Name: Mrs Dalloway
Rating: 3.775147928994083 (507 reviews)
ISBN: 9780007934409

Virginia Woolf

Anthony Leonard Woolf

This novel explores the hidden springs of thought and action in one day of a woman's life. Virginia Woolf is direct and vivid in her account of the details of Clarissa Dalloway's preparation for a party. The novel was first published in 1925 by the same Hogarth Press that Woolf and her husband founded.

Mrs Dalloway

Virgina Woolf

In der Reihe Young-Adult-Readers sind neue Titel erschienen (weitere s. diese Nr.), die für fortgeschrittene Englischlerner konzipiert sind. Wieder sind es Klassiker der Literatur, die in vereinfachten Fassungen für die entsprechenden Lernstufen aufbereitet sind, hier Stufe 5 von 6 Schwierigkeitsgraden, entsprechend Niveau C1, ab 6. Lernjahr. Neben dem Text mit englischen Vokabelerklärungen am Ende jeder Seite gibt es zum Schluss der Kapitel Aufgaben aus den Bereichen Textverständnis, Grammatik u.a., dazu einen kurzen Abschlusstest, Dossiers zu Landeskunde, Zeithintergrund und Autoren und eine begleitende Audio-CD. Ausdrucksstarke Farbillustrationen ergänzen den Text. Der Roman handelt von einem Tag im Leben der 50-jährigen High-Society Dame Clarissa Dalloway, die Vorbereitungen für eine ihrer berühmten Partys trifft, und spielt in London 1923. Als leichter Einstieg in den englischen Klassiker bereits für Jugendliche/junge Erwachsenen geeignet. Als weiterer Lektüreband zum Gebrauch in der Schule oder für zu Hause einsetzbar. (2 S)

Englische Lektüre für das 6. Lernjahr. C1

I didn’t hate this novel, but it was at times hard to follow.

Jess

A poignant portrayal of the thoughts and events that comprise one day in a woman's life.

Mrs. Dalloway

(re)started and finished this on long trips on the london underground, which just made reading it that much richer. not enough words to express how deeply i love this book. a gift to the english language. i have so much to say about this that i’m left now with nothing to say about it at all, so many thoughts swirling around that i feel compelled to carefully dissect every single piece of this novel through some gargantuan essay that’ll never hold a candle to a single sentence virginia woolf has written. some perfect aspects of the book: the careful fragmentation of life, its oceanic pulse, london’s paradoxical fluidity and structure, the seeming infinity of the single day, time looming over it all with its ceaseless chiming. clearly here i am biased, at least partially, by that sort of post-book glow, where sentiment and personal investment inflates a piece of writing to larger than it is, and in the quest for fairness i won’t pretend there weren’t things i didn’t like about the novel. but they were relatively minor to the force this book was, even with its flowing prose and english sensibilities (ironic or not), and it’s now secured, alongside its slightly more prestigious position in the english-language literary canon, a permanent place in my ever-changing bookshelf.

WITH INTRODUCTIONS BY VALENTINE CUNNINGHAM AND CAROL ANN DUFFY In this vivid portrait of one day in a woman's life, Clarissa Dalloway is preoccupied with the last-minute details of party she is to give that evening. As she readies her house she is flooded with memories and re-examines the choices she has made over the course of her life.

More stream of consciousness narrative from the best at it. Incredibly difficult to read anywhere but a silent room with a single lamp. Fascinating insight into the inner workings of the characters minds.

Liam Richardson

Didn't love the language but enjoyed the one day concept

Ben Hutchings

Didn't love the language but enjoyed the one day concept

Rezia is a great character

nothing much really happened and i didn’t like the ending. but i like how the characters are written. my favorite part is clarissa and sally’s past relationship :)

ayoni

Virginia Woolf's mesmerizing account of an ordinary day reveals the thoughts and feelings of an astonishingly vivid cast of characters. Includes Woolf's short story, "Mrs. Dalloway in Bond Street" and a biographical timeline.

Mrs. Dalloway (Warbler Classics)

This was my introduction on the topic of Modernist literature, especially on  the stream-of-consciousness as a narrative tool. Woolf’s novels always felt like a challenge to me since English is my 3rd language and I wasn’t familiar with this new form of narration (leí la Plaça del Diamant de Mercè Rodoreda en valenciano y no hice la conexión de que Virginia Woolf hacía lo mismo). Nevertheless, with the help of the audio-book I found on Youtube, I eventually got through the book and god I really-really enjoyed it!! I’m glad I’ve been forced to read it for my uni class on Modernism :). 

karla vera

Maureen

“As we are a doomed race, chained to a sinking ship… let us, at any rate, do our part; mitigate the sufferings of our fellow-prisoners; decorate the dungeon with flowers and air-cushions; be as decent as we possibly can.”

