I don't know how she conveys so much with every word choice. At first I felt that the writing was almost too perfectly crafted; it is never possible to ignore the author's hand at work, to forget that this is an artificial construct. But then I realized that the writing itself constitutes a character, as becomes most evident in the Time Passes section where humans are absent. Suddenly, everyone departs and we are left with only the house and grounds -- and the prose. A pivotal passage for my understanding of the role of the writing as character was this strange, awkward metaphor in the passage describing the night: The autumn trees, ravaged as they are, take on the flash of tattered flags kindling in the gloom of cool cathedral caves where gold letters on marble pages describe death in battle and how bones bleach and burn far away in Indian sands.
What kind of literal sense does this make? I can picture the leaves like tattered flags, but what are they doing in a cathedral? Why is the inscription about battle and bones in the cathedral? How did India get into the picture? Given Woolf's level of craftswomanship, the self-consciousness of the prose, and the complexity of this sentence, I cannot believe that accident is responsible. After trying for some while to explain this and other strange prose structures, I decided that it was meant to mirror the internal illogics and discontinuities of thought.
Just as the characters have streams of consciousness, so does the narration. Like human thought, it sometimes breaks down, fails to follow a clear path, reveals biases. That this passages occurs as we transition into the Time Passes section is no accident. In the first section, where the summer house encapsulates its inhabitants, Mrs.
Ramsey smooths the physical and emotional lives of those around her, both nurturing and smothering so that feelings, actions, behaviors, thoughts all to a greater or lesser degrees conform to her expectations. This first section is taut, tight, cohesive to the point of claustrophobia. Without Mrs Ramsey, the subsequent section is loose, disordered, untidy.
The domestic sphere collapses both physically and emotionally. The exterior and interior structures of the novel mirror one another. In the final section of the novel, natural progression reasserts itself against the charmed stasis of the earlier narrative. The children go to the Lighthouse; people marry and marriages fall apart; children die and are born; Lily completes her painting.
However, it is hard for me to believe that To the Lighthouse could fall into this category. Nonetheless, two pages of notes from college tell me that I read at least part of the book and thought about it intensely and failed to recollect ever having so much as held it in my hands before this year. Nor can I recall a course for which it would have been relevant, yet even less likely is it that I read it on my own and wrote down my thoughts on Woolf's use of grammar and how I thought her ideas related to other philosophers.
Also, I seem to have been considerably smarter a decade and a half ago, which I already knew but hate having rubbed in my face. Here's what the younger smart me thought while reading this book: With weak connectives, Woolf robs the syntax of its normal stiffness, emancipating meanings that otherwise would not be available. The "felicitous correlation between what we perceive and what actually exists" parallels medieval theology. It also echoes the question raised in the Proteus episode: Derrida says that representation is always mis representation. Women cannot pass into symbolic order because cannot have power of self representation.
For example, the heavily symbolic appearance of paper money. Mystification is at the heart of both economic and aesthetic practice -- passage into a symbolic world. Meanings are achieved by relationship to other signs in the system. But poetry is not meant to be converted into "meaning". A system of symbolism replaces a system of beliefs with endowed meanings, not intrinsic ones. Is the idea of limit absolute or rational? The limitless is not representable.
The idea of crisis has been commodified, commercialized. Disaster novels as cheap form of modernist disintegration of civilization. Yeats wanted to make Ireland a symbol of the anti-modern: We have learned to see people as constructed, interpolated, acculturated; not essential. The great Heroic Age ending with Napoleon is a theme of late 19th century literature. Romanticism is the literature of a revolution that has been defeated.
The Enlightenment brought together the ideas 1 culture is relative 2 cultural specificity should be treasured. How then to politically order the world? Is it possible to tell a story with universal import? But imperialism, irrationalism, and glorification of difference destroyed this possibility. The scandal and brilliance of modern systems of domination is that they are based on rationality but breed irrational systems like fascism. The aesthetic is the only arena not based on domination. View all 37 comments. The novel centres on the Ramsays and their visits to the Isle of Skye in Scotland between and The Window, Part II: Oct 11, Lizzy rated it it was amazing Shelves: As I turned the pages I felt almost like one of them.
Through a prose that seamlessly and easily interplays thoughts, emotions and witty remarks Woolf present us an amazing group of family and friends. There they were, each with its own personalities, set of issues, challenges and desires, requiring only a glimpse to reveal them utterly unique to the reader. And on they move through time and place, in beautiful scenery of spreads out flowers, colorful sunsets, clear moonlights and swelling tides.
