But—but—why did she suddenly feel, for no reason that she could discover, desperately unhappy? As a person who has dropped some grain of pearl or diamond into the grass and parts the tall blades very carefully, this way and that, and searches here and there vainly, and at last spies it there at the roots, so she went through one thing and another; no, it was not Sally Seton saying that Richard would never be in the Cabinet because he had a second-class brain (it came back to her); no, she did not mind that; nor was it to do with Elizabeth either and Doris Kilman; those were facts. It was a feeling, some unpleasant feeling, earlier in the day perhaps; something that Peter had said, combined with some depression of her own, in her bedroom, taking off her hat; and what Richard had said had added to it, but what had he said? There were his roses. Her parties! That was it! Her parties! Both of them criticised her very unfairly, laughed at her very unjustly, for her parties. That was it! That was it!

Besides shedding light on my own strange neurosis, I think this passage also reveals something interesting about Clarissa Dalloway. Why do Peter’s comments about her being the perfect hostess bother her so much? Mrs. Dalloway often claims to be fortunate to have married a man who allows her to be independent, and to be grateful to have avoided a catastrophic marriage to one who would have stifled her. But to me, these are just rationalizations for her decision to marry someone with whom she does not share the kind of intimacy that she might have otherwise had. In a way, her parties have taken the place of that intimacy, though it is an intimacy on her terms—she is able to enjoy the company of her high society friends while still keeping them at a comfortable enough distance to shield them from learning too much about her. When Peter gently mocks her parties, it annoys her because it invariably results in her having to reconcile the sacrifices she has made in exchange for her current lifestyle.

Another noteworthy aspect of Woolf’s writing is her acute description of post-traumatic stress disorder. PTSD was not formally recognized until the 1970s, and even though documentation of symptoms was common in the 1940s when World War II veterans were being treated for “mental disturbances,” the fact that Woolf delves into this subject as early as 1925 is pretty profound. Back then, shell shock meant that you were suffering from a form of “exhaustion,” as if veterans of the Great War were no worse off than Britney Spears after a few too many nights out. In this regard, Septimus is a truly tragic character, a victim of a time and place without the resources to help him. His mental anguish seems also to mirror the sufferings of the unrelated Mrs. Dalloway. In fact, despite crossing paths in only the most abstract of ways, Clarissa and Septimus have quite a bit in common. They both struggle to balance their private lives against the need for social inclusion, they both internalize their emotions at the expense of personal relationships, and they both end up having to make difficult choices (albeit with drastically different outcomes) about their respective futures.

It’s true. Mrs. Dalloway offers remarkable insight into its characters and is certainly worth the effort. My only question is: does this conveyor belt stop here, or will it take me To the Lighthouse?

[September 2012 Update]
A recording of me reading this review can be found here.(less)

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Aug 31, 2010 Ceridwen rated it 5 of 5 stars · review of another edition

Shelves: rule-britannia, capital-m-modern, grandparental-overshare, the-housewife

This is a hard book to write about, for me. I read this on planes, and not on foot, in hard tubes that bolt up into the blue and down again into the strange sameness of airports; surrounded by strangers and boredom; trying to mask my weeping, coughing back my laughter; the phones off; the world insubstantial and patchy out the window of the plane. Wrong. I should have been walking, but then maybe flying is the better metaphor for Woolf's strange prose, her perfect movement. At the end, wrung out...more

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Apr 07, 2013 Steve aka Sckenda rated it 5 of 5 stars Recommends it for: Pursuers of Exquisite Moments

Shelves: time-100, stream-of-consciousness, modern, world-war-i, women-voices, britain, british-authors, movie

Mrs. Dalloway plans a party; Septimus Smith plans a death: one day in life. Woolf unites the stories of Clarissa and Smith, though they never meet, and she interweaves the interior monologues and memories of multiple characters into the sights and sounds of a London day, shortly after the end of World War I.

Clarissa knows how to select flowers and arrange them for her party. Was she as successful at selecting love and building a life? As she goes about her day, she reflects on her life’s choice...more Mrs. Dalloway plans a party; Septimus Smith plans a death: one day in life. Woolf unites the stories of Clarissa and Smith, though they never meet, and she interweaves the interior monologues and memories of multiple characters into the sights and sounds of a London day, shortly after the end of World War I.

Clarissa knows how to select flowers and arrange them for her party. Was she as successful at selecting love and building a life? As she goes about her day, she reflects on her life’s choices. She sacrificed passion for the security and tranquility of an upper-class life when she chose to marry Conservative MP Richard Dalloway rather than Peter Walsh. Her husband is decent, respectable, and conventional, whereas Peter was intellectual, vulnerable, bitter and selfish.

She remembers having kissed Sally Seton on the lips as the most “exquisite moment” of her life, and she worries that her daughter is also falling in love with a woman, Miss Killman-- a religious fanatic whom Clarissa despises. Tonight her ex-“lovers,” Peter and Sally, will both be at her party, and we can observe how well (or how poorly) each has fared without Clarissa. Conversely, by reading the minds of these characters, we can perhaps venture an opinion as to whether or not Clarissa was better off with Richard Dalloway.

Other characters accuse Clarissa of being superficial and fixated on the glittering, but she is a very introspective woman with a high capacity for empathy. She thinks a lot about death, love, and aging. Her life has been organized around pursuit of exquisite moments. “One must pay back from this secret deposit of exquisite moments.”

Septimus Smith has returned traumatized from World War I, and he is in London this day to see a psychiatrist. He sees visions of Evans, a friend killed in the war. Survivor’s guilt stalks the benumbed Smith, who punishes himself because he cannot “feel” the death of Evans. ”The world has raised its whip; where will it descend? The world wavered and threatened to burst into flames.” Smith has withdrawn from the world and lives within his thoughts. By reading their thoughts, we can compare and contrast Smith with Mrs. Dalloway.

Woolf’s own battles with mental illness and suicide give her insight into Smith’ s spiral descent. Having been a victim of the primitive and bullying mental health establishment, Woolf indicts this system in her portrayal of characters who represent this system, and one of Smith’s doctors will be attending Mrs. Dalloway’s party tonight, the bearer of news.

I am smitten with Mrs. Dalloway and Virginia Woolf. Waves of lyrical prose wash and buffet me, but these symphonic waves, like angels, speak: “Fear no more.” Like Mrs. Dalloway, we make irrevocable choices in life, and Woolf helps us to make peace with ourselves and with those choices. Fear no more. Search out the exquisite and rearrange the cut flowers.

April 16, 2013(less)

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Traveller Steve wrote: "Jason wrote: "Do you think Clarissa is better off with Richard Dalloway? Or more to the point, do you think she thinks she's better off?...more
updated Apr 25, 2013 04:21am

Kalliope Steve wrote: "Kalliope wrote: "Steve, It is a pleasure to read your review after my recent read of the book and after writing my own review.

