Waves

Have any of you read this? It's absolutely stunning. Woolf is phenominal, why don't we talk about her more often? She may be /ourguy/

Did a 12 hour long full performance reading of this at uni. Staarted at 6am as the sun rises in the book, ended at 6pm as the sun sets in the book. Changed locations and read-aloud too

>Oh, but there is your face. I catch your eye. I, who had been thinking myself so vast, a temple, a church, a whole universe, unconfined and capable of being everywhere on the verge of things and here too, am now nothing but what you see—an elderly man, rather heavy, grey above the ears, who (I see myself in the glass) leans one elbow on the table, and holds in his left hand a glass of old brandy. That is the blow you have dealt me. I have walked bang into the pillar-box. I reel from side to side. I put my hands on my head. My hat is off—I have dropped my stick. I have made an awful ass of myself and am justly laughed at by any passer-by.

sounds sort of wonderful

Can I have a misogynistic interpretation of Woolf's To the lighthouse? Is that even possible to maintain? I've just read it recently and the text seems to me the most sharp deconstruction of gender, so, if any male reader has read it and still maintains a sexist point of view, can you explain to me your interpretation?

Lol, my roommate just finished telling me how overrated Woolf is based on this work.

Stop shitting up threads with this inane idpol shit.

Your friend is a dunce

I'd like to write you in my novel. Thanks, m8. How old are you?

>deconstruction of gender
Please neck yourself, you're stealing my oxygen.

Quite the contrary. He's far above average.

Not that I'd take his word for it entirely. I'd like to read the work myself. I've heard she's more famous for To The Lighthouse, though.

waiting for it to arrive, its been a fucking month already...

she wanted the lighthouse in her pooper iirc

72 next month

People always bring her up but never discuss her.

I've only read the Waves and thought it was beautiful and eye opening, but it also fueled my depression and life crisis at the time, so I'm putting reading it again off for when I'm in a better condition.

Also Percival is a cute.

Because womeme authors kinda suck to read even when they have discernible talent t b h. I'd rather read some cantankerous old man's 200 page paragraph about cretinous hacks than anything by a woman.

>72?

Hello, I'm 23.
If you're not lying then you have my respect, Grandpa!

Made my day. You're a poetic character.

Oldposter is one of the few people on this board I do not think the roleplaying shitposter is behind

haha what did your roommate say exactly

can't stand her purple prose. why do people compare her to joyce?

Muh stream of consciousness, basically.

You're my hero dude

because she's comparable better

I'm planning on reading To The Lighthouse soon, I heard that Waves is perhaps her best work, so didn't want to read it first.

To The Lighthouse is Woolf's best book according to most. People who really,really like her prose prefer The Waves.

Well, probably still better that I read them in that order then.

On Women by Schopenhauer. Read it.

oh definitely

...

Anyone else get a feeling that the book is an amazing illustration of Buddhist views of life and the experience of the world? Especially considering some Buddhist commentators use the wave as an example of an "object" that exists only in a linguistic sense, visible for a moment before returning to the undifferentiated energy that the universe is composed of.

I looked up to see if Woolf was deliberately trying to write a Buddhist novel, but it seems like she had only a passing familiarity with Eastern religions. It seems like she just happened to have intuited many of the main points of Buddhism, which makes the link all the more incredible imo.

This meme needs to end. No one here is unironically a woman hating r9k loser, youre preaching to the choir

Ad hominem

Phallacy Fallacy

Love it, it's great.

>Against the gateway, against some cedar tree I saw blaze bright, Neville, Jinny, Rhoda, Louis, Susan and myself, our life, our identity. Still King William seemed an unreal monarch and his crown mere tinsel. But we – against the brick, against the branches, we six, out of how many million millions, for one moment out of what measureless abundance of past time and time to come burnt there triumphant. The moment was all; the moment was enough. And then Neville, Jinny, Susan and I, as a wave breaks, burst asunder, surrendered – to the next leaf, to the precise bird, to a child with a hoop, to a prancing dog, to the warmth that is hoarded in woods after a hot day, to the lights twisted like white ribbon on rippled waters. We drew apart; we were consumed in the darkness of the trees, leaving Rhoda and Louis to stand on the terrace by the urn.

if u want the short version heres an excerpt from my yet unpublished oeuvre which i just thought up: "to be born female is to be born with a limp--a burden that must be overcome--unfortunately, nowadays, most women can comfortably go their entire lives without ever making it to their first physical therapy appointment."

