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I don’t fucking get it, man. I mean, I get it. I can tell you what the story is, but I just do not see the appeal. Perhaps Virginia Woolf is above my taste. I appreciate the way Woolf takes an ordinary day in June, and brings it to life, but there were large parts I found myself impatiently rolling my eyes.

In the early pages Clarissa Dalloway encounters a couple arguing on her walk to get groceries for party, then, a few pages later, everything comes to a halt in Piccadilly because of a car with blinds drawn and Clarissa wonders if it’s the Queen. The narrative continues to go on with details of everything she sees, until the end. Throughout, the reader is given intimate access to the title character’s inner thoughts, however mundane. The character herself is fascinating, and that may be the only point of the narrative: to just show a single day in one person’s life.

The prose is beautiful. Woolf is rightly described as a talented writer. I just didn’t get it. There was no moment of clarity for me when it all made sense. Even when I reached the end, I still felt unsatisfied. This book is escargot and lobster, but I’m craving popcorn and a hot dog.

I’m willing to revisit it in a few years, to see if my opinion has changed. In the meantime, I’ll be reading something more speed. Next week, I’ll have a review of Arkham Asylum by Grant Morrison, and the week following, I’ll have a review of  In Cold Blood by Truman Capote. No clue what’s after that.

If you’d like to read Mrs. Dalloway for yourself, you can purchase it here.