It is like...more
Apr 25, 2013 04:20am

Dec 03, 2009 Bram rated it 5 of 5 stars · review of another edition

Shelves: 2009

While reading her works, I get the impression that Virginia Woolf knows everything about people and that she understands life better than anyone, ever. Is there a single hidden feeling or uncommon perspective with which she is not intimately acquainted? And does anyone else draw forth these feelings and perspectives with more grace and empathy, and impart them to us in such a lush, inimitable fashion? Perhaps. But you’d never think that while immersed in her exquisite, adult dramas. In Mrs. Dall...more While reading her works, I get the impression that Virginia Woolf knows everything about people and that she understands life better than anyone, ever. Is there a single hidden feeling or uncommon perspective with which she is not intimately acquainted? And does anyone else draw forth these feelings and perspectives with more grace and empathy, and impart them to us in such a lush, inimitable fashion? Perhaps. But you’d never think that while immersed in her exquisite, adult dramas. In Mrs. Dalloway, Woolf’s able to achieve complete well-roundedness for a half-dozen people in a smattering of pages; where each person is valuable and each is misguided, where disagreements truly have two (or more) reasonable sides, where issues of right wrong black white are utterly absent, dismissed as child’s play, uninteresting. Woolf allows her characters to hate as well as to love, and everyone must expose their private, raw feelings to the reader.

I want to get to know Virginia Woolf; I want to absorb her wisdom and to see the world through her eyes, with her soul: wise, beautiful, understanding. She’s one of the few authors whose writing is so evocative and filled with human beings so well-drawn that I frequently drift into thoughts of my own life, comparing myself to Peter Walsh or Clarissa Dalloway or Hugh Whitbread or Sally Seton, ferreting out my own shortcomings as I see them gently spread out in Woolf’s oh-so-real characters. Many people who’ve read Woolf’s shorter works admit surprise at how long it takes to finish them, even if one is fully engrossed. I think this is why: her writing invokes open-ended reverie that’s profoundly personal and inescapable.

Woolf’s prose is fantastic, although I prefer that of To the Lighthouse, which has a haunted, ethereal beauty that’s better-fit for the Isle of Skye than for London’s busy streets. Still, she has a poetic way with descriptions that I find so aesthetically pleasing. First a warning, musical; then the hour, irrevocable. Is there a better (better-sounding, at least) description of Big Ben’s tolling? In many passages, the stops and starts feel abrupt, strange to the reading mind. But for whatever reason, it simply feels right; always just enough and never more.

It’s difficult to discuss or sum up the plot of this book, which moves fluidly from the streaming conscious of one character to the next. This passing of the story-telling baton is so subtle, however, that I can’t remember a single transition. None. These moments would likely deserve study and genuflection in an inevitable rereading. I suspect that Mrs. Dalloway is one of those books you can not only reread and enjoy at different stages in life, but one that will offer distinct new pleasures and wisdoms at each stage. In other words, it’s the best kind of book.

Mrs. Dalloway ultimately builds toward the title character’s dinner party, but I actually found this finale to be somewhat less interesting than the parts that came before. We’re introduced to many new characters in the final 25 pages, which, despite the fact that each one gets no more than a paragraph of time (and some must share), is something of a nuisance after becoming attached to five or six major players. She wraps things up well with the mainstays though, and the ending manages to be both understated and stirring, providing the readers with the pain and relief that comes with confession.

Upon finishing, the first thing that popped into my mind was Radiohead: Everything. In its right place.
(less)

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Apr 19, 2013 Traveller rated it 5 of 5 stars · review of another edition

Oh my goodness... how does one write a review for a piece of text so bursting at the seams with all sorts of goodies as this novel is?

On the surface, it appears to be a boring little account of a boring woman getting ready for throwing a boring snobbish party at the end of the depicted day, with various interludes and people wandering around London during the course of the day, thinking all sorts of freeflowing thoughts and having flashbacks to their pasts. ...but every time you examine this nov...more

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Mar 09, 2013 Ian Graye rated it 5 of 5 stars · review of another edition

Shelves: reviews-5-stars, reviews, read-2013

Of Life and Death, Verbs and Nouns

I expected this novel to be difficult. However, it wasn't difficult at all. It was an enormous pleasure.

I was struck by the preponderance of verbs .

The novel might happen in the head of Clarissa Dalloway or the other characters, but they are observing activity and their thoughts reflect it.

It is more dynamic than passive or self-conscious or self-reflective.

It was less a stream of consciousness, than a consciousness of life as a stream or a number of streams, r...more

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Apr 10, 2013 Kalliope rated it 4 of 5 stars · review of another edition

Shelves: fiction-english, literary-classics, britain, upcoming-reading

I love travelling by train, and this is one of the best environments for reading. Luckily I got a seat for myself and the coach is pleasant. There is so much light. How enjoyable!

What a funny way to start the book. Someone says that Clarissa Dalloway is setting off to buy the flowers. But here is the famous quote What a lark!, what a plunge!, but it is not quite at the beginning of the book and cannot quite join other iconic beginnings like Call me Ishmael.. or Longtemps je me suis couché de bon...more

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Jul 16, 2012 Jenn(ifer) rated it 3 of 5 stars · review of another edition Recommends it for: anglophiles

Recommended to Jenn(ifer) by: the fabulous GR reviewers

Shelves: summer-of-women-2012, read-in-2012, female-authors

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3 1/2 stars
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I am so glad there isn’t someone writing down every thought that comes to my head Stranger Than Fiction style, otherwise I’d probably come across as emotionally labile as the majority of characters we meet over the course of a day on the streets of London. One moment Clarissa Dalloway seems perfectly content with her life, yet one only needs to turn the page and suddenly darkness comes over her like a wave and emptiness pervades her soul (what? you think I'm be...more ------------
3 1/2 stars
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I am so glad there isn’t someone writing down every thought that comes to my head Stranger Than Fiction style, otherwise I’d probably come across as emotionally labile as the majority of characters we meet over the course of a day on the streets of London. One moment Clarissa Dalloway seems perfectly content with her life, yet one only needs to turn the page and suddenly darkness comes over her like a wave and emptiness pervades her soul (what? you think I'm being dramatic? read the book).

I must admit, I did not find myself enjoying Woolf’s writing initially. I had to go back and re-read the first 50 pages after I got a handle on her style, and after catching on, the rest of the book was a breeze. However, I’m still not sure how much I really enjoyed the story. I do not care a straw about British society; not a straw! And Mrs. Dalloway’s histrionics got on my nerves. She was portrayed as being very self-conscious, haughty, filled with regret, belittling to herself and those around her. At first I felt a bit sorry for her, but as the novel went on, I realized there was no reason to feel sorry for her; she chose this life for herself and seems perfectly content with it. Quit whining about not being invited to lunch! Quit whining about your daughter’s choice of companions! And by gosh stop living in the past!

