Nothing even comes close to her prose

>leave me alone, i'm drinking my coffee, while writing this for you to read, look how alone i am with my coffee
she'd be writing about fucking pumpkin spice if starbucks existed during her lifetime.

Thank God we don't have to worry about you breeding

Where do I start lads. To the Lighthouse then Mrs Dalloway?

>tfw when my smoking hot wife laughs at you while i impregnate her

>Criticize a woman
>Immediate response labeling you a virgin

I'm shocked.

what they don't realize is that assholes who have the will to express opinions and cut through the oppressive censorship of guilt are typically the ones who reproduce.
why else do we see so many of those horrifying reddit posts of "oh man, i was a nice guy but she fucked some alpha". they're not betas or alphas, they just don't express themselves for who they are. they play it safe and try not to step ony anyone's toes. the most romantic date in the world is sitting somewhere, or walking through someplace, and pointing out other people, and making fun of them. it's just good wholesome, personal joy. no one gets hurt, and you really get a chance to make the other person laugh.
anyway, fuck it, i read the excerpt to my wife, she said it was quite comfy, and simultaneously understood my criticisms of it, there can exist in a relationship a binary star, and not an eclipse of emotions and opinions. a relationship will freeze and crumble without the hot clash of personality.

i really just think you're misinterpreting an enjoyment of solitude as narcissism.
many respected male authors wrote similarly on the topic; would you label this a product of male narcissism?

From one of her letters:

>I am reading six books at once, the only way of reading; since, as you will agree, one book is only a single unaccompanied note, and to get the full sound, one needs ten others at the same time.

The Waves:

>Let us again pretend that life is a solid substance, shaped like a globe, which we turn about in our fingers. Let us pretend that we can make out a plain and logical story, so that when one matter is despatched—love for instance—we go on, in an orderly manner, to the next.

>I want someone to sit beside after the day's pursuit and all its anguish, after its listening, and its waitings, and its suspicions. After quarrelling and reconciliation I need privacy - to be alone with you, to set this hubbub in order. For I am as neat as a cat in my habits.

Orlando:

>No passion is stronger in the breast of a man than the desire to make others believe as he believes. Nothing so cuts at the root of his happiness and fills him with rage as the sense that another rates low what he prizes high.

Mrs. Dalloway

>Clarissa had a theory in those days - they had heaps of theories, always theories, as young people have. It was to explain the feeling they had of dissatisfaction; not knowing people; not being known. For how could they know each other? You met every day; then not for six months, or years. It was unsatisfactory, they agreed, how little one knew people. But she said, sitting on the bus going up Shaftesbury Avenue, she felt herself everywhere; not 'here, here, here'; and she tapped the back of the seat; but everywhere. She waved her hand, going up Shaftesbury Avenue. She was all that. So that to know her, or any one, one must seek out the people who completed them; even the places. Odd affinities she had with people she had never spoke to, some women in the street, some man behind a counter - even trees, or barns. It ended in a transcendental theory which, with her horror of death, allowed her to believe, or say that she believed (for all her scepticism), that since our apparitions, the part of us which appears, are so momentary compared with the other, the unseen part of us, which spreads wide, the unseen might survive, be recovered somehow attached to this person or that, or even haunting certain places, after death. Perhaps - perhaps.

Who's that? T Swift?

i'm not the one who said anything about narcissism. i'm the one who made fun of the coffee aspect and how dull it seemed. i would say it was boring even if it were a man. i made the joke that if this is how women percieve things, that it's depressing and i feel sorry for them, however, in reality, it's just something i don't personally connect with and make fun of them out of my idle nature.

this is like that indian chicks poetry in prose form. but hey, as a man maybe my standards are just higher.

keeeekkkkkkkkkkk

it reads like male narcissism son, calling to mind the young author and his smug self-satisfied apartness from things, certainly not hers

>the longer the sentence, the better the prose
>reddit spacing
this board is sheer cancer

>How much better is silence; the coffee cup, the table. How much better to sit by myself like the solitary sea-bird that opens its wings on the stake. Let me sit here for ever with bare things, this coffee cup, this knife, this fork, things in themselves, myself being myself.
Nothing remarkable here. Tired, old commonplaces, poor diction, undistinguished syntax

and that atrocious use of a semicolon.

You can tell that the people criticizing Woolf are retarded by looking at the one point common to all of their posts: she is a woman. Why is it that an author who is female or black can't be mentioned without pol-spergs shitposting about MGTOW and crime rate statistics?

she's good but

Is she supposes to say refulgent three times and start chattering about laser rifles?

To the Lighthouse

You can tell Woolfposters are self-conscious about their favorite author when they shamelessly create more than one thread about her even though one is more than sufficient.
Also, it's obvious that they wouldn't dare post her work without attaching her name to it, as though the label will somehow accentuate and intensify her work. Let the Woolfposters hide her name, and let her quality shine through, and when people ask, agog, who blessed the world with such magnificent prose, the Woolfposters can pridefully lay down her name, blazing in triumph. until then, fuck off with your virtue signalling coffe swilling bullshit.

What exactly are you mad about brainlet?

