Sometimes you claw through some reading because you feel you ought to rather than because you want to, necessarily. I have just finished reading another title that has been on a shelf for months, waiting, Waves by Virginia Woolf. Apparently her most ‘experimental’ novel [playpoem]. Ground-breaking in 1931 perhaps …
I love the ‘static’ waves scenery descriptive interludes, I like the stream of conscious character voices merging, I like the ‘through a lifetime story events, and there are certainly interesting author through character-mouth philosophical insights and humour, but the actual tale is of no appeal. Or rather the incidents that make up the ‘narrative’.
At least I got to read a hardback, hardcopy 1963 edition from a library reserve stock collection; which hasn’t been out in the light since 2006.
I begin to long for some little language such as lovers use, broken words, inarticulate words, like the shuffling of feet on pavement.
Virginia Woolf, The Waves