The part of the novel I should have related to, the character Septimus, just seemed disjointed to me. I don’t know how else to put it. Here’s this war veteran, clearly suffering from severe PTSD and psychosis, clearly a tragic case, yet I felt nothing for him. I’m going to put the blame on myself for that one. Perhaps it’s my daily exposure to real soldiers dealing with real combat trauma that made me lack empathy for this fictional one. Perhaps it’s that the short length of this novel did not lend itself to developing his character enough for me to feel sympathetic towards him. His character just seemed out of place to me amongst the rest of the British upper class.

I was hoping I would walk away gasping, in love with this book and in love with Virginia Woolf. Sadly, that was not the case. Sorry Virginia. It's not you, it's me.

*********
Reading this book reminded me of a poem by Maggie Estep. Allow me to share it with you. It is titled “Emotional Idiot”:

I'm an emotional idiot
so get away from me.
I mean, come here.
Wait, no,
that's too close,
give me some space
it's a big country,
there's plenty of room,
don't sit so close to me.

Hey, where are you?
I haven't seen you in days.
Whadya, having an affair?
Who is she?
Come on,
aren't I enough for you?
God,
You're so cold.
I never know what you're thinking.
You're not very affectionate.

I mean,
you're clinging to me,
DON'T TOUCH ME,
what am I, your f-----g cat?
Don't rub me like that.
Don't you have anything better to do
than sit there fawning over me?

Don't you have any interests?
Hobbies?
Sailing
Fly fishing
Archeology?
There's an archeology expedition leaving tomorrow
why don't you go?
I'll loan you the money,
my money is your money.
My life is your life
my soul is yours
without you I'm nothing.

Move in with me
we'll get a studio apartment together, save on rent,
well, wait, I mean, a one bedroom,
so we don't get in each other's hair or anything
or, well,
maybe a two bedroom
I'll have my own bedroom,
it's nothing personal
I just need to be alone sometimes,
you do understand,
don't you?
Hey, why are you acting distant?

Where you going
Was it something I said?
What
What did I do?

I'm an emotional idiot
so get away from me.
I mean,
MARRY ME!!!(less)

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May 26, 2012 Paquita Maria Sanchez rated it 5 of 5 stars · review of another edition

Shelves: literature, favorites

I promise to review this properly some day, to really discuss it in a manner resembling what it deserves, but right now I am tired and a bit wine-infused and distracted by my neighbor once again making strange Buffalo Bill-esque moan-y weird sounds through my paper-thin apartment wall, so I just have one question at the moment: Where have you been all my life?

This woman...sorry, this person was brilliant, particularly in the realm of intuition expressed through microcosm-like paragraphs. Worlds...more I promise to review this properly some day, to really discuss it in a manner resembling what it deserves, but right now I am tired and a bit wine-infused and distracted by my neighbor once again making strange Buffalo Bill-esque moan-y weird sounds through my paper-thin apartment wall, so I just have one question at the moment: Where have you been all my life?

This woman...sorry, this person was brilliant, particularly in the realm of intuition expressed through microcosm-like paragraphs. Worlds unto themselves, each passage, which is quite an elegant way to approach human thoughts and the search for potent meaning in perpetual muck. Reading this really shows you what an impact Woolf's prose stylings had on the more lauded literature of the last 50-ish years, the hyper-dissection of small scenes, the scrambled eggs of thought which compose basic social interaction, how isolated we are in the company of others, and the general gymnastics involved in relating. She's astoundingly 'paranoid' (aware) of social cues, hidden motives, obsessively detailed notions, and long-winded trains of thought about how people got to whatever place they are at in any particular moment, what stories we over-thinking cynics invent to explain the behavior of those around us, the attempts at being coy or clever, which flower in our heads so elaborate in detail that they sound ridiculous when spoken but still make sense in this strange, subtle way. If you spend a lot of time looking at others through a critical lens and far too much time running laps in your head about your own actions and the brambled paths which led to them, you will find much vindication in this novel. You are not crazy. People really are...like that. Intricate predictability. Woolf knew.

This review needs some of the book in it to explain how fantastically astute this multi-character study is, but since there is an immortal quotable on basically every other page, I'm going to need some wholly sober-minded time to decide which bits of fat to slice off. I just wanted to gush a little.*

Read this read this read this read this read this. (less)

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May 08, 2012 Shan Jago rated it 5 of 5 stars · review of another edition

‘Opals and emeralds, they lie about the roots of turnips’ - Virginia Woolf

‘I don't really love something unless I prematurely mourn its passing’ - Mariel

O Virginia I knew my love was true when I first saw the photograph after reading your stream of words, the swan neck, your profile sharp and classical, eyes melancholy jewels, and you captured life in its entirety like multicolored fireflies, though eventually what you held were only fireflies at the bottom of a jar, lights out my little dears,...more

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Mar 30, 2013 Madeleine rated it 5 of 5 stars

Shelves: head-in-the-clouds-nose-in-a-book, our-libeary, maybe-it-s-time-to-live, mmxiii, my-kingdom-for-a-desert-island

Things I have done since opening up the "Edit review" page: opened three new tabs (one to buy five books, one to obsessively refresh that sickening "Exciting news!" announcement for new comments; one to mindlessly dick around the internet); compulsively checked my e-mail with an embarrassing frequency; started the dishwasher; wrote and deleted three different review first paragraphs; contemplated a breakfast of Starburst jelly beans and a cigarette; contemplated a breakfast beer; regretted not w...more Things I have done since opening up the "Edit review" page: opened three new tabs (one to buy five books, one to obsessively refresh that sickening "Exciting news!" announcement for new comments; one to mindlessly dick around the internet); compulsively checked my e-mail with an embarrassing frequency; started the dishwasher; wrote and deleted three different review first paragraphs; contemplated a breakfast of Starburst jelly beans and a cigarette; contemplated a breakfast beer; regretted not writing the drunk review I had intended to last night because, surely, that would have been much easier than soberly staring at an empty text box.

It is so difficult to write about the books that I have loved with a jealous fervency. And it's hard to write about this book, specifically. I am tardy to the Woolf party, for sure, so I can't help but feel like my gushings are all going to sound like that annoying person who discovers some incredible thing well after everyone else has and still feels the need to verbally ejaculate arcing ropes of praise with unselfconscious awe like she's the first to realize that this is some amazing stuff while everyone else patiently nods and politely smiles and surreptitiously checks their watches because, sweet Jesus Christ who died for the day off, does this chatty broad ever shut up?

