Virginia Woolf

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

Mrs. Dalloway

sariya

"Living in the wilds as she did, she had an insatiable curiosity to know who people were."

"...for what can one know even of the people one lives with every day? she asked. Are we not all prisoners? She had read a wonderful play about a man who scratched on the wall of his cell, and she had felt that was true of life—one scratched on the wall. Despairing of human relationships (people were so difficult), she often went into her garden and got from her flowers a peace which men and women never gave her."

"Death was defiance. Death was an attempt to communicate; people feeling the impossibility of reaching the center which, mystically, evaded them; closeness drew apart; rapture faded, one was alone. There was an embrace in death."

"She wore ear-rings, and a silver-green mermaid's dress. Lolloping on the waves and braiding her tresses she seemed, having that gift still; to be; to exist; to sum it all up in the moment as she passed; turned, caught her scarf in some other woman's dress, unhitched it, laughed, all with the most perfect ease and air of a creature floating in its element. But age had brushed her; even as a mermaid might behold in her glass the setting sun on some very clear evening over the waves. There was a breath of tenderness; her severity, her prudery, her woodenness were all warmed through now..."

"It was straightness and emptiness of course; the symmetry of a corridor; but it was also windows lit up, a piano, a gramophone sounding; a sense of pleasure-making hidden, but now and again emerging when, through the uncurtained window, the window left open, one saw parties sitting over tables, young people slowly circling, conversations between men and women, maids idly looking out (a strange comment theirs, when work was done), stockings drying on top ledges, a parrot, a few plants. Absorbing, mysterious, of infinite richness, this life. And in the large square where the cabs shot and swerved so quick, there were loitering couples, dallying, embracing, shrunk up under the shower of a tree; that was moving; so silent, so absorbed, that one passed, discreetly, timidly, as if in the presence of some sacred ceremony to interrupt which would have been impious."

"Her sigh was tender and enchanting, like the wind outside a wood in the evening."

"One might fancy that day, the London day, was just beginning. Like a woman who had slipped off her print dress and white apron to array herself in blue and pearls, the day changed, put off stuff, took gauze, changed to evening, and with the same sigh of exhilaration that a woman breathes, tumbling petticoats on the floor, it too shed dust, heat, colour; the traffic thinned; motor cars, tinkling, darting, succeeded the lumber of vans; and here and there among the thick foliage of the squares an intense light hung. I resign, the evening seemed to say, as it paled and faded above the battlements and prominences, moulded, pointed, of hotel, flat, and block of shops, I fade, she was beginning. I disappear, but London would have none of it, and rushed her bayonets into the sky, pinioned her, constrained her to partnership in her revelry."

"But—but—why did she suddenly feel, for no reason that she could discover, desperately unhappy? As a person who has dropped some grain of pearl or diamond into the grass and parts the tall blades very carefully, this way and that, and searches here and there vainly, and at last spies it there at the roots, so she went through one thing and another..."

"After that, how unbelievable death was ! – that it must end; and no one in the whole world would know how she had loved it all; how, every instant..."

"And there is a dignity in people; a solitude; even between husband and wife a gulf; and that one must respect, thought Clarissa, watching him open the door; for one would not part with it oneself, or take it, against his will, from one's husband, without losing one's independence, one's self-respect—something, after all, priceless."

"She would not say of any one in the world that they were this or were that. She felt very young; at the same time unspeakably aged. She sliced like a knife through everything; at the same time was outside, looking on. She had a perpetual sense, as she watched the taxi cabs, of being out, far out to the sea and alone; she always had the feeling that it was very, very dangerous to live even one day. Not that she thought herself clever, or much out of the ordinary. How she had got through life on the few twigs of knowledge Fraulein Daniels gave them she could not think. She knew nothing; no language, no history; she scarcely read a book now, except memoirs in bed; and yet to her it was absolutely absorbing; all this; the cabs passing; and she would not say of Peter, she would not say of herself, I am this, I am that."

"It rasped her, though, to have stirring about in her this brutal monster! to hear twigs cracking and feel hooves planted down in the depths of that leaf-encumbered forest, the soul; never to be content quite, or quite secure, for at any moment the brute would be stirring, this hatred, which, especially since her illness, had power to make her feel scraped, hurt in her spine; gave her physical pain, and made all pleasure in beauty; in friendship, in being well, in being loved and making her home delightful rock, quiver and bend as if indeed there were a monster grubbing at the roots, as if the whole panoply of content were nothing but self love! this hatred!"

"'I am in love,' he said, not to her however, but to someone raised up in the dark so that you could not touch her but must lay your garland down on the grass in the dark."

"...it almost broke my heart too, he thought; and was overcome with his own grief, which rose like a moon looked at from a terrace, ghastly beautiful with light from the sunken day."

"...her look, passing through all that time and that emotion, reached him doubtfully; settled on him tearfully; and rose and fluttered away, as a bird touches a branch and rises and flutters away. Quite simply she wiped her eyes."

