This is a novel to read and cherish, if only to marvel at Woolfβs linguistic acrobatics. Words and phrases swoop and soar like swallows. Woolfβs sentences are magnificent: sinuous, whirling, impeccably detailed. As narrative perspective shifts from character to characterβsometimes within a single sentenceβreaders come to understand the oh-so-permeable barrier between self and other. Through Clarissa we meet Septimus Warren Smith, his wife Rezia, and a cast of dozens more, all connected by the βleaden circlesβ of Big Ben marking the passage of every hour, by the pavements of Bloomsbury that lead everywhere and nowhere. Modernist London has never been portrayed more sublimely: replete with birdsong and flowers, resplendent in sunshine, youthful yet eternalβand even in the aftermath of war and pandemic, resilient.
Mrs. Dalloway is Woolfβs attempt to express that which may be inexpressible. It offers a close examination of how difficult it is, even when our hearts are brimming, to say what we really feel; and it examines the damage we inflict through our reticence with words, our withholding of love. It is a novel of the soul, and a work of immense beauty.
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