There is so much to love about Mrs. Dalloway. Just. So much. I had to forgive Woolf for smashing my unsuspecting heart to bits in the first few pages because she had won me over with that same uncanny knack for poking at old wounds that never healed properly so she could reignite the feelings that first inflicted them. There are so many universal fears and hopes and little lies we tell ourselves and basically the whole gamut of ABSOLUTELY ALL THE FEELS tearing through these pages that manage to send the much-needed message of "Hey, you're not the first and you're sure as hell not the last to experience this thing that only seems like it's such a uniquely isolated event in your life when, really, it's just your turn to deal with this episode that happens to everyone" while perfectly encapsulating all the things that make each momentous occurrence -- good, bad or ultimately neutral -- feel so damnably unique but so terribly pertinent to the act of living. As a further testament to Woolf's remarkable understanding of human nature, each instance of brutally raw beauty heralds a much bigger sense of comfort: The scars and failures and terrible clarity of hindsight we all carry around are not ours to bear in lonely secrecy because we all dogged by our quiet baggage and the only difference is the way we allow it to affect our present lives and future paths.

For all the time Woolf spends painstakingly crafting the individual personalities singing in this day-in-the-life chorus, she creates a harmonizing element of bigger-picture society, subtly driving home the point that we are all but one small cog in the larger machine of society. She drifts from person to person, often transitioning between characters who momentarily occupy the same space, quietly emphasizing that one man's life-altering tragedy is another man's background noise.

Reading this so soon after my second helping of Proust was another happy accident of modernist literature. I can't help but admire both writers' willingness to empathetically explore the small moment's lasting impact, the importance of the inner terrain that can never fully rise to the surface of a person's outward expression, and the way the necessary mysteries that exist between one soul and another create such rich relationships and perpetual misunderstandings of one's true nature. As I intend to keep greedily lapping up Proust this year, so will I do the same with Woolf.

I'm ashamed that I'm only now getting over my purely academic and largely disinterested introduction to Woolf and have finally begun to appreciate the enormous talent living in tandem with such a tortured soul. The consolation here is that living in ignorance of her literary prowess for so long means that I have so much left of her output to devour that I'll be positively glutting myself on her beautiful words, searing emotions and jabs of humor for years to come. Because there is nothing worse than realizing that you've read all a writer has to offer and there will never again be something to experience for the first time.(less)

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Dec 12, 2010 matt rated it 5 of 5 stars

Shelves: fictions-of-the-big-it, recommendations, favorites, ladies-night, re-readers

This is the third time I've started it. Not because I 'couldn't get into it' or anything like that, more because I can't bear to have to put it down at all...

I'm just spellbound.

Woolf has been a dangling presence for me in the past however many years...I went through about a hundred pages apiece of this and lighthouse and saw something profound...I think I lost the copies of them or something else interrupted. I put it on the shelf and left it for another time...

Well, the time is now.

I've always...more
This is the third time I've started it. Not because I 'couldn't get into it' or anything like that, more because I can't bear to have to put it down at all...

I'm just spellbound.

Woolf has been a dangling presence for me in the past however many years...I went through about a hundred pages apiece of this and lighthouse and saw something profound...I think I lost the copies of them or something else interrupted. I put it on the shelf and left it for another time...

Well, the time is now.

I've always been a fan of the stream-of-consciousness school of writing: you got your Joyce, your Faulkner, your Dos Passos, etc. I'm sure there's more we could put down but that's plenty for the time being. I know that Ginny Woolf (you gotta call her that) was a part of that era and I've been looking forward to having her work open up for me.

This is so rich, so florid, so graceful...I love the thoughts that characters have and somehow these characters think in such gorgeous, earthly, human ways I'm not at all surprised that apparently Woolf really felt that she found her rhythm in this stage of her creative development. The words sparkle and glimmer off the page...and even when it becomes abstract there is a searing, concrete expression or metaphor which lands just smack dab in the right spot to anchor it in everyday reality. I have often maintained that I could read nothing but monologues and soliloquies in prose forever, and I could, but seeing fit to insert "he walked to the curb on _____ street" just about nails it, to me. That's genius.

Her preoccupation with consciousness is like an illuminating spate of sunlight: which is all, really, one can ask for. I mean that both in a creative context and in a philosophical one. A high priestess of the imagination, as it were...

I love how, as a woman writer, she shows a real appreciation and tenderness, understanding, comprehension, for the desires and memories of her male characters. I am awed by her seemingly flawless understanding of what Jung called 'memories, dreams, reflections' and the penetrative insight she brings. The shellshocked, dissociative consciousness of Septimus Smith, poor, mad, helpless seer, gets me every time. No less, either, than Peter Walsh, returning from India to see the chances he might have thought were his ruminating in endless drawing room walls and meager, insistent regret. What doesn't take from life, adds to it...

At times I'm a little annoyed by the apparent melodrama of the characters, to be sure, but what in life that matters isn't melodrama?

Now that I've been humming along the shoulder of Mrs Clarissa I know that there is going to be a very special and crucial place in my heart for the reams of other creations Ginny has in store.

I don't mean to exaggerate by much when I say that I think I'm going to read her for the rest of my life. (less)

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Aug 05, 2012 Chris rated it 5 of 5 stars

Beyond the opening sentence, rightly considered amongst the best fictive beginners ever, the entire first page of Mrs. Dalloway gets at what are, for me, its two pervasive strengths. After that classic first line and a slightly more fleshed out, light-hearted follower, the reader breezes into this:

What a lark! What a plunge! For so it had always seemed to her, when, with a little squeak of the hinges, which she could hear now, she had burst open the French windows and plunged at Bourton into th

...more

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Sep 29, 2007 Jessica rated it 4 of 5 stars · review of another edition Recommends it for: broke, book-loving teenagers and anyone else looking for a cheap high

Shelves: happyendings

Okay, so this is very fabulous novel and in my opinion one of the Greatest, despite the fact that for me it was not exactly a breeze to get through. I mean, it wasn't painful or anything, but nor was it one I just sat down and plowed through like a maniac until I was through. I carried the thing around with me for awhile and poked at it in fits and starts over a period of time. I think Virginia Woolf is a genius, but there's something kind of inaccessible about her to me, maybe because I'm not a...more Okay, so this is very fabulous novel and in my opinion one of the Greatest, despite the fact that for me it was not exactly a breeze to get through. I mean, it wasn't painful or anything, but nor was it one I just sat down and plowed through like a maniac until I was through. I carried the thing around with me for awhile and poked at it in fits and starts over a period of time. I think Virginia Woolf is a genius, but there's something kind of inaccessible about her to me, maybe because I'm not a genius, or because I'm not British, or severely mentally-ill.

Anyway, the last page of this novel is among the most brilliant passages ever written in the English language. I still remember where I was when I read it: on the One train, headed downtown, somewhere in the seventies, I think. When I read the very end of this novel, I got an incredible head rush which raced down my spine and spread a glorious, speedy, tingling sensation throughout my central nervous system. YES! Finishing this book actually got me HIGH! It really, really DID!

