I had never heard of this novel until I came across a comment on goodreads that claimed A.S. Byatt's _The Children's Book_ was basically a rip-off of _The Years_. Having now read (and loved) both novels, I can say that I don't understand the criticism of Byatt's novel. There is a similarity, I suppose, in the concept of the novel, but the approach, content, and style are all completely different. That said, I'm thankful for the comment I disagreed with, because it led me to this lovely book.

Apparently, though, I'm not supposed to love it. It seems that one reason I had never heard of the novel is that it's not considered one of her best. Maybe, though, I love it so much because I don't consider myself to be a big reader of Woolf. I like To The Lighthouse very much, and A Room of One's Own, of course, but while I admire the concept of Orlando, the novel left me cold. I am now embarrassed to admit that I tried to read Mrs. Dalloway a few years ago and couldn't get very far (after liking The Years, though, I now want to try Mrs. Dalloway again). Until The Years, my favorite of Woolf's writings I had read was actually Moments of Being. The Years reminds me of that fragmented memoir. It feels deeply intimate and captures individual consciousness in a way that just feels more real, more personal, than some of her other work.

Is it perfect? Of course not. I would have been happy to spend more time with each character, for instance. But I felt drawn into the world of this novel so completely that it was with me when I wasn't reading it. Perhaps this is because of my own age, but I was captivated by the way the characters kept returning in their minds to key past moments, but slowly forgetting certain parts. And how certain childhood traumas remain mysterious -- for instance, what happened to Rose?

In fact, the novel would have gotten 5 stars for me, except that I felt the final chapter focused too much on the younger characters, when I wanted more of the older generation. But in my less-than-enthusiastic response to the ending, it appears I am still out of step with prevailing opinion, since many of the goodreads reviewers here who liked the novel point to the ending as particularly brilliant. Maybe I just need to hone my Woolf reading skills more.

I can't believe it's been five years since I've last read anything by Virgina Woolf. I guess I read The Waves and that was it, I read the book and everything that comes after just doesn't compare. Except that five years ago, I read To The Lighthouse and was dazzled just the same, although everything I wrote about The Waves rings true as well.

Anyway... what have I been doing with my life, with all the years? I forgot how much I missed her voice, her striking descriptions, the way her own empathy and vivid perception of everything seeps through her every word, making the reader see the world through her/her characters' eyes, breathe the same air, hear the same banal chit-chat, battle the same anxiety. Thinking was torment.

So was reading the book, to be honest. It reminded me of Proust (it's been four years since I've touched that one), only more personal - or maybe it's just me.

The plot of The Years is... not there. What even happened? The War, the deaths, the marriages, the parties. I don't remember any of it, but I remember how it felt. The characters were there, but I don't remember any of them - their names, who they were. I know their every thought though, know what they felt. What's more important?

The story is hopelessly fragmented, the social and historical commentary is opaque and mostly seen through the eyes of the characters, who are not reliable narrators, so... whom should I trust? Should I even trust Virginia herself? Knowing she wrote this during the last years of her life makes it hard to not be affected by the subtle melancholy that emanates from every season's introduction and the characters' numbness and misunderstandings. Everything kind of melts together, and I'm not sure this was her intention.

This is not her best novel, by far - but even at her... well, not best, she's an excellent, brilliant writer whose own talent was both her blessing and curse.

Perfectly immersive. Also, I’m so glad we have characters like Eleanor—I wish I’d read more books with people like her in them when I was younger. As lovely as Jane Austen is, this is a completely different world in the same era, and I like it.

Some choice quotes:
"'Was it nice in Spain?' Celia was asking. 'Did you see wonderful things?'
'Oh, yes!' Eleanor exclaimed. 'I saw...' She stopped. She had seen wonderful things - buildings, mountains, a red city in a plain. But how could she describe it?"

"Although it was close on midnight, it scarcely seemed to be night; but rather some ethereal disembodied day..."

"When, she wanted to ask him, when will this New World come? When shall we be free? When shall we live adventurously, wholly..."

"But one wants somebody to laugh with, she thought. Pleasure is increased by sharing it. Does the same hold true for pain? she mused. Is that the reason why we all talk so much of ill-health - because sharing things lessens things? Give pain, give pleasure an outer body, and by increasing the surface diminish them..."

"Millions of things came back to her. Atoms danced apart and massed themselves. But how did they compose what people called a life?"