Thus, we follow Mrs. Woolf plays with her characters, which are simple omens of emotions and conflicts, and we the readers defer to her breathtaking ways of painting them so unreservedly. She was fifty at least; she had eight children. It was absurd, it was impossible. However, in this first section I felt Mrs Ramsay was the center of it all, the person who draws everything together: Life, she thought—but she did not finish her thought. She took a look at life, for she had a clear sense of it there, something real, something private, which she shared neither with her children nor with her husband.
A sort of transaction went on between them, in which she was on one side, and life was on another, and she was always trying to get the better of it, as it was of her; and sometimes they parleyed when she sat alone ; there were, she remembered, great reconciliation scenes; but for the most part, oddly enough, she must admit that she felt this thing that she called life terrible, hostile, and quick to pounce on you if you gave it a chance.
There were eternal problems: There was always a woman dying of cancer even here. And yet she sad to all her children, You shall go through it all. The second section is the shortest but perhaps the most lyrical and beautiful. It is the link of the past and the present, if we could imagine what passed in those ten years interval we would see a melancholic and poignant scene: Only the shadows of the trees, flourishing in the wind, made obeisance on the wall, and for a moment darkened the pool in which light reflected itself; or birds, flying, made a soft spot flutter slowly across the bedroom floor.
There were things up there rotting in the drawers—it was a shame to leave them so, she said. The place was gone to rack and ruin. Only the Lighthouse beam entered the rooms for a moment, sent its sudden stare over bed and wall in the darkness of winter, looked with equanimity at the thistle and the swallow, the rat and the straw. So, it forces the reader to face the bleak truths of change and death together with its characters.
She would feel a little triumphant, telling Mrs Ramsay that the marriage had not been a success. But the dead, thought Lily, encountering some obstacle in her design which made her pause and ponder, stepping back a foot or so, oh, the dead! They are at our mercy. Mrs Ramsay has faded and gone, she thought. We can over-ride her wishes, improve away her limited, old-fashioned ideas. She recedes further and further from us. It is still a wistful time, memories linger and the visit to the lighthouse at long last is accomplished. James takes the boat with his detested father, and finally empathizes with him; as Lily finally puts the final strokes on her masterpiece and stores it in the attic.
There it was—her picture. It would be hung in the attics, she thought; it would be destroyed. But what did that matter? She looked at the steps; they were empty; she looked at her canvas; it was blurred. With a sudden intensity, as if she saw it clear for a second, she drew a line there, in the centre. It was done; it was finished.
Yes, she thought, laying down her brush in extreme fatigue, I have had my vision. It may take a moment to get used to her prose but soon you are sailing with her and your heart will be surging with each impeccable word. To the Lighthouse was one of the most extraordinary displays of writing I have ever read. Despite its poignancy and nostalgic mood, it offers a glimmer of hope through its sensitivity, harmony and love; and it should be accordingly appreciated.
View all 28 comments. Much of the novel - like the light and dark of the lighthouse beacon, or waves crashing in and back out - works in a balanced opposition: Crowdedness and the lack of privacy juxtaposed against the condition of utter aloneness. The bond between Mr. Ramsay counterbalanced with their awareness of what they've cost one another. The collusion of the children, their secretiveness and wildness, but then their docility and vulnerability.
Trapped thoughts that can't be told, but are then underst Much of the novel - like the light and dark of the lighthouse beacon, or waves crashing in and back out - works in a balanced opposition: Trapped thoughts that can't be told, but are then understood without saying, as the same reflection - like quantum tunneling - might wind from one point of view to the mind of a different character. Although a short novel, To the Lighthouse contains so many themes: It's about what Mr. Ramsay wished for was the impossible. It was guessed by Lily Briscoe: View all 14 comments.
Slightly bewildered, mostly satisfied, totally transfixed, I painstakingly studied each beautifully crafted sentence with patience, one after the other, like an obsessed detective looking for hidden clues as to just what Virginia Woolf had put in front of me, for the most part, I hadn't the foggiest. Reading almost half of it again, I slowly started to see through the heavy mist as to what a finely detailed work this turned out to be.
