I’ve been interested lately in books that are structured as stories that speak to each other, and so I decided, in spite of my skepticism of books that achieve hysterical popularity, to give it a go. Dalloway, I kept remembering scenes from the movie, based on Michael Cunningham’s 1998 novel Virginia Wolf writing the book, Laura Brown reading it, Clarissa Vaughn enacting it. The irony never quite came, but once I made up my mind to stop looking for it, I was able to settle into Wolf’s portrayal of 1920s London’s manners and values.Īs for The Hours, I had seen the movie, and as I read Mrs. I found her “What a lark! What a plunge!” exclamations off- putting, and I kept hoping for a flash of irony, which would enable me to laugh along with Virginia Wolf at her unremarkable character. I just couldn’t fall into the rhythm of Clarissa Dalloway’s musings as she goes out to buy flowers for her party. I say this with some satisfaction, because I tackled it several times in the past and had always given up after a few pages. This spring, after years of procrastination, I finally got around to reading Virginia Wolf’s Mrs.
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