To the Lighthouse by Virginia WoolfMy rating: 4 of 5 stars
Wow. I just finished this...what was it? Was it more conceit than content? There were times when it was so raw and real and other moments where the words became disjointed and the metaphors overwrought. But, man!:
"Night after night, summer and winter, the torment of storms, the arrow-like stillness of fine (had there been any one to listen) from the
upper rooms of the empty house only gigantic chaos streaked with lightning could have been heard tumbling and tossing, as the winds and waves disported themselves like the amorphous bulks of leviathans whose brows are pierced by no light of reason, and mounted one on top of
another, and lunged and plunged in the darkness or the daylight (for night and day, month and year ran shapelessly together) in idiot games,
until it seemed as if the universe were battling and tumbling, in brute confusion and wanton lust aimlessly by itself.
In spring the garden urns, casually filled with wind-blown plants, were gay as ever. Violets came and daffodils. But the stillness and the
brightness of the day were as strange as the chaos and tumult of night, with the trees standing there, and the flowers standing there, looking
before them, looking up, yet beholding nothing, eyeless, and so terrible."
Book II Chap. 7
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