This book requires complete and utter attention, if only life Slightly bewildered, mostly satisfied, totally transfixed, I painstakingly studied each beautifully crafted sentence with patience, one after the other, like an obsessed detective looking for hidden clues as to just what Virginia Woolf had put in front of me, for the most part, I hadn't the foggiest. This book requires complete and utter attention, if only life had a pause button and one was able to freeze time, this is what reading this novel fully deserves.
The language Woolf speaks is rich and imposing, casting an hypnotic spell over me, even thought to begin I was awash with confusion, reading Woolf for the first time has truly opened my eyes to why she is regarded so highly. It's not the greatest novel I have, or will ever read, but on the other hand 'To the Lighthouse' was simply like nothing else I have read before, it belongs in a different place and time. I asked myself, why go to the lighthouse at all? Then there's Lily Briscoe, who wanted to be an artist, full of desire, but pretty hopeless at painting, and what about the children?
Simply put Woolf evoked a feeling deep within of family, both living and deceased, and is there anything more important than that? Woolf clearly opened up her heart, so I opened mine right back. I barley finished reading but looking back now it feels like a dream, something I read in the land of the subconscious, a warm glowing extraordinary emotional pitch still burns inside, all starting with the first paragraphs describing the heavenly bliss of a six-year-old boy cutting pictures of kitchen appliances out of a magazine, and ending with the Lighthouse in sight, even the parentheses in the novel's stylised middle section, was deeply strange, and all along I seemed to forget this was written some 90 years ago.
The writing of people and their feelings was unequivocally overwhelming, her prose so highly wrought, it took time for me to register that it's setting was actually centered on summer holidays spent around Isle of Skye, Scotland. I would also learn the novel does have personal ties with Woolf, her parents, the gaping hole that opened when her mother passed away, and the way her father imposed himself and his grief upon his daughters.
Mrs Ramsay is at the center of Woolf's thinking, then she is no more, the survivors must bear her absence. There was nothing extraordinary about her characters, they were rather conventional, nothing new, but her prose is proof of the skill in which they are written, and they could quite easily be anyone else's neighbours or friends, she captured exactly the essence of certain people, and their traits and mannerisms. It took time to adjust myself to Woolf's writing, and had me thinking it's the sort of book only those with an English Literature degree will find a walk in the park, whereas for me, I started out in a dense forest, distant from the light, but finally ending up on a pebbly beach, where the clouds did eventually part, revealing clear blue skies.
If I can praise a book so highly and still feel at odds with it, it must say something as to just what an exceptional work it really is. I could have abandoned early on wouldn't have been the first , but gladly stayed with it, will no doubts read again, more methodically, it's probably a masterpiece in the waiting View all 18 comments. Apr 09, karen rated it really liked it Shelves: View all 24 comments. Aug 05, Eric rated it it was amazing Shelves: Sometimes reading this was like watching a movie frame by frame.
And I found the texture less evenly lyrical than that of Mrs. But cavils aside, it is amazing. So Mrs Dalloway remains my favorite Woolf so far -- though I finished both books feeling not that I had completed my reading, but merely initiated it, with a definite desire to turn back to the first page sorry, Orlando. Noon is crisp; evening brings a chill. She is re-reading Hawthorne. In my first pass through Mrs.
Summer reading: To the Lighthouse by Virginia Woolf
On patriarchal needs, the memoirs rhyme: He needed always a woman to sympathize, to flatter, to console. Because he was conscious of his failure as a philosopher, as a writer. But his creed made him ashamed to confess this need of sympathy to men. The attitude that his intellect made him adopt with men, made him the most modest, most reasonable of men.
This was a support on which my father rested with the absolute whole of his weight… All which is imaged for me while I see our mother listen, at her work, to the full music of the 'papers. James, Notes of a Son and Brother Mr. Ramsay too rests on his wife with the absolute whole of his weight.
He imposes his need of sympathy tactlessly, childishly, to the rage and contempt of the actual children. Ramsay wonders if her husband thinks he would have written better books had he not married Nietzsche said the married philosopher is a grotesque figure, a figure for comedy ; a bachelor Ramsay certainly would appear less ridiculous and tyrannical, if only for lack of alienated witnesses and resentful victims.
