a friend of my sister's whose father works in the publishing industry and is continually afflicted by a heap of uncorrected proofs gave this to me back in september or so, thanks to my vwoolf-lover reputation; it sat on my desk in my dorm room for most of the year, unattended to possibly even longer than any other book that sat on my desk in my dorm room for most of the year. when i returned home of the summer it sat on my carpet. it was getting to the point that i thought i would simply never read this humble uncorrected proof, beige-covered and bare and bearing only a font in common with the final cover, but for some reason yesterday i sat on the carpet of my bedroom and began reading. (considering i just read between the acts a couple weeks ago, this act was probably not as inexplicable as i'm depicting it.) then i read some more this morning before i descended to the kitchen for the sunday new york times (my sundays revolve around and are devoted to the sunday new york times, and normally the sunday review is the first clump of words i read on sunday mornings), and then i read some more this afternoon, outside, accompanied by dogs and apple slices and dried cranberries and mixed nuts. proof, again, i suppose, that there is quite often, maybe always, a Right Time to read things, and one should just be patient and wait for them.
anyway the book itself i find for some reason inherently amusing, and i'm not sure why. it's a silly little thing, full of a few short tossed-off essays, some mysteriously chosen diary entries, and one especially mysteriously chosen letter, a katherine mansfield short story, plus some proto-dalloway nonstarters (seven short stories called 'mrs dalloway's party) and, of course, mrs dalloway itself. (not precisely in that order.) i admit not all the essays are 'short tossed-off'; daniel mendelsohn as usual is excellent (probably because it was first published in the new york review of books, while some of the later essays seem to have been written for this reader) and weirdly absent—in fact the essay is positioned against—the ambient misogyny that in some ways sadly emanates from his output and attitude occasionally (in any case his bigger/more consistent problem is his elitism/snobbery, and all these are more explicit in his twitter presence than his professional work, and it is likely that his snobbishness is integral to the quality of his work, so. BUT ANYWAY. james wood's little tossed-off piece for the PEN center or whatever is also excellent because, like, duh. (say what you will about his biases and personal tastes but he is always undeniably good at what he does.) michael cunningham's snippet (which at a page and a half, also tossed off for the same PEN center event i think, is too tiny to be called an essay) is important primarily because it provides this dumb perfect depiction of virginia woolf as he conceived of her at age fifteen: "I knew Virginia Woolf was very tall and insane and lived in a lighthouse and jumped in the ocean." deborah eisenberg's essay says like nothing which is sad because i expected better of her, and sigrid nunez's is irritating because you realize after all this time she is still in anxious thrall to susan sontag and that in fact this essay is an attempt to discard woolf in the manner one discards famous writers to show one's own elegant and sophisticated intelligence, because once "Susan Sontag suggested that my passion for Woolf was something I would outgrow." i mean i get it, this is an understandable response to susan sontag delivering an opinion-cum-proclamation unto you. but one can disagree with susan sontag, really. however it was around this essay that i thought, none of the essayists collected in this reader are as smart as susan sontag, which is an irrelevant thought but probably a true one (i happen to be reading sontag's against interpretation right now so it was relevant to me). i would complain more about nunez's essay, which degrades into a collection of weird snide wrong jabs at virginia woolf and a collection of further jabs by a whole bevy of writers (as if nunez needs the protection of a whole virginia-hater gang to levy her opinions, or something, it's really quite weird), but that would be petty. elissa schappell's essay is distressing, like honestly just distressing, because i still don't think she gets mrs dalloway by the end of her weird absinthe-triggered disease/disintegration. or maybe i don't get mrs dalloway, like when daniel mendelsohn said the thing the film adaptation of the hours gets wrong is that mrs dalloway's fine. she's obviously not suicidal either but i always thought the point of the book in some ways is that no one's fine, or that words like "fine" (there's a reason mendelsohn doesn't say good, content, happy, right?) are superficial words, and always imply a not-completely-corresponding inside. (good, content, happy—these are words with body.) whatever, i agree with mendelsohn versus the position of the hours film adaptation. and his essay is suitably meaty. that's the problem with the reader—on the whole it's strangely light, insubstantial. which, if you're going to have a reader for mrs dalloway that isn't very good, is probably the most appropriate type of not-very-goodness, because what always amazes me about dalloway is how light a read it is, how it floats along and you follow it hypnotized, but you never forget that what's happening is a very good trick wherein something that is very substantial that gravity should be commanding to fall is somehow, impossibly, floating.