*** 

Woolf's mastery of the interior monologue and stream of consciousness allows her to seamlessly shift from one character's thoughts to another. The rich use of imagery also colors the story in a dramatic fashion. Consequently, it became a problem for me as I found myself lost in her words that I overlooked the matter at hand— I had to reread a lot of pages. 

Overall it was a great book; it took me a while to adjust to Woolf's writing style as this was my first time reading her. Truly, one must possess enough mental energy to absorb the text (plenty of brain cells exhausted here) and appreciate it in all its splendor.

'She always had the feeling that it was very, very, dangerous to live even one day.' On a June morning in 1923, Clarissa Dalloway is preparing for a party and remembering her past. Elsewhere in London, Septimus Smith is suffering from shell-shock and on the brink of madness. Their days interweave and their lives converge as the party reaches its glittering climax. Here, Virginia Woolf perfected the interior monologue and the novel's lyricism and accessibility have made it one of her most popular works. The Penguin English Library - collectable general readers' editions of the best fiction in English, from the eighteenth century to the end of the Second World War.

Anna 

i cannot even put into words how beautiful this book was.
 it's character driven so woolf describes the feelings and thoughts of clarrisa's friends and clarissa herself. this book is definitely not for everyone because nothing really happens and it describes just one regular day, but when you really look into it (and have the patience to do so) you find there lots of beautiful thoughts and feelings throughout the book. it's about love, loss, missed opportunities and of course - mental illness. 
virginia put her whole heart into this piece and i really enjoyed reading it, reading basically about her life experiences and her own thoughts that she reflects in mrs dalloway. 
like i said, it's really hard for me to describe this book, but it's definitely one of the weirdest (in a good way) books that i have read and everyone should give it a try.

Patrick Book

I didn’t expect to like this book. There’s not much that happens. I’m not a huge fan of her style of writing, with its never ending parenthetical strings of commas extending sentences forever and being parenthetical. But there’s a lot going on underneath and it is basically all character development and it turns out to be really interesting. Well done, Virginia Woolf.

Colton Ray

I forgot I even read this book. At first I gave it an honest try, then resorted to skimming pages, then chapters, then finally just read summaries on SparkNotes. This was unfortunately required reading for my British Lit class. My teacher loved it, most of the girls in the class liked it, and most of the guys were indifferent or confused by it. 

I wouldn't be the least interested in the plot of this book if I could even find one. It gets lost among all the flowery, poetic sentences. If Mrs. Woolf had an editor, I can't understand why he didn't tell her to cut, cut, cut this boring behemoth down to a reasonable size, preferably novella-length.

Critics always praise Virginia Woolf as a beautiful writer, but I honestly didn't find her writing beautiful. Dalloway has some of the most self-indulgent writing I've ever read in a novel, and should never have been as long as it is now. The sentences run on and on and never seem to go anywhere or say anything of susbstance. I remember one particularly egregious example was a sentence that had about ten colons, five semicolons, 12 parentheses, and almost 20 commas. In one sentence. Now picture trying to read that out loud. It's nonsensical. This was practically unreadable for me.

The story is not only overly masturbatory, it's dull as a stone-age cooking knife. I've never been so eager to NOT read a book. Eyes glazed over, skipping paragraphs, yawning, thinking of everything but the characters in this story and their overwrought, melodramatic meanderings - that was me throughout the majority of this story. I kept waiting for the plot to pick up, for the pace to move along, for something to happen, but nope. The climax of the story is a suicide, but it's mostly just used as a plot device to give Mrs. Dalloway more reason to contemplate life and death, the same things she's been mulling over in her incessant internal dialogue for the whole of the book.

The only character I kind of liked was Peter, because I related to him a little with his unrequited love and constant regret and indecision. He was unlikeable and had character flaws, but he came off as real. I couldn't care less about the other characters.

Honestly, I don't really care that this is a "classic" novel. I just evaluate books on how well they are written and crafted and balance that with how they make me feel. This novel made me feel nothing but boredom and relief when I finally got to stop taking quizzes and answering questions about it. I'm actually angry I was forced to read this and act like it was well-written and interesting when it's anything but.

I think Mrs. Woolf needed to find a judicious editor and go back to junior high to relearn how to construct basic sentences without all those beautiful, fluffy, way-too-dense adjectives and similes.

In case you couldn't tell, I hated this book.

Sarah Sammis

I came to reading Mrs. Dalloway in a back to front fashion. First I read The Hours by Michael Cunningham and saw the film. Then I went back and read the source material for the Women Unbound Challenge.

What I hadn't expected was just how much The Hours for all it's time travel and artistic license mimics and parallels the original novel. If Mrs. Dalloway were an orange, The Hours would be fruit opened up and taken apart.

