A friend of mine gave enamoured lectures and loathing raves in regards to this text, so I thought I had better see what the fuss was about. Thus, I plodded my way through and through – and still yet through, the reeling, whirling stream of conciousness that is To the Lighthouse.
This book can be easily taken too lightly and too seriously (i.e. trying not to giggle when Woolf discusses ‘boobies.’) It is more than likely that Virginia Woolf was writing only for herself in this novel. Then again it is more than likely she was aiming to befuzzle the greater literary community as well.
Whatever she was trying to do, she did it.
By the end of this book/diary/transcribed tape recording/memorandum you feel well and truly beaten by Woolf. To the Lighthouse was her own game with her own transient rules. How heavenly. Virginia can beat me any day.