To the Lighthouse is a book best read in relaxing, desultory circumstances - perhaps on the beach, while the waves gently nibble on your toes, or atop some mountain veranda, whilst seated before a cozy fire, or perhaps on a bench in some hidden garden, surrounded by lillies and roses and the scents of spring. But then what activity is not enjoyable in all of those circumstances? Baking cookies or writing a dissertation or being stabbed to death, which of these is not superior in exotic, relaxing climes?

In plainer language, I mean that To the Lighthouse is a book heavy on thought and light on plot. The conflicts, though sometimes hard to find, are certainly there, but the plot is almost nil: it exists almost entirely in subjectivity, in the thoughts of the characters.

As such, this is a book that is for the philosophers, the literati, the professors, the erudites, the pretentious, and the poets. This is a book which functions primarily as a catalyst for your own thoughts, as a mirror into your own self - you read it and consider your own life so if there's not much there, if you are not gifted (or cursed) with introspection, then you may very well find nothing of worth in these pages. There is no vicarious adventure here, there is only meditation and contemplation.

This presents a conundrum for me. I opened this book, saw immediately what type of book it was, put it down, then picked it up, suddenly fearful that my mind had regressed, that I was no longer capable of handling what might be called "sophisticated books," that I had somehow devolved into a story-fiend, searching only for the quick fix of a thriller. After finishing the book (and, I must admit, glad that I did - the stylistic elements of the writing are fabulous), I realized that this wasn't the case. Rather it was this conundrum: if the book's depth must ultimately come from me, from harmonies and echoes of my own philosophical musings, then why need I bother with the book? The simple truth is that I needn't; that, if so desired, I could just as easily watch a cardinal in flight and have as deep and profitable (which is to say completely profitless) meditations as when I read this book. Not everyone is able to set aside such driftless, frivolous time for simple thought. But I can, so I ask: What then, is the point of reading this book?

I could write of Woolf’s lyrical style, the way her metaphors flow like sunflowers perking up in a gentle summer breeze, how they do not make strict logical sense, how you will read them and might recall distantly how, once, you saw something entirely mundane, like a child chasing a rabbit through tall stalks of golden grain, and felt a vague sense of importance, of connectedness, of some greater meaning of it all. I might mention the incredible complexity of her scenes -- for this 200+ page book covers a mere two days (albeit separated by ten years) -- and how deep and realistic are the thoughts of her characters. I might mention how pertinent are her portrayals of gender imbalances, of man’s seemingly inexhaustible thirst for feminine sympathy, how men need their women to give meaning to their lives. I might speak of how this novel so accurately portrays the impossible emotional and cognitive distances that separate people and the ways in which family and lovers try to bridge them.

But to delve more deeply into these admirable qualities of the book would be to suggest something which is not true: that the book does have a point. Because for all of the immense writing prowess that Woolf displays here, this story, so unnecessarily dense, accomplishes no more than solidifying beliefs already held. If you believe in the ideas portrayed here (perhaps you’ve simply been unable to find the language with which to express them) then you will now accept them as divine truth. But if you do not, and in many cases I did not, then what? What is it that I have gained? I have not been instructed in any new knowledge or philosophy -- I have not, to use the language of the book, been given a boost to move from a philosophical comprehension level of Q to a level of R. I have only been slightly entertained. I have not been transported by the richly detailed, but ultimately mundane, life presented here. My imagination has not been whetted, has not been stoked. What then, I ask?

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I must also add that Virginia Woolf’s use of pronouns was exceedingly irritating; they’re like cars driven by Italians. They come swerving, out of nowhere, bash into you, and then speed away, their drivers cursing heartily and unintelligbly. You feel vaguely that there was something you ought to have known or done differently, but the truth is that, nope, they're just crazy. ‘He,’ and ‘she,’ and ‘it’ will abound, with an antecedent that can often only be located by irksome sleuthing.