Today, in a tucked-away part of the library that few know about, I discovered Virginia Woolf. I wasn’t the first to do so, admittedly; others have been planting flags and sprinkling ashes across her since long before I was born.
I think I always expected Virginia to be revolutionary in an obnoxious way. I thought she would be flinging Victorian hoopskirts and tatting and marriage away with both hands, hardly stopping to consider the craft by which she was doing it.
I was wrong, as I tend to be, and have found her to be masterful, both in substance and in writing. It’s hard to explain, but her writing tastes good when read out loud. Sentences like
“The place seemed tangled and matted with emotion”
“The window-panes reflected apples, reflected roses; all the leaves were green in the glass.”
you want to swill around in your mouth for a bit.
I know that it’s all very typical: Imagine! A twenty-one year old female English major admiring Virginia Woolf!
Still, I can’t help myself.