To the Lighthouse (1927) by Virginia Woolf
To the Lighthouse (1927) by Virginia Woolf
This is a book where everybody’s down in the dump-tucks because they think too much, and nobody actually gets “to the lighthouse” until the last few pages.
Okay - that’s not a fair assessment, but it’s a very ruminative novel to say the least. A large British family plays host to numerous tenants and vacationers in their Hebrides Isles home, all constantly absorbed in thought amidst otherwise menial routines. And Woolf very accurately captures the naturalistic flow of these meditations - weaving between interpersonal observations, self-reflection, and the business of the hour. The flowery, stream of consciousness writing is admittedly obtuse and exhausting to track when my focus wavers, but equally immersive whenever I fall into rhythm with it. Crafty but lesser authors use fancy words to ornament shallow ideas, but Woolf uses that same vocabulary to paint evocative subjects, unconcerned with pretense. I’m sad to admit I’m not smart enough for To the Lighthouse - the cathartic resolutions of its characters, and their shared clarity of vision, but that doesn’t make me admire the novel or its author any less.
Presentation aside - the book’s early reflections span a host of topics and emotions, and those that most resonated with me were Mrs. Ramsay’s admissions about vanity hiding behind kindness, and her husband’s valuation of greatness (and the individual’s capacity for it). But slivers of impersonality later color a tonal shift, instigated by Mrs. Ramsay’s passing. The event removes a stabilizing anchor for the reader and the whole company, who become increasingly infected by a bitterness she is no longer there to pacify. The focus in relationship dynamics drifts further from admiration and sympathy to brooding resentfulness. If so much internal conflict is really a product of the mind, maybe we’d all be happier keeping our heads firmly above the canopy, never ideating below the surface. But I guess it’s human nature to challenge form - willing to find frustration as often as satiety. Ignorance is bliss, but thoughtful fulfillment can make a case for itself, too.
This is a book where everybody’s down in the dump-tucks because they think too much, and nobody actually gets “to the lighthouse” until the last few pages.
Okay - that’s not a fair assessment, but it’s a very ruminative novel to say the least. A large British family plays host to numerous tenants and vacationers in their Hebrides Isles home, all constantly absorbed in thought amidst otherwise menial routines. And Woolf very accurately captures the naturalistic flow of these meditations - weaving between interpersonal observations, self-reflection, and the business of the hour. The flowery, stream of consciousness writing is admittedly obtuse and exhausting to track when my focus wavers, but equally immersive whenever I fall into rhythm with it. Crafty but lesser authors use fancy words to ornament shallow ideas, but Woolf uses that same vocabulary to paint evocative subjects, unconcerned with pretense. I’m sad to admit I’m not smart enough for To the Lighthouse - the cathartic resolutions of its characters, and their shared clarity of vision, but that doesn’t make me admire the novel or its author any less.
Presentation aside - the book’s early reflections span a host of topics and emotions, and those that most resonated with me were Mrs. Ramsay’s admissions about vanity hiding behind kindness, and her husband’s valuation of greatness (and the individual’s capacity for it). But slivers of impersonality later color a tonal shift, instigated by Mrs. Ramsay’s passing. The event removes a stabilizing anchor for the reader and the whole company, who become increasingly infected by a bitterness she is no longer there to pacify. The focus in relationship dynamics drifts further from admiration and sympathy to brooding resentfulness. If so much internal conflict is really a product of the mind, maybe we’d all be happier keeping our heads firmly above the canopy, never ideating below the surface. But I guess it’s human nature to challenge form - willing to find frustration as often as satiety. Ignorance is bliss, but thoughtful fulfillment can make a case for itself, too.
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