>mad
not mad at all, i'm enjoying myself thoroughly. bout to go play with my yo-yo, actually. it's incredibly relaxing.

partially due to female privilege, they will never have the true context to create art. they live life on easy mode. so seeing women write, attempt to think, attempt to create, is at act of utmost fraudulence. believe me on this as I had sisters and watched how they developed. I have studied women my whole life from afar as well. I know what they are. women basically are co opting the language and customs of men in order to manipulate, the exact way black people will adopt 'white speak' in business. but the real female language. the real female person. the one hidden inside. do you think that has anything to do with reading, with thinking, with reflecting and creating literature. fuck no. womens true nature is monstrous, a hall of mirrors

>Is she supposes to say refulgent three times and start chattering about laser rifles?
I'd settle for something worth reading.

Vague scoffing is always a safe position, so you have that going for you.

rude

It's okay user, I'm sure your mom loves you in her own way.

Fuck off psueds

FUCK V*RGINIA W**LF
Boring bitch with her waves and lighthouses and lunches and asinine Bloomsbury socialist elitism bullshit. Her type fucked up the West.

Her profile looked like a alot of class. Her front looks like something made up to be seen in profile.

>Implying Nabokov isn't a whole tier above her
>inb4 ''lolita LOL pedo xdd''

...

you don't read poetry

"Hissing, hackles lifting, the chicken’s head rose. Kahlan pulled back. Its claws digging into stiff dead flesh, the chicken slowly turned to face her. It cocked its head, making its comb flop, its wattles sway. “Shoo,” Kahlan heard herself whisper. There wasn’t enough light, and besides, the side of its beak was covered with gore, so she couldn’t tell if it had the dark spot, But she didn’t need to see it. “Dear spirits, help me,” she prayed under her breath. The bird let out a slow chicken cackle. It sounded like a chicken, but in her heart she knew it wasn’t. In that instant, she completely understood the concept of a chicken that was not a chicken. This looked like a chicken, like most of the Mud People’s chickens. But this was no chicken. This was evil manifest."
-Terry Goodkind, The Soul of Fire

The tempo of Lighthouse is comfy but the book is just so god damn boring

I'ts like Our Town slowed down 10x, but with better writing. How can such a small text be such a slog?

I'd rather read Dickenson

I do, thats why I say with confidence Dickinson or Poe are also out of her league; Shes good but definitively not God tier

you think that my remarks are from momy issues ahahhaaahha. I study women closely for my whole life. why do you think se killed herself? she was trying to disguise her name by being a literary figure,

>new birth of freedom
Give me one phrase of hers that comes close to this.

Neither is Nabokov compared to them, but Woolf is much closer.

God-Tier is pic-related btw

>''The best prose''
>Reading fucking Prouse made her realize how much of a silly stupid bitch she was and how she should be making babies instead of books

I would love to mindbreak her showing my diary desu

Nabokov is not a poet, but his prose is one of a kind. I can think of authors close to Nabokov but I can't name a single writer with a prose objectively superior to his

source on the proust thing?

A monumental achievement considering English was a second language for him.

thecorklinedroom.wordpress.com/2010/12/14/proust-virginina-woolf-and-the-dangers-of-loving-a-book-too-much/

Of course your wife would think about other men while you'd try getting it inside her

Joyce is more interesting

she laughs at the inferiority of males that will never touch her as her dreams of being impregnated by a virile, handsome, and intelligent male with superior genes are realized by my brusque and satisfying pummeling.
while her cunt becomes the world, she cannot help but go through orgasmic epiphany and consider the unending paths of the toiling lesser entities with nothing but the mirth afforded only to the superior.

>I am reading six books at once, the only way of reading
Is there anything more pretentious, attention seeking?

honestly, to the lighthouse gave me a headache

recall the ass only accepted Joyce's genius as a matter of popularity, and only afterwards attributed her disdain to envy, instead of simply being unable to appreciate the genius without guidance from literary society.

>implying it's hard to impregnate a woman
wew

Even Don Dellilo and JG Ballard have better prose than Nabokov. He was a mediocre poet and prose artist, and I've studied his work closely.

I think To The Lighthouse is probably the best thing to come out of modernism (yes including Ulysses), but I've been really unimpressed by everything else I've read from her. Mrs Dalloway was dull and Orlando is a complete meme novel that should never have been published.

I've also never understood why she gets bandied around as someone with "pretty" prose. Her prose when it's good is really good, but it's not pleasant to read or beautiful. It's sort of breathless, manic and tumbling. It's like how Pynchon may be a great prose-writer, but he packs too much information into his sentences for them to be pleasant to read. And of course that's his intention and he does achieve it, but still, no one would cite him as someone with "beautiful" prose.

Haven't read The Waves though. Is that like To The Lighthouse or more like her other novels?

Yes and there aren't misogynists who are breeding and who beat their wives.

>brusque and satisfying pummeling
This sounds like what she'd say if she was leaving a review for you on yelp

Thank you for your insights

Virgiania Woolf was a whiny bitch.

Are you English?

Proust. Woolf is second-rate. Goddamn anglos.

Lets put aside the misogyny and antimisogyny for a moment.
I really liked Mrs Dalloway but, I don't get this meme:
Virginia Woolf said that Ulysses is one of the stupidest shit she has ever read, and then writes a novel in a stream of consciousness style.