Ramsay is that awkward figure, the ascetic turned householder: Lily Briscoe is deeply moved by Mrs. Ramsay as the Angel in the House, sees in that performance something artful and time-arresting; and, in the great dinner scene, she briefly tries the role herself, smoothing and supporting the awkward, angular blurtings of Mr. But what Lily really wants is to paint. Ramsay, Carmichael his young Andrew lost in the trenches. I am but on the outskirts of this novel, this writer. View all 89 comments. Recommended to Jenn ifer by: First my left foot then my right behind the other, breadcrumbs lost under the snow… There are novels that I read purely as a way to escape reality.
They are a release from my incessant mental chatter. They help to pass the time. Other novels will not stand for merely serving as a distraction. They demand to be studied. They demand I go the extra mile and extend my reading well beyond my purview. Sixty pages into this formidable work and I realized this is not just a novel to be read. It does not First my left foot then my right behind the other, breadcrumbs lost under the snow… There are novels that I read purely as a way to escape reality. It does not merely exist for my enjoyment.
It is a work of art, and it demands to be treated as such. So I went back to page one, pen and notebook in hand. And I started over… The Window: Virginia is performing an exorcism. The ghosts of her parents tortured Virginia Woolf for many years until finally, at the age of 44 after writing this novel, after reincarnating her parents in the forms of Mr. Ramsay, she was free of them. Until I wrote it out… I would be arguing with him, raging against him; saying to myself all that I never said to him.
Woolf begins by dropping us right in the middle of a conversation and lets us figure out what is going on and who these people are. From the opening pages, we are shown the dichotomy between male and female. Together they are the yin to the others yang. Note that we are never told their first names, as if Woolf wants to solidify an image of two halves of one whole. The weakness of one is compensated for in the strength of the other. This is never more clearly expressed than it is with regard to the relationship each parent has with the youngest child James.
Ramsay knows that children need to believe that things are possible, no matter how fantastical they may seem. She gives her son what he needs most; she gives him hope, even if it is misguided, even if she knows there is little chance the trip will take place. Children need to have hope. Lily is thirty-three when we meet her: What stood out most for me was the way she ruminated about Mr.
Lily realizes the importance of the artist: The shortest section of this tripartite is by far its greatest gift. It signifies the center line, the separation between past and present. Ten years pass by in a poetic panorama. Imagine if you will a film depicting the view of the lighthouse shot over many years using time-lapse photography. What you would see is the shifting of darkness to light, darkness to light. And finally back to light. Like Virginia herself, it is time for the characters to exorcise the ghosts of the past and move on note that Lily is now 44, the same age Virginia was when she wrote TTLH.
They each, in their own way, go through a catharsis. In the end, without spoiling the plot, I will simply say that this book is- every chapter, every sentence, every word — a work of art. It is a masterpiece worthy of the highest praise. Yes, we all read for enjoyment, but surely the best books are those that force us to go beyond its pages in search of greater truths. View all 78 comments.
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Mar 19, Dolors rated it it was amazing Recommends it for: Prickling rivulets of conscience, smoothly shifting from one to another, sailing the waters, relentlessly dragged by the current of a greater force, a guiding voice, Mrs. She alone can conduct this tuneless orchestra of wandering souls towards the open seas where they can become one single stream and fulfill their destiny.
The lighthouse is waiting, the darkness in between the flashing beam lights showing the way. Ramsay ap Prickling rivulets of conscience, smoothly shifting from one to another, sailing the waters, relentlessly dragged by the current of a greater force, a guiding voice, Mrs. Ramsay appears as the highest priestess of relationship. Devoted wife, protective mother, the perfect hostess, she spreads her Greek beauty around unreservedly, blessing the ones who are lucky enough to cross her path with her loving touch.
Her roundness soothes his sharpness, her constant reassurance atones for his endless need for sympathy, her feminine intuition cradles his masculine authority. All this giving and receiving occurs in silent conversations, a mundane but nonetheless epic journey takes place at every second to move from one person to another, an indestructible shared bond defies any well-researched defense, for Mrs. Ramsay are united beyond words. And yet some passages ooze with frustration at not being able to overcome those insurmountable barriers, both physical and mental, that define our existence, forcing self-exploration.
Where has the cause for individual agency and equality gone? For this heroine Mrs. Ramsay embodies seems a bit pre-historic to me. The role of women in Western Societies has evolved. Wait a minute, am I the only one who trembles with recognition here? Miss Lily Briscoe appears as the perfect counterpoint to Mrs.
Art promises much more than marriage to Lily, who is not ready to succumb to any male demands. And so it seems that Lily renounces to her nature for the sake of art itself.
