The Waves

Written by Virginia Woolf

Narrated by Frances Jeater

The Waves traces the lives of six friends from childhood to old age. It was written when Virginia Woolf was at the height of her experimental literary powers, and she allows each character to tell their own story, through powerful, poetic monologues. by listening to these voices struggling to impose order and meaning on their lives we are drawn into a literary journey which stunningly reproduces the complex, confusing and contradictory nature of human experience. It is read with affection and skill by Frances Jeater.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Naxos Audiobooks
• Release date: Oct 1, 2003
• ISBN: 9789629546199

Virginia Woolf

Virginia Woolf (1882-1941) was an English novelist. Born in London, she was raised in a family of eight children by Julia Prinsep Jackson, a model and philanthropist, and Leslie Stephen, a writer and critic. Homeschooled alongside her sisters, including famed painter Vanessa Bell, Woolf was introduced to classic literature at an early age. Following the death of her mother in 1895, Woolf suffered her first mental breakdown. Two years later, she enrolled at King’s College London, where she studied history and classics and encountered leaders of the burgeoning women’s rights movement. Another mental breakdown accompanied her father’s death in 1904, after which she moved with her Cambridge-educated brothers to Bloomsbury, a bohemian district on London’s West End. There, she became a member of the influential Bloomsbury Group, a gathering of leading artists and intellectuals including Lytton Strachey, John Maynard Keynes, Vanessa Bell, E.M. Forster, and Leonard Woolf, whom she would marry in 1912. Together they founded the Hogarth Press, which would publish most of Woolf’s work. Recognized as a central figure of literary modernism, Woolf was a gifted practitioner of experimental fiction, employing the stream of consciousness technique and mastering the use of free indirect discourse, a form of third person narration which allows the reader to enter the minds of her characters. Woolf, who produced such masterpieces as Mrs. Dalloway (1925), To the Lighthouse (1927), Orlando (1928), and A Room of One’s Own (1929), continued to suffer from depression throughout her life. Following the German Blitz on her native London, Woolf, a lifelong pacifist, died by suicide in 1941. Her career cut cruelly short, she left a legacy and a body of work unmatched by any English novelist of her day.

Reviews for The Waves

[porius_1 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

I was in my mid-twenties when I first read THE WAVES. Frankly, it gave me the same willies (spooky feelings) that I got when I read Flannery O'Connor's short stories. Her contemporaries wer always complaining that Mrs. Woolf's novels were not quite real. Well, I ask you: have you ever come across a 'real' novel? Isn't it like wondering what Hamlet was doing before the play got started. Playing whist? Did Poldy REALLY have a bar of lemon soap in his pocket? Who can tell for sure, not even Harold. A. Huxley felt that her novels were bloodless. So did Lawrence. I am certain of one thing: that we shouldn't be influenced by another opinion on the subject of novels or any other form of art. The redoubtable David Herbert Lawrence, notwithstanding.By the way, it still gives me the shakes, but it is doubtlessly a powerful work of art. But don't take my word for it.

[misswinkle · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Probably my favourite of Woolf's amazing body of work, 'The Waves' is her most experimental piece; as such it is the one that deviates the most from the standard novel form; the language and structure of the novel are more similar to poetry than prose. It also, as with most modernist works, gives the most pleasure with repeated reading; a first reading just isn't enough to fully appreciate it.