I don't want to talk it up too much, and I can't promise *Mrs. Dalloway* will have the same effect on you. However, it is a Great book, and everybody should read it. Plus, I'm pretty sure there's a special loophole in the Important Book rules that says people who read *Mrs. Dalloway* don't have to finish *Ulysses,* *especially* if you are a girl (hey, I know that's not fair, but I don't make the rules). If time is an issue for you, this is a great deal to take advantage of, as *Mrs. Dalloway* is not only a great deal shorter, but also more accessible. Plus you will be spared the image of Leopold Bloom's penis floating in his bath water, which, let's face it, is pretty gross and will indelibly mark your fragile psyche.

And for the rest of your life, whenever you are having a party, bustling about your neighborhood obtaining flowers, beer, etc., thinking about your life, you can pretend to be Mrs. Dalloway. And this is a fun thing to do, for me, anyway.(less)

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Jan 28, 2013 Samadrita rated it 5 of 5 stars · review of another edition

Shelves: britain, slice-of-life, european-literature, timeless-classics, romance, human-drama, amazing-characterization, awesomesauce, cherished, re-readable, 1001-and-more, by-women-who-matter

Attempting to review this book is no less daunting a task than attempting to understand every printed passage on its many pages. Because this is Virginia Woolf we're talking about. But I'm trying anyway, because unless I review a book which I have rated 5 stars, I don't breathe easy.

Reading Mrs Dalloway is like being rushed through a slideshow of images, none of them being very pretty to look at but each one of them vividly detailed. And all these images are meticulously stitched together by the...more Attempting to review this book is no less daunting a task than attempting to understand every printed passage on its many pages. Because this is Virginia Woolf we're talking about. But I'm trying anyway, because unless I review a book which I have rated 5 stars, I don't breathe easy.

Reading Mrs Dalloway is like being rushed through a slideshow of images, none of them being very pretty to look at but each one of them vividly detailed. And all these images are meticulously stitched together by the words of a masterful writer, considered one of the best among her contemporaries.
The book is very deceptively titled, because the eponymous Mrs Dalloway is barely the protagonist. She is more like a thread connecting all the characters, her own voice being one of the many echoed in Woolf's immortal words.
This was my second brush with the much venerated and equally feared 'stream of consciousness' narrative device. (first one being Beloved by Toni Morrison, yet to encounter Proust and Joyce)
And even though I did find myself groaning inwardly a few times at the relentless nature of the narrative, I did not consider it a major irritant. Woolf's writing is so beautifully lyrical, fraught with wordy but apt descriptions and fascinating characterization, that the reader forgets the discomfiture of being denied breaks in the form of chapter endings.
In almost the same way as Clarissa Dalloway's mind flickers between love for Peter this moment and reproach and disdain in the next one, the narrative flits between the minds of a host of characters. The fleeting glimpses of the many myriad shades of the human psyche, rob the readers of their own free will to pull away from the story and induce a trance-like state where everything seems surreal. It's as if we are continuously and steadily in motion, yet at the same time rooted to the same spot.
One moment we're experiencing Clarissa's contradictory feelings - of being stuck in a marriage of convenience yet cherishing the feeling of security the identity of an accomplished man's wife brings - while in the next one, we're being saddened by Peter Walsh's endless love for a woman who kept pushing him away, then pulling him close throughout the years.
One moment we see a traumatized war veteran, Septimus Smith, contemplating suicide while in the next we find his hapless, distraught Italian wife Rezia, hating an alien English culture with all her heart.

Mrs Dalloway is like a montage of secret, deeply personal thoughts and utterly humane emotions. It is a chorus of voices, none of which match either in pitch or scale, yet combined together they make wonderful music which speaks of human suffering, despair and regret.
Mrs Dalloway brims with hope and hopelessness, at the same time. Which is the very essence of life itself.

P.S.:- I forgot to mention how I had almost wanted to deduct a star, mainly due to the condescending, disparaging tone in which Peter Walsh talks about India a couple of times. But then I realized this was in the early 1900s, so I forgive you Mrs Woolf.(less)

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Jul 27, 2010 Jennifer (aka EM) rated it 4 of 5 stars · review of another edition

Recommended to Jennifer (aka EM) by: jo

Shelves: novellas

This review has been hidden because it contains spoilers. To view it, click here. I’m so glad my Virginia Woolf cherry has popped. It was starting to become shameful. During conversations, upon hearing that I didn’t have a fave VW novel and that in fact I’d never read her, my friends would react with shock—SHOCK I tell you—and then a kind of embarrassed-for-asking dismay. Me, of all people, not to have bonded in my adolescence with this iconoclastic, feminist literary icon! Some may even have considered whisking me away to some seedy little biblioteque on the outskirts of tow...more

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Mar 09, 2010 Elizabeth rated it 5 of 5 stars · review of another edition

Shelves: in-by-of-england, virginia-woolf-hogarth-bloomsbury, reviewed

I went for a walk in Central Park yesterday and then finished Mrs. Dalloway. Walking is mandatory for reading this book. It must be in done in a city, London is best but any will do, so long as you can hear the traffic and observe the other people on the street and wonder about what they do and why they’re also walking and observe what they observe. I love walking in cities. It is almost the only thing I do on vacation. Walking in a new city is like nothing else. Everything seems new. Everything...more

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Mar 05, 2010 yoli rated it 4 of 5 stars · review of another edition Recommends it for: lovers of semi-colons and minutia

Shelves: 2007, school-thesis

My reasoning for reading this book are three-fold:
- I'd tried once and gotten about 3/4 of the way through, but never finished
- It is by Virginia Woolf, who was discussed in Ursula LeGuin's Steering the Craft , a book about writing, as an example of great use of sentence length and complex syntax
- Woolf's A Room of One's Own was discussed in my literary theory class as one of the seminal books of Feminist theory, and Mrs. Dalloway is very much a women's novel focusing in on a singular day in th...more My reasoning for reading this book are three-fold:
- I'd tried once and gotten about 3/4 of the way through, but never finished
- It is by Virginia Woolf, who was discussed in Ursula LeGuin's Steering the Craft , a book about writing, as an example of great use of sentence length and complex syntax
- Woolf's A Room of One's Own was discussed in my literary theory class as one of the seminal books of Feminist theory, and Mrs. Dalloway is very much a women's novel focusing in on a singular day in the life of Clarissa Dalloway

What I've that it contains all of the above, and more. It's actually one long continuous piece with only a few section breaks. There are no chapters and nothing to separate one passage from another, save the occasional double line break and corresponding half-inch of blank space between two paragraphs. In such a way all the different narratives, all the different points of view, all the different characters, are brought together as a seemingly endless thought--punctuated by momentary breaths of air. In the introduction Maureen Howard mentions a metaphor employed at the beginning of the book: the metaphor of water, of swimming, of "taking a plunge."