To the Lighthouse - Wikipedia
She suffers, art is sacrifice. I sat beside Mrs. Ramsay and Lily Briscoe and became myself. Time passes, great wars are fought, loved ones are taken away from us in the form of merciless brackets. Red and gold leaves drift by the window, signaling the autumn of life. Winter songs are played in the lighthouse, where all ends meet. We are only passing through. It is not our incessant warring within ourselves that threatens relationships with others, but death.
For it is Death which separates permanently. Can our bonds survive the passage of time, the challenge of death? Our lives might be ethereal, but art has the power to make us eternal. Connection can be achieved when the lighthouse is reached, when the knitting is completed, when the web is woven.
We can cross that boundless bridge of darkness making our trip, as Lily does, through art. And the divine art is the story. Instead there were daily miracles, illuminations, matches struck unexpectedly in the dark; here was one. View all 70 comments. Jun 12, Ritwik rated it really liked it. If we could but paint with the hand what we see with the eye. Woolf retains an imagery with dexterous strokes revolving around a family household with each character asserting its presence in the scene so strong it is asphyxiating the reader. Each of these broad strokes enunciates an image, a perspective, a belief upheld by each of the charac If we could but paint with the hand what we see with the eye.
Each of these broad strokes enunciates an image, a perspective, a belief upheld by each of the characters strongly. Ramsay ever-sacrificing motherly ways to keep everything together. In this canvas of interspersed sentiments, Woolf takes us through a journey of everything minimal and insignificant by reinforcing repeatedly the beliefs of the men deriving sympathy and attention and leaves us astounded by the sheer imagery of emotions of her minions. Woolf exerts mastery over the characters and brings the scenery in to the limbo where the reader remains adrift and astounded but detached to a certain extent.
So fine was the morning except for a streak of wind here and there that the sea and sky looked all one fabric, as if sails were stuck high up in the sky, or the clouds had dropped down into the sea. A steamer far out at sea had drawn in the air a great scroll of smoke which stayed there curving and circling decoratively, as if the air was a fine gauze which held things and kept them softly in a mesh, only gently swaying them this way and that. And as happens sometimes when the weather is very fine, the cliffs looked as if they were conscious of the ships, and the ships looked as if they were conscious of the cliffs, as if they signaled to each other some message of their own.
For sometimes quite close to the shore, the Lighthouse looked this morning in the haze an enormous distance away. Woolf plays with her characters who are mere harbingers of emotions and we the readers submit to her majestic ways of painting them upfront and teasing us with her dexterous ways. Less to the plot and dialogues and more towards the extensive thinking behind every action, Woolf could probably fit in loads of stray intelligence on the topic of human behavior in a book of barely pages.
What are we if we cannot think and upheld them is the key takeaway I will agree upon when I might talk about this book to a fellow book lover. Let it come, she thought, If it will come. For there are moments when one can neither think nor feel. And if one can neither think nor feel, she thought, where is one? Ramsay thought of something which might be perceived as selfish and atrocious by the children but they had thoughts and they prevailed whenever they were in the scene. She brings them out clean and how deftly does she do it!
A reader might generate pure hatred towards any character by another author, but a reader going through the stream-of-consciousness of the characters in this book will empathize with the characters with a sense of detachment but nevertheless left in awe. A bit of how Mr. Tansley thought of the insignificance of art in human civilization, detestable yet true in a way- Does the progress of civilization depend upon great men?
Is the lot of the average human being better now than in the time of the Pharaohs? Is the lot of average human being, however, he asked himself, the criterion by which we judge the measure of civilization? Possibly the greatest good requires the existence of a slave class….. View all 30 comments. I'm finding it difficult to watch movies these days, or at least to find one that fulfills the requirements I'm looking for. Their cumbersome attempts at developing fully formed characters, believable folks that intersect with one another in realistic ways, patterns that you can readily see happening in your own life that are entertaining nonetheless for all their normality.
These attempts painfully clunk out at random, grinding out a plot that you can't help cringing at, so trite and false it i I'm finding it difficult to watch movies these days, or at least to find one that fulfills the requirements I'm looking for. These attempts painfully clunk out at random, grinding out a plot that you can't help cringing at, so trite and false it is, it's a wonder audiences can watch it through without feeling sick to their stomachs. And it's as if the makers themselves realize the pitiful quality of their attempts, and constantly patch it over with humorous tropes and comedic outbreaks.