[wellsie-1 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

For the unprepared reader the first hundred pages can be as baffling as an unknown code. But once the code is cracked, the whole experiment has a brilliant simplicity. Imagine this: a biography of you and your five best friends. From early childhood to death. Told not within the usual matrix of bald accountable facts, social landmarks of achievement and failure. But through a linguistic transposition of the ebb and flow, the forging and eroding, of the waves of our inner life. Those secret and unspoken moments known only to ourselves when we feel at our most isolated or connected, our most transfigured, lost or unknowable. The narrative a fluid continuum where all six of you are continually merging and separating in a fellowship and divorce of feeling. The six of you ultimately becoming one voice endeavouring to give shape to this one shared life. So The Waves is the biography of six characters, all of whom speak for the other five as much as for themselves. But it's a new kind of biography. A biography of sensibility. A kind of archaeology excavating identity entirely from what’s buried and sacrosanct. Epiphanies, private moments of triumph and failure - or what Virginia Woolf called "moments of being". Virginia Woolf speaks somewhere of her earliest childhood memory – of being in bed as a very young child and listening to the sound of the waves distantly breaking on the beach out in the night. She believed the experience remained at the very heart of her inner life, a kind of oracle. The native ground from where all her shoots would spring forth. Authenticity, for her, was to be found in the secret and unspoken experiences of life, her “moments of being”. All six characters in The Waves experience a similar crucible childhood moment. A haunting moment of sensibility which will subsequently act as a motif in the quest to know intimacy and achieve identity. The opening section of The Waves, a depiction of the dawning of day, calls to mind the act of creation itself. For she is questioning the origins and nature of consciousness in this novel. Except no god appears. Instead we see nature as a dispassionate encompassing force locked into its relentless merciless rhythms. The first section introduces us to the six children and their first impressions of the world around them. Baptism comes here, not in church, but when the nurse squeezes a sponge and sends rivulets of sensation down the spines of the six children. An early indication of how Woolf will concentrate on private rather than public events to build the biographies of her six characters. By the end of the first part all six are identifying themselves in relation to each other, all six are struggling with fears and insecurities, all six jarred and flailing in their attempts to achieve identity – as for example Rhoda: “Let me pull myself out of these waters. But they heap themselves on me; they sweep me between their great shoulders; I am turned; I am tumbled; I am stretched among these long lights, these long waves, these endless paths, with people pursuing, pursuing.”Each section depicts the next phase in the lifespan of the characters. And in each section prevails the endless repetition of the sound and rhythm of the waves. Ultimately the suggestion is that it’s only through sensibility, our creative inner life, that we are able to achieve love, forge abiding worth and find the fellowship that are the principle sources of light and warmth in life. It’s left to Bernard, the writer, to draw some sort of conclusion: “And in me too the wave rises.it swells; it arches its back. I am aware once more of a new desire, something rising beneath me like the proud horse whose rider first spurs and then pulls back. What enemy do we now perceive advancing against us, you whom I ride now, as we stand pawing this stretch of pavement? It is death. Death is the enemy. It is death against whom I ride with my spear couched and my hair flying back like a young man’s, like Percival’s, when he galloped in India. I strike spurs into my horse. Against you I will fling myself, unvanquished and unyielding, O Death.”

[dawnpen · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

"How tired I am of stories, how tired I am of phrases that come down beautifully with all their feet on the ground! Also, how I distrust neat designs of life that are drawn upon half sheets of notepaper. I begin to long for some little language such as lovers use, broken words, inarticulate words, like the shuffling of feet on the pavement." (p. 238)

[margaretfield · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

very experimental writing; six characters; six voices

[stantonk_1 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

English speakers everywhere should thank whatever higher power allowed for Virginia Woolf to write in their native tongue. They should, at the same time, thank her for gracing the world with books like "The Waves." Difficult? Of course, but so is existence, and no one, in any tradition, has been better at expressing the tumultuous inner space of being. This book, told as a series of interior monologues told by six characters, broken into chapters by brief descriptions of a beach at different times of day, is not an easy read, there is no doubt about that, but it is not obscure or pedantic. Its "difficultness" lies in its idiosyncrasies, in its subjective view toward reality, in its fragmentation, in its personality: its difficulty lies in how well it parallels individual experience and existence. By allowing each character to speak exclusively from its own private and self-serving platform, it makes a noble attempt at rectifying the artificiality of the text with the unknowableness of life, even if it fails to truly rectify the rift (which is impossible anyway). Perhaps, however, it would be better appreciated if other works are used as an introduction to Woolf's style; not to say that To the Lighthouse or Mrs. Dalloway are easy books, but they are easier for the novice to Woolf's style to wrap her/his mind around. Reading it requires concentration and effort, but like trying to truly know a person, all the travail is worth it in the end. Immerse yourself in the book, and feel how great literature truly can be.

