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477 pages, Paperback
First published June 9, 2014
The idea of the 20th century’s greatest female literary icon suddenly coming to life in modern-day New York is a delightful one, so I started reading Virginia Woolf in Manhattan with great enthusiasm.
But by page 90 of this overly-long novel, I realised I just didn't care any more. Virginia Woolf in Manhattan manages the tricky feat of being simultaneously both trite and turgid.
Maggie Gee handles the celebrated author's reactions to our world clumsily. And her even clumsier attempts to describe her idol’s appearance grated — her eyes “blinking out from caves of bone”, “pale lizard fingers” and her body:
“… like a great mayfly, long neck poking forward. Straggling limbs, her knees jutting out. Then two long feet like heavy boats that might float away from her altogether.”
I hate to say it, but Maggie Gee is no Virginia Woolf.