Most of the time, the fix-ups make it even worse. What a splendid joy, then, this book. What a brilliantly contained piece of work, this story, fully conscious in every aspect of its being. This is what movies ape at, this seamless interplay of thought and observation and emotion between a whole cast of people, each one astounding in their originality.
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A sentence here, a paragraph there, a whole passage devoted to a single entity, it doesn't matter. There they are, there is that being so different from everyone that surrounds it, warped by all the other original personalities yet still retaining a small kernel of themselves, requiring only a glance to proclaim themselves as completely and utterly unique to the casual observer.
And on and on they race through time and place, a story blooming between their interactions that is supremely confident and capable of defending every single detail of its aspect. As natural a side effect as the sun drawing towards it the unfurling of flowers, the moon summoning up to itself the swelling of the tides, and as impossible to find issue with. You can't just set anything down and expect results such as this, however.
There needs to be an astounding amount of skill at composing words, wordplay, descriptive lines running past each other so naturally that they are no longer black inkings on a white page.
They are your thoughts. They are your memories. They are your senses bringing up past experiences to flesh out and sing the pages to you, playing upon your heartstrings to a fierce and aching crescendo. They are your hopes, dreams, prayers, inspirations, whatever it is that drives you on and brings you back and bids you to think It is enough! To live for moments such as this, consisting of a book, a reader, and whole hosts of reaction mingling with recognition and realization. To find what your mind has claimed for itself spread upon a sheet of paper, and discover a kindred spirit in the words laying here.
The persistent dissatisfaction you have felt with the effort of existing, the exultation you have experienced within the small slices of living. Whatever balances these to an exquisite point, and tips the scales in the latter's favor, to continue on this dreary trek in hopes of the few and far between minutely shaped moments of utter beauty and clarity of meaning in life. So, there's your characterization, and prose, and themes and meaning, I suppose. It's beyond me to try my hand at discussing the plot, but the more I see of literature, the less I worry that I may be missing out by passing it by.
Besides, I'm not a fan of using these words when I'm thinking on what to say about a book. It helps that I'm a complete amateur when it comes to literature, no classical training in it whatsoever since my last high school stint. What I have is myself, the book, and the chemical reaction between the two. I think, in regards to this single, wonderful, exquisite piece of literature, it is enough. View all 47 comments. Jan 31, Diane rated it it was amazing Shelves: I have started this book several times, and even though I admired the prose, heretofore I had always set it aside after about 20 pages because it required so much focus, so much time.
Indeed, I wondered if I would ever find time to finish this book in the same way that young James Ramsay wondered if he would ever get to visit the lighthouse. But I was determined to finish! Knowing that it required concentration, I settled into my reading chair this weekend and dove into the text. V I have started this book several times, and even though I admired the prose, heretofore I had always set it aside after about 20 pages because it required so much focus, so much time. Virginia Woolf's writing was so beautiful, so melodic, that it should be read aloud, like poetry.
The book is structured into three parts: In the first part, we meet the Ramsey family and their guests at a summer home in the Hebrides. There is little dialogue and even less action -- the prose is all introspection and stream of consciousness. We jump from character to character, spending time in each person's head before we jump again. There are so many passages I loved, but here is an excellent one about Mrs. A sort of transaction went on between them, in which she was on one side, and life was on another, and she was always trying to get the better of it, as it was of her; and sometimes they parlayed when she sat alone ; there were, she remembered, great reconciliation scenes; but for the most part, oddly enough, she must admit that she felt this thing called life terrible, hostile, and quick to pounce on you if you gave it a chance.
There were the eternal problems: And yet she had said to all these children, You shall go through it all For that reason, knowing what was before them -- love and ambition and being wretched alone in dreary places -- she had often the feeling, Why must they grow up and lose it all? And then she said to herself, brandishing her sword at life, Nonsense. They will be perfectly happy. Finally, the remaining Ramsay members gather at the summer home again, and this time, surely, they will visit the lighthouse.
This book is such a classic of modern English literature that I fear I can't add anything to the discussion other than to say how much I appreciated it. I loved the thoughtfulness of the writing, how Virginia would cover a scene from several points of view, and how characters would argue with themselves. Now that I have finished it and know how much beauty is in store, I plan to read it again and again.