>"to be born female is to be born with a limp--a burden that must be overcome--unfortunately, nowadays, most women

*"to be born female is to be born with a limp--something of a lump, a burden that must be overcome--unfortunately, nowadays, most women overcome with a hump"

true, and that is why one of my shape-uo-or-ship-out anti-thot legislative procedures currently on my platform is re-establishing virginity as both desirable in and the preferred state of women well into their 20s so they will be forced to cultivate interests and a personality and pehaps some usefulness in the meantime

I thought this thread was about Virginia Woolf

Holy fuck.

let's see some hot quotes

especially when read in conjunction with A Room of One's Own, I don't see how anyone can disagree with you.

“There was a star riding through clouds one night, & I said to the star, 'Consume me'.”

“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.”

“Alone, I often fall down into nothingness. I must push my foot stealthily lest I should fall off the edge of the world into nothingness. I have to bang my head against some hard door to call myself back to the body.”

“When I cannot see words curling like rings of smoke round me I am in darkness—I am nothing.”

“I am made and remade continually. Different people draw different words from me.”

“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. ”

“For this moment, this one moment, we are together. I press you to me. Come, pain, feed on me. Bury your fangs in my flesh. Tear me asunder. I sob, I sob.”

“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.”

“I need silence, and to be alone and to go out, and to save one hour
to consider what has happened to my world, what death has done to my
world.”

“I was always going to the bookcase for another sip of the divine specific.”

“I begin to long for some little language such as lovers use, broken words, inarticulate words, like the shuffling of feet on pavement.”

“And the poem, I think, is only your voice speaking.”

“I see nothing. We may sink and settle on the waves. The sea will drum in my ears. The white petals will be darkened with sea water. They will float for a moment and then sink. Rolling over the waves will shoulder me under. Everything falls in a tremendous shower, dissolving me.”

“There is, then, a world immune from change. But I am not composed enough, standing on tiptoe on the verge of fire, still scorched by the hot breath, afraid of the door opening and the leap of the tiger, to make even one sentence. What I say is perpetually contradicted. Each time the door opens I am interrupted. I am not yet twenty-one. I am to be broken. I am to be derided all my life. I am to be cast up and down among these men and women, with their twitching faces, with their lying tongues, like a cork on a rough sea. Like a ribbon of weed I am flung far every time the door opens. I am the foam that sweeps and fills the uttermost rims of the rocks with whiteness; I am also a girl, here in this room.”

“Yet Byron never made tea as you do, who fill the pot so that when you put the lid on the tea spills over. There is a brown pool on the table--it is running among your books and papers. Now you mop it up, clumsily, with your pocket-hankerchief. You then stuff your hankerchief back into your pocket--that is not Byron; that is so essentially you that if I think of you in twenty years' time, when we are both famous, gouty and intolerable, it will be by that scene: and if you are dead, I shall weep.”


“This self now as I leant over the gate looking down over fields rolling in waves of colour beneath me made no answer. He threw up no opposition. He attempted no phrase. His fist did not form. I waited. I listened. Nothing came, nothing. I cried then with a sudden conviction of complete desertion. Now there is nothing. No fin breaks the waste of this immeasurable sea. Life has destroyed me. No echo comes when I speak, no varied words. This is more truly death than the death of friends, than the death of youth.”

“The roar of the traffic, the passage of undifferentiated
faces, this way and that way, drugs me into dreams; rubs the
features from faces. People might walk through me. And what is
this moment of time, this particular day in which I have found
myself caught? The growl of traffic might be any uproar - forest trees or
the roar of wild beasts. Time has whizzed back an inch or two on its reel;
our short progress has been cancelled. I think also that our bodies are in truth
naked. We are only lightly covered with buttoned cloth; and beneath these
pavements are shells, bones and silence.”

“But for pain words are lacking. There should be cries, cracks, fissures, whiteness passing over chintz covers, interference with the sense of time, of space; the sense also of extreme fixity in passing objects; and sounds very remote and then very close; flesh being gashed and blood spurting, a joint suddenly twisted - beneath all of which appears something very important, yet remote, to be just held in solitude.”

“That would be a glorious life, to addict oneself to perfection; to follow the curve of the sentence wherever it might lead, into deserts, under drifts of sand, regardless of lures, of seductions; to be poor always and unkempt; to be ridiculous in Piccadilly.”

"Wander no more. All else is trial and make-believe."

This one always stuck with me. I also posted this one earlier