Ah I am convinced this book is Woolf's greatest masterpiece. Everyone is incomprehensible yet familiar. It makes me just want to silently sit and think for hours. And I don't know if some of the things I feel are what she wants me to feel, or a revolt against what she wants me to feel.

I think maybe how much of a martyr she makes Mary—or makes everyone think Mary, is that the key distinction? Idk it doesn't sit well with me.