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.