That is precisely what the reader does: you plunge into one June day in the lives of all these characters, the day Clarissa Dalloway is to give her party, and follow them through their thoughts and actions, both the mundane and extraordinary. Woolf's epic sentences, containing semi-colon sandwiched fragments, force you to take a big breath before plunging in, because often times you forget what she's said at the beginning far before the period is within sight. We're swimmers not quite prepared for the strength her literary tide. Those half-inches serve as helpful intermissions for us to gather our thoughts and catch our breaths before continuing.

That being said, at the end of this marathon I find myself both connected to and disconnected from the story of these characters. I will have to read it again to better understand, but from what I've gleaned first read-through her fame is not undeserved. There is a brilliant understated passion to her descriptions and word choices. Woolf is absolutely deliberate in her gestures, forcing us, as readers, to be more perceptive of subtle nuances and to consider each critically. This isn't a casual stroll, or shouldn't if you really want to experience the complete story.(less)

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Apr 01, 2010 Kelly rated it 5 of 5 stars · review of another edition

Recommended to Kelly by: Elizabeth

Shelves: 20th-century-early-to-mid, fiction, brit-lit, examined-lives, vita-virginia-violet-and-kindred, favorites, grande-dames, mawwiageiswhatbringsustogethertoday, londonreadinglist

Virginia Woolf made me feel like a drunken gardener, a diver on the verge of the bends, a foot stamping child, a foal tripping over its own legs trying desperately to get to its mother. And you know, I really don’t like feeling like any of these things. What is worse, she set up a buffet of champagne, mimosas, fruit and jam, white table cloths fluttering on a patio in the sunshine and light breezes, let me settle myself down to watch a perfectly civilized game of tennis between old pals from Eto...more

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Mar 30, 2013 Paul rated it 4 of 5 stars · review of another edition

Shelves: novels

THE TERMINATOR 2 OF DOILEYS

I can see why people hate Mrs-Dalloway-the-book (there are a fair few this-is-so-boring-I-lit-myself-on-fire kind of one/two star reviews) because Mrs Dalloway-the-book is the Terminator 2 of doileys, ribbons, and fetching hats, the Die Hard 4 of a sunny day in London, 1923, the Apocalypto of curtains and place mats and memories of moonlight boating parties; and the Transformers of wondering if you married the right person.

You have to get into Mrs Woolf’s style, which...more

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Feb 14, 2010 TD rated it 5 of 5 stars · review of another edition

Shelves: re-read, fiction

A match burning in a crocus

On the back cover, my Penguin Classics paperback edition of this book quotes from the “New Yorker”;

“The book’s celebrated stream of consciousness is one of the few genuine innovations in the history of the novel.”

This seems an odd choice of statement to de-contextualise and present as being representative of “Mrs Dalloway”; for as true as its sensationalism may or may not be, the heartbreak and devastation Woolf’s great novel leaves with me, reading after reading, m...more

A match burning in a crocus

On the back cover, my Penguin Classics paperback edition of this book quotes from the “New Yorker”;

“The book’s celebrated stream of consciousness is one of the few genuine innovations in the history of the novel.”

This seems an odd choice of statement to de-contextualise and present as being representative of “Mrs Dalloway”; for as true as its sensationalism may or may not be, the heartbreak and devastation Woolf’s great novel leaves with me, reading after reading, makes this formalist observation feel at best trite and rather besides the point. At worst it could be taken as being downright obtuse, given that in “Mrs Dalloway” we are made to recognise and suffer the disenchantment and ache of existence in a world in which form is inimical to that which is most valuable to life, but to which, paradoxically, life owes its possibilities.

To read Mrs Dalloway is not to engage with the history of the novel, or at least not primarily; nor is Woolf’s ‘stream of consciousness’ the application of a literary theory. Rather, the narrative voice of Mrs Dalloway is a hard fought for discovery and its genius merely that required to convey Woolf’s vision. And there could be few other authors whose visions come with as much extraneous baggage as Virginia Woolf’s; feminism, modernism, psychoanalysis, depression, suicide, study and criticism, biographies etc. To be fair, Woolf did engage with her milieu and drew much from the artistic zeitgeist of the early twentieth century; furthermore she was, and is in “Mrs Dalloway”, passionately concerned with the social, political and historical issues of her time. However, all of this is of limited assistance when it comes to actually reading “Mrs Dalloway”, for it is only by immersing oneself in the novel’s organic movements that its extraordinary compass and correspondences, indeed its vital and intensely personal relevance to human life, can unfold. And “Mrs Dalloway’s” relevance has not lessened over time; our tendency to privilege patterns of behaviour over more fundamental concerns of being remains unmitigated; arrogance in subscribing to prescriptive, de-humanising norms unchecked. Thus, like Clarissa’s vicarious appropriation of that "something central which permeated" – “a match burning in a crocus” - “Mrs Dalloway” permits us, for a tender, painful moment, to gain a recognition of ourselves, before the close must withdraw, and the soft inevitably hardens.
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May 08, 2008 Jason rated it 5 of 5 stars · review of another edition

Shelves: modernism

It's not often that a sentence or two from a book will tell you very much, but I think the following passage should tell you right away whether you will like this book.

Like a woman who had slipped off her print dress and white apron to array herself in blue and pearls, the day changed, put off stuff, took gauze, changed to evening, and with the same sigh of exhilaration that a woman breathes, tumbling petticoats on the floor, it too shed dust, heat, colour; the traffic thinned; motor cars, tinkl...more It's not often that a sentence or two from a book will tell you very much, but I think the following passage should tell you right away whether you will like this book.

Like a woman who had slipped off her print dress and white apron to array herself in blue and pearls, the day changed, put off stuff, took gauze, changed to evening, and with the same sigh of exhilaration that a woman breathes, tumbling petticoats on the floor, it too shed dust, heat, colour; the traffic thinned; motor cars, tinkling, darting, succeeded the lumber of vans; and here and there among the thick foliage of the squares an intense light hung. I resign, the evening seemed to say, as it paled and faded above the battlements and prominences, moulded, pointed, of hotel, flat, and block of shops, I fade, she was beginning, I disappear, but London would have none of it, and rushed her bayonets into the sky, pinioned her, constrained her to partnership in her revelry.

Most of Mrs. Dalloway reads like this section. It’s more poetry than prose, and it’s not for everybody. If you enjoyed this idiosyncratic description of a summer sunset, then you will love Mrs. Dalloway. If you’d rather read a book that just gets to the point, then it’s probably not the book for you. For those who love language and enjoy finding new, unorthodox manners of expression, Mrs. Dalloway is a great introduction to Virgina Woolf’s unique voice.