View all 10 comments. To the Lighthouse is simply the most incredible book I've ever read. What soaring, penetrating, eloquent, unique, wonderful writing, that deserves to be read slowly and attentively, the inner voice attuned to the gentle canter of the meter, the rhythmic rise and fall in pitch, undulating like rolling waves, like the beating heart, like poetry. Such a visionary and unforgiving style, with dense, meandering sentences, ever shifting perspectives, the fusion of the real and the imagined, To the Lighthouse is simply the most incredible book I've ever read.
Such a visionary and unforgiving style, with dense, meandering sentences, ever shifting perspectives, the fusion of the real and the imagined, the past and the future, with rarely any concession or latitude or explanation proffered. The characters unfold slowly, revealed by degrees like a Polaroid, but they are fragmented, and never drawn entirely into focus. The voice is personal, intimate and penetrating. And yet there is such an overwhelming sadness: The expression of an unbridgeable distance that exists between people as they are left to guess at one another, never really knowing, never really understanding, never truly connecting.
The passage of time tears through the centre of the narrative like a great fissure, suddenly and irrevocably arresting all actions, rendering all words mute and inconsequential. Exposed is the frailty of human life, and its smallness. Any significance is called into question. We are left through Lily to make sense of it all, to wonder what might have been; to examine the pieces and to puzzle at how they might be combined into a meaningful whole. There is the lighthouse - such a subtle and enigmatic metaphor, expressing distance, impermanence and solitude, but also light and and the preservation of life from the cold, indifferent forces of nature.
All of these layers of meaning suffuse the writing and permeate the characters - their hopes, their desires, their fears, and their failures. The novel is about all these things, and yet there is so, so much more. I know I have failed to express its true impact, and feel I cannot even attempt to do so given its intricacy and depth. I am in awe of this novel, and the genius of its author. I simply cannot fathom the process that caused it to be assembled, word by word, from the blank page.
Jul 07, Ian "Marvin" Graye rated it it was amazing Shelves: I read "To the Lighthouse" quickly and impatiently, because that is what the text seemed to demand of me. True, I broke the flow to make notes, to track the recurrence of words, the repetition and reinforcement of motifs, but immediately afterwards, I jumped back into the stream and was carried away, until event Slow or Flow? True, I broke the flow to make notes, to track the recurrence of words, the repetition and reinforcement of motifs, but immediately afterwards, I jumped back into the stream and was carried away, until eventually I emerged in Three Parts Full The novel consists of three parts: They are contained in their house, their home.
They look through the window and when they aspire to do something "outside", they have to ask the permission of their parents. In "Time Passes", a period of ten years elapses, some family members die, and the rest of the family endures hardship. In the third section, some of the family emerge from their home with a view to sailing to "The Lighthouse". The first part ostensibly deals with the relationship between the children and their parents.
Thus starts a battle of wills or temperaments between the parents. Mother - Yes permission 2. Father - But qualification 3.
See a Problem?
Mother - Perhaps, Maybe compromise, relaxation, expectation, hope, wish 4. Father - No prohibition 5. Mother - Even if expectation, hope, wish, optimism 6. Father - No chance prohibition, pessimism 7. Mother - How do you know? Father - Damn you frustration, assertion, offensiveness Mr. Ramsay comes out the worst in the family portrait, and deservedly so. Woolf constructs his psychological profile in a similar methodical, but insightful, way: He worships truth "He is incapable of untruth", "He never tampers with the facts", "Whatever he says is true" ; 2.
He is possessed of and by a "secret conceit at his own accuracy of judgment" ; 4. He is the source of authority in the family; 5.
To the Lighthouse
He is negative, judgmental, dictatorial, inflexible, short-tempered, accusatory "someone has blundered" , exacting and unforgiving. In the first part, the reader looks at the world through Mrs. The third section relates the return of the Ramsay children, now grown, and Lily Briscoe , a painter and friend of the family.
With her emotional, poetical frame of mind, Mrs. Ramsay represents the female principle, while Mr. Ramsay, a self-centred philosopher, expresses the male principle in his rational point of view. Both are flawed by their limited perspectives. Her successful completion of a painting that she has been working on since the beginning of the novel is symbolic of this unification.
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Ramsay and James, her youngest son—like Julia…. She is an unmarried professional…. Stream of consciousness , narrative technique in nondramatic fiction intended to render the flow of myriad impressions—visual, auditory, physical, associative, and subliminal—that impinge on the consciousness of an individual and form part of his awareness along with the trend of his rational thoughts.