Clarissa Dalloway is planning a party. The plans bring to light the lives and troubles of the people in her life: an ex lover, her daughter, a teacher and a war vet who is suffering from shell shock. Coming to the book via an adaptation, I could see the themes unfolding before I would have otherwise.

I think that the experience of having read and loved The Hours and having seen the film helped my understanding and appreciation of Virginia Woolf's novel. By itself I might have found it a ponderous and oddly paced novel.

Michael Springer

How does one review a book so unusual? Michael wondered.

This raw food diet still had everything inside churning like the clothes as they spun around the driers. The clinks as buttons slid along the metallic sides, the rasp of the air conditioner that was never turned off because it didn't work at all anyway, the light coming through the pain of the laundry room's one small window, as Michael looked out upon the shimmering light that hit the water of the swimming pool, always clean, always ready for someone to dive in, despite the mid-December chill in the air, despite the fact that not a toe would touch that water for months. 

Michael scratched his nose with his right index finger. He didn't know how to review Mrs. Dalloway.

But isn't that always the challenge with good books? With those books that open their eyes and meet yours head on; where an exchange is made; those books that take something from you, and give you something else in its place, your spleen now in the book, a glowing white light in its place. What does that even mean, he wondered? Can one give back to a book? Or does one only take? Does one only "give back" by paying the author for the text? What a cold process that seems. But, what can someone give to a book that has been around for nearly a century--the author's cells now broken apart from one another and spread about, either throughout the dirt around the space where her coffin once was, or still locked away inside (and let it be known, Michael thought once again, that I never want to be put inside of a coffin; I'd rather be experimented upon, or used by Von Hagens in one of his exhibits)--what can one contribute to a work that has been declared Permanent, a diamond that will not age as time passes, like The Illiad,, like Othello, The Portrait of a Lady, or Confessions of an Heiress? 

Perhaps if I hadn't eaten so much crappy food before switching my diet, I wouldn't be rushing out of the laundromat every half an hour to take a dump, Michael thought. 

After finishing laundry, he decided he would take the light rail to campus and finally buy his school books. He didn't know why, but the trip on the light rail from home to campus was something he still looked forward to, even after taking it dozens of times: there was nothing he could put his finger on regarding the experience that was noteworthy, yet he smiled as he thought about the trip. Was it the mythical stature he'd given to education that made this trip enjoyable? The pilgrimage to a place of learning, the journey towards knowing? But, he'd come to terms with the fact that none knew, truly; all viewed the world through their own terministic screens (he enjoyed working terms he'd learned from grad school into his thoughts, though he'd feel like a jackass to drop them into conversation). Everyone had a socially conceived network of abstract notions through which every flower, airplane, stray dog had to be filtered before it registered in the mind. We place forms upon everything, when there is truly no division. 

He went next door to the gym, because he couldn't hold it any longer. Again, there was nobody working out, although the television that hung from the ceiling was playing some soap opera, the six fans that swayed dangerously as they whirled above the workout equipment. 

How much power is wasted every day to keep a city humming incessantly? Could we not leave the television off, the fans off, the lights off, until someone came in to actually use the facilities? Couldn't the air conditioner be turned off during the winter, or taken out, since it does fuckall anyway? (Joy often laughed at him when he used British words, like fuckall and rubbish.) 

Like many times in the past, he wished he could live somewhere that stars were clearly visible. He remembered driving through the expanses of New Mexico, the lights from the cars the only things breaking the darkness, hindering the starlight. Perhaps, instead of going with Joy out to the casino this weekend, they would drive far out of the city and do some star gazing. The starry sky, like chasing fireflies in the summer, was something from a collective childhood he tapped into occasionally during reveries; he was born in a big city, and moved to another, yet pined for both fireflies and starry skies. But he couldn't stand the thought of living outside the city--there was fuckall to do out there. 

After finishing his movement, and washing his hands for forty five seconds, he left the gym and walked past the swimming pool. One of the neighborhood's many stray cats slunk along the beige fence like a secret agent, half-hidden by the flowering bushes. The sky was Arizona cloudy, which is called Mostly Sunny anywhere else; a sweep of clouds covered half the sky, while the rest was entirely blue. It was a beautiful day, December 29th of 2010.

He went back into the dim, florescent light of the laundry room. Opening the thick book he'd brought with him, he thought again about all the reviews he still needed to catch up on. And he still didn't know how to review Mrs. Dalloway. And he was totally at a loss about how to review Orlando, but he put that out of his mind as he gazed down into A People's History of the United States. His eyes met Howard Zinn's, and he resisted the urge to look away.

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I don’t think this one was for me - just didn’t enjoy it at all

Mrs Dalloway

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