The first 400 pages of this novel were damn near insufferable. I almost quit the book wholly and entirely on several occasions (which I have never done, mind you). I couldn’t bring myself to care for such fickle characters. I grew exhausted of every little examination of personality, movement, thought, and feeling. I cursed the characters. The author. Myself. But I hunkered down and trudged through it page by page, determined to see it through.

Little did I know, the last 100 pages cradled such an extraordinary crescendo that I abandoned my apathy, discontentment, and vexation over the hours of time it took me to get there. I devoured these pages. Highlighting entire paragraphs and coloring the margins black with my thoughts. I fell in love with the character’s idiosyncrasies. Their disjointed minds. Their reckless abandon. I came away realizing that none of this —these gradations of character especially—would have been possible without the first 400 excruciating pages. The nuances of character, after all, is what Virginia Woolf obsesses over and takes great care to engender across the great expanse of her literary achievement.

Virginia Woolf certainly doesn’t make it easy. But those who are willing to be steeped in the sheer brilliance of her mind will be well rewarded. This novel will leave you in a “lapsed space” pondering existence, feeling, intellectual freedom, and with a disoriented feeling of “how did I end up here?”. Trademark of Virginia Woolf. She establishes herself early on in her literary career as sui generis in both viewpoint and style with, this, her second novel. I’m glad I didn’t give up on this tour de force.