Mrs. Dalloway does not have much in the way of a plot. You would never read it for that. On its face, the book is just about an upper-class turn-of-the-century woman preparing for an uppity dinner party for London’s elite. But in this one seemingly blasé day, Woolf takes the reader into the minds and lives of some half dozen characters and gives full expression to their memories and fantasies.

In a way, the unusual form is more realistic than the traditional novel. The average day of a person’s life is far more than the sum of its extrinsic events. The human mind lives a lifetime in each day, and somehow Woolf manages to portray the relationship between time and human consciousness far better than a simple chronological story-telling ever could. At one point, one of the characters says/thinks something like “We make up the better part of our lives,” and that thought captures the essence of Mrs. Dalloway main idea quite well.

The main problem with Mrs. Dalloway, and perhaps it’s really a strength, is that Clarissa Dalloway is simply not very likable. I know there is a realism here that I should appreciate, but I just wanted to love her more. She seemed so petty compared to the lesser characters and at times even clueless. I found the characters in To the Lighthouse much more compelling, but that’s a tougher read. If you’re interested in Virginia Woolf, I suggest starting with Mrs. Dalloway to get a sense of what she’s all about. Then read To the Lighthouse for her best.
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May 10, 2013 David rated it 2 of 5 stars · review of another edition Recommends it for: society ladies planning dinner parties, war veterans who see ghosts

Shelves: female-protagonist, female-author, audiobook, classic, england, feminist, british-literature, bad-marriages, 1001-books-to-read-before-you-die, 1920s, rich-people, funky-writing-style, character-studies

This is possibly the most annoying book I have ever listened to.

Annete Bening is great as the narrator of this audiobook: she catches the stream-of-consciousness voices of the characters perfectly. The problem is that listening to these voices is exactly like listening to someone's interior monologue as they natter to themselves about every detail they observe going throughout their day.

I haven't read James Joyce's Ulysses, but apparently the writing style in Mrs. Dalloway is often compared to t...more This is possibly the most annoying book I have ever listened to.

Annete Bening is great as the narrator of this audiobook: she catches the stream-of-consciousness voices of the characters perfectly. The problem is that listening to these voices is exactly like listening to someone's interior monologue as they natter to themselves about every detail they observe going throughout their day.

I haven't read James Joyce's Ulysses, but apparently the writing style in Mrs. Dalloway is often compared to that book. I can't say it makes me eager to tackle Joyce. There isn't really a plot in this book, just character studies. Clarissa Dalloway is a high-society woman planning a party; we follow her throughout her day starting with a walk along Bond Street. She meets an old flame who's just returned from India, prompting reflection about why she married her stodgy, reliable husband Richard Dalloway instead of the more interesting but less stable Peter Walsh. Then the narrative switches to Walsh's point of view, as we follow him going about London, reflecting on Clarissa and her refusal of his marriage proposal and the married woman he's now hooked up with.

The book drifts in and out of viewpoints, shifting perspectives and threads of narrative. Mrs. Dalloway is the main character whose head we get into, but we are also treated to the thoughts of Septimus Warren Smith, a traumatized, suicidal veteran of the Great War, whose Italian wife can't understand why he keeps acting ill when the doctors say nothing is wrong with him.

The prose is elegant and pretty and Woolf is quite artful in the way she gets us thoroughly into the characters' heads, telling us all about their hopes, fears, secrets, and entire life histories in snippets of rambling internal monologue. It's one of those "literary" novels whose craft I can appreciate while making me never want to read it again. I can see why Woolf is studied by graduate students, but nothing here spoke to me or interested me, and listening to Clarissa Dalloway go on and on and on and on, treating every precious thought she has like a precious little diamond, listening to self-involved Peter Walsh go on and on and on about his love lives past and present and his failure to "make a success" of himself, listening to Septimus Smith go on and on and on about his dead friend who haunts him and how detached he is from society, made me feel like someone trapped on a bus between people talking on their cell phones.

A snarkier review of this book could legitimately be hashtagged with #firstworldproblems, aside from Septimus's PTSD, which I'll grant that Woolf treated with a fair degree of nuance and sympathy for the time this was written. There's also a hint of a past lesbian infatuation and a lot of ruminating on the basic dissatisfaction of upper-class married life, which I guess is why this book is supposed to be an early "feminist" work.

It was not to my taste. Virginia Woolf may have been a genius, but I suspect you have to have your head somewhere like where Clarissa's or Septimus's heads are at to love this book. Maybe I'd have found the stream-of-consciousness prose more interesting and less annoying in print.(less)

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Aug 19, 2010 Ellen rated it 5 of 5 stars · review of another edition

Shelves: novels, favorites

Perhaps being a visual learner/thinker is just shorthand for being an aural idiot, but Ansel Adams' photograph captures how I see Mrs. Dalloway:

When I was reading the book, I kept thinking of splintered glass. What Virginia Woolf does so deftly here is move you from the mind of one character into the thoughts of another. There’s no discernible transition, and yet, as she focuses on another character it’s as though the light shifts slightly and a different shard is illuminated; the edges are shar...more

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Apr 28, 2008 Jason Pettus rated it 4 of 5 stars · review of another edition

(Reprinted from the Chicago Center for Literature and Photography [cclapcenter.com]. I am the original author of this essay, as well as the owner of CCLaP; it is not being reprinted here illegally.)

The CCLaP 100: In which I read for the first time a hundred so-called "classics," then write reports on whether or not I think they deserve the label

Book #15: Mrs Dalloway, by Virginia Woolf (1925)

The story in a nutshell:
For those who don't know, most artistic mediums first go through a period of hist...more

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Apr 04, 2008 Martine rated it 4 of 5 stars · review of another edition Recommends it for: people to whom the words 'death in life' actually mean anything

Shelves: british, film, modern-fiction, psychological-drama, modernism, early-twentieth-century

I feel odd reviewing Mrs Dalloway just days after writing a lecture-length review of The Hours, which touches upon much the same themes. Yet I think I'll give it a try.

Mrs Dalloway portrays a day in the lives of various people living in London in 1923. At the heart of the novel is Septimus Warren Smith, a WWI veteran who is suffering from shell shock and schizophrenia. Septimus' descent into madness (clearly modelled on Virginia Woolf's own) and relationship with his spouse are juxtaposed with t...more I feel odd reviewing Mrs Dalloway just days after writing a lecture-length review of The Hours, which touches upon much the same themes. Yet I think I'll give it a try.