[msaucier818 · Rating: 2 out of 5 stars]

I know I am supposed to love Virginia Woolf, and I am really trying to, but this is now my third go around with her and I just can't do it. This book was all but impossible for me. I do not get the love affair people have with her. Maybe my mind is not wired the right way to understand her writing style. I honestly could not tell you what the story was even about. I read a summary of the book and I did not pick up on most of what I should have. I would have given this one star but I must admit that the imagery and writing could be quite beautiful at times. But at least for me, I could not follow a plot no matter how hard I tried.

[lizaha_1 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

past and future favorite book.

[helynrob · Rating: 1 out of 5 stars]

i tried! i really tried to like this one. beautiful writing, the narrative structure is interesting...but it left me with a sense of detachment that made it difficult to grow attached to the characters.

[c_why · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Her Best !

[emmakendon_1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

This has taken me weeks to get through, and so each dip into The Waves has been very different. While that may be quite appropriate, particularly as it spans childhood to middle and old age (and death), it has meant that it has felt like a great labour with great emptiness at its core. Interspersed with chapters that felt to me like a collection of suicide notes, complete with extremely obvious clues as to 'how' (if not exactly 'where'), are chapters misinterpreting natural scenes of sunset, midday, dusk and so on over sea, garden and city. I was expecting these passages to be quite dull, but in fact one of the best parts, which I really thoroughly enjoyed, was a sunrise with ebullient birds grasping tight with effort to their boughs (utterly anatomically innaccurately) and belting out their songs followed exquisitely by Bernard arriving whimsical and daft in London.The moments of my deeply personal contact with the writing were many and may come back to me, but my memory is not good. Here are some: - Rhoda's pretending not to see Bernard at their last meeting at Hampton Court; - Bernard's fishing in what seems like a soup of encounters, spooning out Neville in his final soliloquy, and his not being sure who he is (is he Neville, Rhoda, Susan, Jinny, Louis or is he himself?); - Susan's desire to be a country wife and mother and her grumpiness when she achieves it; - Louis' sense of isolation; - even a bit of Jinny's vanityBut Percival didn't work for me at all, and the references to William III seemed all pretty gratuitous. That Bloomsbury scent of a bunch of people sitting around being either smug or sorry for themselves seeped out, but to be fair, tugged at but did not drown the other resonances; such as of alone we are in company except at those moments of current when we lose ourselves to it.Interestingly, although there are lots of literary and mythical references, ending with Pegasus, Shakespeare's 'Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore' doesn't make an appearance, and yet even just its first two lines permeate this book. There is a superb tension between the individual's minutes hastening to their end and the cyclic repetition of the waves and the tide and the sun's and moon's cycle seen by all individuals alive and dead.Incidentally, in the light of the recent coverage of a recent publication about Woolf's servants, the few references to laughing cooks and flirting house-staff, shopkeepers and Indian poor are fleeting and seen from the armchair of the upper classes. if Nellie was ever much present here, she's been virtually edited out before publication.Final comment: goes on a bit.

[danlai-1 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

This is poetry, and life, and insecurity, and growing, maturing, and love, and work, and pain, and more poetry, and summer and winter and spring and fall, and friendship, and desire, and time, and memory, then death, while the waves crash on.

[miguelnunonave · Rating: 1 out of 5 stars]

I actually enjoy experimental modern books - but this one simply didn't do it for me. Far too many introspective meanderings, far too much dwelling on feelings, no visible storyline... Granted, exactly like the waves. Granted, it's poetry in prose. But I simply could not be bothered to finish it.

[magica28 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

I don't have a huge collection of things that I've read at the time I'm writing this review, but I do know one of my favorite things (whether it's in reading or watching) is anything with a psychological aspect. Something that makes you think about life and your existence, or that just completely messes with your mind. Unfortunately, I'm finding books of this sort quite difficult to find thus far. I expect that when reading a book with lots of psychological aspects in it, that if it is good, it will certainly draw out some sort of emotion in me, be it good or bad. When I started reading The Waves, I fully expected that would happen (and was ecstatic to find something along the lines of what I had been looking for). Sadly, it didn't draw me in that much. I'm not at all saying this was a bad book. I did love the concept of it, the fact that there wasn't really a plot, you're just exploring the minds of a group of people. I also loved the way the surroundings were described, it painted quite an amazing picture of the landscape in my head. But that's about all I can think of that really interested me about this book. The story itself just didn't draw me in as much as I'd hoped. So while I do not think this was a bad book, I also didn't think it was spectacular. It was only mediocre to me.

[deliriumslibrarian · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

For some reason, I just can't finish this book. It's like trying to catch the sea -- I read it, forget what I've read, go back, read again, get confused -- but can't get to the end. I love it, moment by moment, but looked at from afar it seems like a task. A challenge. When really it's the simplest thing in the world -- people thinking, being themselves. Or perhaps it's because I feel so much like Rhoda that I'm afraid for it to end.

[amelish · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

This is such a confusing book, if you try and follow the plot exactly. Never mind what happens or doesn't happen, reading The Waves is like being underwater and glimpsing large shapes moving in the murky depths, and seeing wobbly shapes in the sky up through the water, and surfacing for brief moments in brilliant sunshine with salt spray splashing you in the eyes and a glittering city spread out in the near distance, before you're plunged bracingly into an icy pool or quietly re-embraced by the warm bath whence you came. Sometimes you're floating limply among fronds of seaweed with tropical fishies nibbling at your extremities, and sometimes there's a roar in your ears as you swim laps with bubbles streaming from your nose. It's a constantly changing experience, but there's a general sense of not seeing quite clearly but not really caring.

I used to give people this book for birthdays and what-have-you, which may have been obnoxious.

[nickelini · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

This is considered Woolf's most experimental text, and that's saying a lot. I'll admit right off that I didn't understand much of what I was reading. But like a highly complex piece of music, or a sophisticated painting, it isn't necessary for the audience to understand it completely in order to enjoy it. So I didn't stress that over what I didn't get--I just let the art wash over me. There is so much hauntingly beautiful imagery in this novel, and the structure of the book is very cool. I hope that some day I can study this text in a class with a really excellent prof, and understand more of what Woolf is trying to say in The Waves.----I wrote the above after I read The Waves in 2008. I did study Woolf with a really excellent prof the following year at university, although we did a different novel. But he taught me that "you can't understand Woolf until you reread Woolf." So, in retrospect, my "letting the art wash over me" approach was just fine, and my understanding will come with the second, third, ..... reads. And this is such a beautiful book, that I'm happy to reread this book over and over again for years to come.

[wjmcomposer · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

This is a difficult book, with it's non-linear narrative and interludes, many readers might be challenged if they're not used to this sort of thing. But it's a beautiful work, although for me, I began to lose ardor for it around half-way through. It's a book I intend to reread, however.

But if you're new to Virgina Woolf, you might consider beginning with one of her other, more famous works, and ease yourself slowly into the languid and ice cold pool of her prose. But don't surrender to weakness, her writing is a life-changing thing, and do not cheat yourself of the experience. Challenging is a good thing.

[luli81_1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Poetry in prose.Woolf writes without rules, no punctuation, no paragraphs, pure sensations, disarrayed and irrational thoughts, explosion of feelings.We see life through the eyes of six characters, three men and three women, each one strikingly different from the other but close friends and lovers, from childhood to old age.Early innocence, pure thoughts, playful games become more and more complicated when the characters grow up. It was devastating to witness how everyday life could break the characters' dreams, how bitter disappointment and regret can be, how lonely we are all in the end.But what was more horrifying was the truth behind those words. Life is sad, everything beautiful is ephemeral, nothing lasts even though we believe we are eternal. It hurts when you are reminded in such a cruel way as Woolf does in this novel, her words are like sweet venom which slowly gets into your system, and you can't let it go, even if you want to.A sad but beautiful reading.

[maxernst11 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

Evocatie van hoe de breinen van zes verschillende mensen werken. Zeer moeizame lectuur, maar wel fascinerend: geleidelijk worden de brokstenen duidelijk. Belangrijke rol van de taal. Is duidelijk voor de liefhebbers

[chris_v_7 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Virginia Woolf's groundbreaking work of imaginative fiction telling of a group of six close friends through the use of imagined thoughts and spoken words. A novel that needs the reader to just surrender oneself to it's hypnotic power.