Mrs Dalloway portrays a day in the lives of various people living in London in 1923. At the heart of the novel is Septimus Warren Smith, a WWI veteran who is suffering from shell shock and schizophrenia. Septimus' descent into madness (clearly modelled on Virginia Woolf's own) and relationship with his spouse are juxtaposed with those of Clarissa Dalloway, a 52-year-old upper-class lady who is about to throw a large party for her MP husband and other more or less illustrious personages. An unexpected encounter with her former suitor Peter Walsh, whom she hasn't seen for many years, leaves Clarissa musing about the past -- about the people she used to know, the people she used to love, and the decisions she has taken over the years. At various points Septimus' and Clarissa's stories intersect, as do several other characters' stories. In exemplary stream-of-consciousness style, Woolf takes us inside the heads of all these characters, sharing with us their thoughts, emotions and impressions of each other. What ensues is less a plot-driven story than a barrage of memories, associations and epiphanies, often tinged with regret and nostalgia. The emphasis is on individual persons' responses to the passage of time and other sources of unhappiness, but in depicting these, Woolf shows the mores and manners of society at large, thus presenting the reader with a microcosm of life, all wrapped up in a single day in the lives of some fairly self-absorbed but reasonably likeable people.

I can see why young and callous readers might dislike Mrs Dalloway, as I've been told many do. The book contains very little dialogue and even fewer exciting plotlines. Yet it would be woefully wrong to state that nothing happens in it, as the internal drama that goes on is ferocious. Take Septimus, for instance, who goes from feeling completely numb to being completely overwhelmed by both society and his own demons. Septimus is a startling character -- the kind of character who very seriously says 'Now we will kill ourselves' in the middle of what his wife thinks is a perfectly happy picnic. For her part, Clarissa Dalloway is hardly less conflicted. She may not be insane (quite the contrary -- to the other characters in the book she seems perfectly in charge of her own life and at ease in society), but she feels like she is suffocating and is torn between various aspects of herself, which prevents her from really making her mark in any significant way. If her day pans out less dramatically than Septimus', it is not for lack of internal fireworks. Like Septimus, Clarissa has to take some major decisions -- decisions that go considerably farther than what kind of flowers to buy for her party.

Woolf's prose is wonderfully fluid. She effortlessly links her characters' stories by means of symbols and metaphors, drawing her strands ever tighter until all the characters meet at Clarissa's party. Moreover, her prose has a marvellously cinematic quality. Her descriptions of people, places and the 'exquisite moments' that brighten up her characters' lives are so vivid that you can easily picture them in your mind's eye, including the cuts that a film director adapting this story to the screen would use. I can think of few more vivid fictional portrayals of London than Mrs Dalloway. As for the characters, they're not all as instantly likeable as mad Septimus and his poor, suffering wife, but in their own quiet, snobbish, understated ways, they're just as real. Woolf knows exactly when to draw them in bold, satirical strokes and when to go for the finer detail. The result is a wonderfully varied slice of life that may not have much action but does touch upon some pretty major themes. The death of the soul, anyone?

I could say more about Mrs Dalloway, but I think Woolf herself said it best when she wrote in her journal before getting started on the book: 'I want to give life & death, sanity & insanity; I want to criticise the social system & show it at work, at its most intense.' In her own inimitable way, she did just that, and then some.
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Jan 24, 2008 Amy rated it 3 of 5 stars · review of another edition

Shelves: for-class, 2009

Although I only gave Mrs. Dalloway two stars, I should clarify that that represents quite a gain, because I have long despised this book. When I read it as an undergraduate, my 19 year-old-self found it self-indulgent, overly emotional, and extremely tedious. My 36 year-old-self, I was pleased to discover, is slightly more tolerant and more patient than its younger version. So while I will never truly be a fan of Virginia Woolf--or, for that matter, Modernist Novels in general (excepting Proust...more

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Apr 13, 2010 Sarah rated it 5 of 5 stars

Shelves: prose-poetry, favorites

It was interesting to read this directly after reading Jacob's Room. She covers much of the same territory, only here it's all come vibrantly into focus. I feel as though I witnessed an epiphany in real time!

One bit of advice: Every time a new character is introduced, underline the name or write it down somewhere with a brief note about who that person is. You'll thank me later. In the first 50 pages, she introduces 38 characters! (And that's not counting pets and public figures).

I remember now...more

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Nov 13, 2010 umberto rated it 3 of 5 stars · review of another edition

Shelves: fiction

I bought this second-hand book absent-mindedly somewhere I can't recall at the moment, I mean I was a bit vague and not sure if I could read it all. However, I kept reading on and on; now I confess it's not an easy one, you need your imagination as well as your familiarity with her famous 'stream of consciousness'.

One reason, I think, is that Virginia Woolf's writing style is unique, second to none, especially her fabulous choice of words. For example: Such were his rattles, his baubles, in play...more

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Nov 25, 2012 Fionnuala rated it 5 of 5 stars · review of another edition

Mrs D is just so eloquent that I've decided to let her do the talking: She was not old yet. She had just broken into her fifty-second year. Months and months of it were still untouched. June, July, August! Each still remained almost whole, and, as if to catch the falling drop, Clarissa (crossing to the dressing-table) plunged into the very heart of the moment, transfixed it, there - the moment of this June morning on which the pressure of all the other mornings, seeing the glass, the dressing-ta...more Mrs D is just so eloquent that I've decided to let her do the talking: She was not old yet. She had just broken into her fifty-second year. Months and months of it were still untouched. June, July, August! Each still remained almost whole, and, as if to catch the falling drop, Clarissa (crossing to the dressing-table) plunged into the very heart of the moment, transfixed it, there - the moment of this June morning on which the pressure of all the other mornings, seeing the glass, the dressing-table, and all the bottles afresh, collecting the whole of her at one point (as she looked into the glass), seeing the delicate pink face of the woman who was that very night to give a party; of Clarissa Dalloway; of herself.

How Mrs D reasons: Those ruffians, the Gods, shan’t have it all their own way - her notion being that the Gods, who never lost a chance of hurting, thwarting and spoiling human lives, were seriously put out if, all the same, you behaved like a lady.

Mrs D as art critic: ‘Dear Sir Harry!’ she said, going up to the fine old fellow who had produced more bad pictures than any other two Academicians in the whole of St John’s Wood (they were always of cattle, standing in sunset pools absorbing moisture, or signifying, for he had a certain range of gesture, by the raising of one foreleg and the toss of the antlers, ‘the Approach of the Stranger’ - all his activities, dining out, racing, were founded on cattle standing absorbing moisture in sunset pools).

Mrs D on fashion: Nancy, dressed at enormous expense by the greatest artists in Paris, stood there looking as if her body had merely put forth, of its own accord, a green frill.

And finally, Mrs D’s effect on others: Brief, broken, often painful as their actual meetings had been...the effect of them on his life was immeasurable. There was a mystery about it. You were given a sharp, acute, uncomfortable grain - the actual meeting; horribly painful as often as not; yet in absence, in the most unlikely places, it would flower out, open, shed its scent, let you touch, taste, look about you, get the whole feel of it and understanding, after years of lying lost...She had influenced him more than any person he had ever known.(less)

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The Best Virginia Woolf Book	8	236	Apr 14, 2013 11:03am
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Mrs. Dalloway

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