[karlus_2 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

You have probably not read another novel like this at all, because, with The Waves, Ms Woolf set out to write a completely different kind of novel and, in fact, she succeeded very well. It breaks with your expectations in almost any way you can imagine.There is no central character, except perhaps for one Percival who is only remembered through the reveries of the other characters and lives and dies completely outside of the story. There are no minor characters; of major characters, there are six, all with equally major roles.The story of the book is told predominantly in the first person, meaning that each character is talking directly to you the reader about the things that interest them most; mainly their own lives, hopes, aspirations, loves, plans and doubts and, somewhat, their relations to the other characters. Being very human, it is always their own lives that are mainly of interest to themselves. So, how much can you stand of people talking about themselves? Probably not much, unless the people have interesting lives to talk about, and that is what you will get to decide if you read the book.You will follow the lives of the characters from childhood school days through their separate careers, to death for some of them. Each life is told in nine segments, interleaved, and set allegorically against interludes describing the image of the sun rising and falling throughout the course of a natural day."I see a ring," said Bernard, "hanging above me. It quivers and hangs in a loop of light. ""I see a slab of pale yellow," said Susan, "spreading away until it meets a purple stripe.""I hear a sound," said Rhoda, "cheep chirp; cheep, chirp; going up and down."Thus do the first three characters introduce themselves and, scanning forward a few pages you see immediately that the unusual style will continue for quite a while, in fact, pretty much throughout the book, even though the paragraphs will grow in length. I will let Virginia Woolf herself make her appeal to you (from"How Should One Read?")"Do not dictate to your author, try to become him. Be his fellow worker and accomplice. . . if you open your mind as widely as possible, then signs and hints of almost imperceptible fineness, from the twist and turn of the first sentences, will bring you into the presence of a human being unlike any other.""I see a globe" said Neville, "hanging down in a drop against the enormous flanks of some hill.""I see a crimson tassel," said Jinny, "twisted with gold threads.""I hear something stamping," said Louis, "A great beast's foot is chained. It stamps, and stamps, and stamps."Now you have met the six characters. Are you up to the challenge? Perhaps you will see some of yourself in each of those 54 vignettes of the character's lives. This book is, in fact, a story of people facing and living life.

[audacity88_1 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

The Waves is a novel about six characters: Bernard, Susan, Rhoda, Neville, Jinny, Louis. To one who has not read the novel, these names appear quite ordinary. To one who has, the appearance of these names in conjunction calls up memories of what happened to each of them, of who they were and of what they did and said. The degree to which their names give rise to such feelings is a testament to the success of The Waves as fiction.To say that The Waves is both a novel of experimental fiction and a success is to raise the question of whether its success is due to its structure, or in spite of that structure. In support of the latter case, let us consider one of the devices used by Woolf: an italicized descriptive section, devoid of human characters, that precedes each chapter. These interludes describe various reoccuring elements – the sun, a house, some birds – which will undoubtedly be endowed by some critics with a weighty significance. But in analyses of symbolism, the meaning assigned to any given symbolic element tends to reflect the intent of the critic more than that of the author. Still, here the author has made the symbolism to clear to ignore. So one must attempt to draw parallels between the occurences of the interludes and those of the chapters they precede. Some of them are clear enough; for example, the birds progress from isolation to togetherness in their song, just as they characters increasingly understand and work together with each other; similarly, the abrupt appearance of violence, as one of the birds kills a worm, mirrors Neville's “stabbing” Bernard with his rapier wit in the following chapter. However, The Waves is a character-driven novel, as much as any novel could possibly be, and whether such analyses can say anything about the characters that wasn't already known is the question that must be asked. Hence one must ask whether these realizations tell us anything about the characters' lives, or whether they merely appear clever in hindsight when paired with what we already know about their lives. The interludes do, it must be admitted, lend significance to the titular image, which is revealed in the final scene to refer to the waves of human experience that wash over us with such great power. But even this might have been conveyed within the main text, and indeed Woolf's character talk about waves well before the final scene: “the waves of my life”, “the protective waves of the ordinary”, “passions that … pound us with their waves”. In sum, it seems that the interludes work, to whatever extent they do, because of the power of the story, none of whose essential aspects would be excised by their removal. They are more of a distraction than anything else.Woolf's other primary device is to narrate the novel through speeches by each of the characters in turn. Rather than with “Bernard saw a ring,” the novel opens with the line, “'I see a ring', said Bernard”. While this may at first seem like dialogue, the characters fail to respond to each other's speech, and we soon see characters who are alone continuing to “say” things, leading us to think that this speech is not spoken aloud. But then one character criticizes another for “making phrases”, suggesting that the latter's speech was in fact said aloud; and later we have instances in which two characters speak to one another in private. One might compare this type of speech to a soliloquy in a play. Though in Shakespeare the soliloquies generally go unheard by other characters, this is not the case in Romeo and Juliet, where Romeo overhears Juliet's soliloquy. A soliloquy in a play provides a way for a character to project his inner life to the audience, which seems to be in line with the primary purpose of Woolf's soliloquies. So should Woolf have written The Waves as a play?Bernard: “I see a ring ...”One feels that it would not have come off as well. If the characters were to take turns speaking on a stage, we would feel that no real action had occurred. When Louis says, “There is Susan”, we would want to see Susan, or at least to see the actor who plays Louis pretending to see her. But in the book such speech somehow does not require the other character to speak for us to imagine their actions. It is something like reading the diaries of two people and seeing the actions of each recorded by the other – but of two people who are extremely close, say a husband and wife, such that it is assumed that whatever is inner becomes outer as well. The effect is an extreme intimacy with the characters to a degree unparallelled for a work with so many protagonists. In short, this device is a success.There is one instance when Woolf deviates from this model. In the final chapter, Bernard, who has come to serve as a sort of spokesman for the group (generally speaking first in the most important scenes) has dinner with a near-stranger at a restaurant. Speaking in the past tense, he narrates the story of his and the other character's lives. One wonders why Woolf wrote this chapter. Was she afraid that the reader would not have understood what came before, and did she want to fill in the gaps of our knowledge? Or did she wish to sum up what had happened? In either case, to be suddenly told what one had been delighted to have pieced together out of the narrative shards is disappointing and feels like a betrayal of Woolf's model, a withdrawing from it into conventional storytelling out of some trepidation.But as one of Woolf's rare missteps, this final chapter reminds us of how far superior to most fiction the rest of the novel is. When the stranger leaves and Bernard returns to narrating his present experience, we rejoice as to the return of an old friend. For such the characters are to us, by the end of the novel: old friends for whose grief we grieve and in whose joys we take joy. This novel carries human experience within it. Whether you empathize most with one particular character, as I did, or with all of them, Woolf provides a model for life of extraordinary truth, compassion, and depth, and one well worth reading.

[jbushnell_5 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Not only one of the best explorations of the progression from youth to old age ever written, but also an exhilirating book-length experiment in utilizing omniscience as a mode for representing the irrepresentable experience of gnosis. The resultant book is a masterpiece: a flickering texture of epiphanies. Highly recommended.

[gbill_7 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Further experimentation in style from Virginia Woolf -- in "The Waves", she paints an impressionist picture of six lives through their own internal dialogues. I believe the point she was making was that while our lives are fleeting, separate, and largely unknown to others, we are all ultimately connected in our human condition, and must "live in the now", absurd though it may seem.It takes patience to read this book and taking notes helps; here is a brief summary of the characters which may also illustrate the tone of the novel since it is shaped largely by their perspectives:- Bernard, a writer who likes people and telling stories, though he is sloppy and has trouble finishing his stories. Bernard likes Susan.- Neville, who disdains people, the mediocrity of the world, and religion; he is aloof but inspired by nature and had a crush on Percival.- Louis, an outsider who is too smart to be a common man, but too poor to attend college; he thinks others are cruel and boastful but secretly envies them.- Susan, who says she does not wish to be admired, tears off calendar days "revenging herself" upon the day, and who cries remembering home. She's jealous seeing Louis and Jinny kissing.- Rhoda, a dreamer who cannot read or write, is unsure of herself and feels invisible and alone.- Jinny, a dancer who wishes to be loved, is "never cast down" and who likes men.Percival, the seventh character, is pieced together not through direction narration as the others but through the other's memories; he was admired as a leader and an inspiration for poetry, but died in India.Quotes:On change:"The clouds lose tufts of whiteness as the breeze dishevels them. If that blue could stay for ever; if that hole could remain for ever; if this moment could stay for ever...""There is nothing staid, nothing settled in this universe. All is rippling, all is dancing; all is quickness and triumph."On having children:"It is, however, true that I cannot deny a sense that life for me is now mysteriously prolonged. Is it that I may have children, may cast a fling of seed wider, beyond this generation, this doom-encircled population, shuffling each other in endless competition along the street? My daughters shall come here, in other summers; my sons shall turn new fields. Hence we are not raindrops, soon dried by the wind; we make gardens blow and forests roar; we come up differently, for ever and ever."On death:"Death is the enemy. It is death against whom I ride with my spear couched and my hair flying back like a young man's, like Percival's, when he galloped in India. I strike my spurs into my horse. Against you I will fling myself, unvanquished and unyielding, O Death!'The waves broke on the shore."On friendship:"Our friends - how distant, how mute, how seldom visited and little known. And I, too, am dim to my friends and unknown; a phantom, sometimes seen, often not. Life is a dream surely. Our flame, the will-o'-the-wisp that dances in a few eyes is soon blown out and all will fade.""I condemn you. Yet my heart yearns towards you. I would go with you through the fires of death. Yet am happiest alone."On intellectuals:"It would be better to breed horses and live in one of those red villas than to run in and out of the skulls of Sophocles and Euripides like a maggot, with a high-minded wife, one of those University women. That, however, will be my fate. I shall suffer. I am already at eighteen capable of such contempt that horse-breeders hate me."On living life in the now:"I tremble, I quiver, like a leaf in the hedge, as I sit dangling my feet, on the edge of the bed, with a new day to break open. I have fifty years, I have sixty years to spend. I have not yet broken into my hoard. This is the beginning."On love:"There can be no doubt, I thought, pushing aside the newspaper, that our mean lives, unsightly as they are, put on splendour and have meaning only under the eyes of love."On memories, friendship, and change:"Some will not meet again. Neville, Bernard and I shall not meet here again. Life will divide us. But we have formed certain ties. Our boyish, our irresponsible years are over. But we have forged certain links. Above all, we have inherited traditions."On meaninglessness:"Oppose yourself to this illimitable chaos," said Neville, "this formless imbecility. Making love to a nursemaid behind a tree, that soldier is more admirable than all the stars. Yet sometimes one trembling star comes in the clear sky and makes me think the world beautiful and we maggots deforming even the trees with our lust."On nature, I sometimes think of this an analogy while walking on the beach:"The waves broke and spread their waters swiftly over the shore. One after another they massed themselves and fell; the spray tossed itself back with the energy of their fall. The waves were steeped deep-blue save for a pattern of diamond-pointed light on their backs which rippled as the backs of great horses ripple with muscles as the move. The waves fell; withdrew and fell again, like the thud of a great beast stamping."On transience:"But we - against the brick, against the branches, we six, out of how many million millions, for one moment out of what measureless abundance of past time and time to come, burnt there triumphant. The moment was all; the moment was enough. And then Neville, Jinny, Susan and I as a wave breaks, burst asunder, surrendered - to the next leaf, to the precise bird, to a child with a hoop, to a prancing dog, to the warmth that is hoarded in woods after a hot day, to the lights twisted like white ribbon on rippled waters. We drew apart; we were consumed in the darkness of the trees leaving Rhoda and Louis to stand on the terrace by the urn."

[thebooknerd · Rating: 2 out of 5 stars]

Slap me sideways and call me Fanny. Virginia Woolf actually wrote something that didn't make me want to lobotamize myself with silverware. Not that this was, by any means, a treat to read. It was, though, interesting -- an interesting can exist along a whole spectrum of good to bad. What I'll say about this book is that it revolutionizes narrative form, written entirely from the stream-of-consciousness perspectives of six different characters. Confusing, certainly. Easily read, certainly not. Worth reading? I would say that if you had to read some of Woolf's fiction for some unstated yet dire reason, this would be likely choice.