"For she was a child, throwing bread to the ducks, between her parents who stood by the lake, holding her life in her arms which, as she neared them, grew larger and larger in her arms, until it became a whole life, a complete life, which she put down by them and said, 'This is what I have made of it! This!' And what had she made of it? What, indeed?"

A stunning new edition of Virginia Woolf's engulfing portrait of one day in a woman's life, featuring a new foreword by Jenny Offill, the New York Times bestselling author of Weather and Dept. of Speculation A Penguin Classics Deluxe Edition "Mrs. Dalloway said she would buy the flowers herself." It's one of the most famous opening lines in literature, that of Virginia Woolf's beloved masterpiece of time, memory, and the city. In the wake of World War I and the 1918 flu pandemic, Clarissa Dalloway, elegant and vivacious, is preparing for a party and remembering those she once loved. In another part of 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. In a novel in which she perfects the interior monologue and recapitulates the life cycle in the hours of the day, from first light to the dark of night, Woolf achieves an uncanny simulacrum of consciousness, bringing past, present, and future together, and recording, impression by impression, minute by minute, the feel of life itself. This edition is collated from all known proofs, manuscripts, and impressions to reflect the author's intentions, and includes a catalog of emendations, an illuminating introduction and endnotes by the distinguished feminist critic Elaine Showalter, and a map of Mrs. Dalloway's London.

(Penguin Classics Deluxe Edition)

Arie P

It ended in a transcendental theory which, with her horror of death, allowed her to believe, or say that she believed (for all her scepticism), that since our apparitions, the part of us which appears, are so momentary compared with the other, the unseen part of us, which spreads wide, the unseen might survive, be recovered somehow attached to this person or that, or even haunting certain places after death .. perhaps-perhaps.

clara

bella <3

Septimus was one of the first to volunteer. he went to France to save an England which consisted almost entirely of Shakespeare’s plays and Miss Isabel Pole in a green dress walking in a square . 

a young man (that is what Sir William is telling Mr. Dalloway) had killed himself. He had been in the army. Oh! thought Clarissa, in the middle of my party, here's death, she thought. 

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

I should’ve read this sooner. Woolf puts so much here, life, death, and the presentness that connects them.

“She could see what she lacked. It was not beauty; it was not mind. It was something central which permeated; something warm which broke up surfaces and ripppled the cold contact of man and woman(31).”

I should’ve read this sooner. Woolf puts so much here, life, death, and the presentness that connects them.

“She could see what she lacked. It was not beauty; it was not mind. It was something central which permeated; something warm which broke up surfaces and ripppled the cold contact of man and woman(31).”

I liked Clarissa just as much as she annoyed me and I mean that as a compliment to her holistic characterization. Very impressive, beast of a novel. Hyper-attuned. I think the stream of consciousness is not for everyone. Need to sit and digest on this one for a bit. 

dagonet

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.

Mrs Dalloway

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.

It was very beautiful writing in the kind of way that makes you sit and appreciate the world, but it was so boring. I thought maybe the ending would be worth it but it just disappointed. Didn’t find myself excited to finish it. 🌸🌹

Sadie Hoffman

Claudia Beneyto

Virginia this is not it…. it’s boring, everything is filler and the actual plot is mediocre at best.

took me quite a while to get into it, mostly because of the writing style and i was getting scared that i wouldn’t finish it, but i found myself engrossed all of a sudden. i loved the omniscient pov, and i loved all the perspectives we were in. there were some hard-hitting moments that made me emotional, namely Septimus’ story (he was my favorite pov). so much thematic depth ranging from class dynamics to the omnipresence of death. <3

jack

happiness is this! i really enjoyed this, though i think i would’ve enjoyed it more had i not yet read to the lighthouse or the garden party. the former tops dalloway’s grandiosity and character study, the latter does a better job with the basic story structure. really takes a great deal from mansfield, but formulates it in a way mansfield never had the chance to.

First published in 1925, “Mrs Dalloway” is a novel by Virginia Woolf that chronicles a day in the life of Clarissa Dalloway, an English aristocrat living after the Great War. Amongst her most famous works, “Mrs Dalloway” deals with such themes as mental illness, existentialism, feminism, and bisexuality. A classic novel that deserves a place on every bookshelf and is not to be missed by fans of Woolf's seminal work. Adeline Virginia Woolf (1882–1941) was an English writer. She is widely hailed as being among the most influential modernist authors of the 20th century and a pioneer of stream of consciousness narration. Woolf suffered numerous nervous breakdowns during her life primarily as a result of the deaths of family members, and it is now believed that she may have suffered from bipolar disorder. In 1941, Woolf drowned herself in the River Ouse at Lewes, aged 59. Other notable works by this author include: “Pattledom” (1925), “A Room of One's Own” (1929), “The Captain's Death Bed: and Other Essays” (1950). Read & Co. Classics is proudly republishing this classic novel now in a new edition complete with a specially-commissioned new biography of the author.

Laura Mauler

A book that is almost entirely description and no plot, written in a stream-of-consciousness style; in short, my ultimate snooze-fest. There were times this weekend when I felt open to description that served no purpose, to simply have a picture painted in my mind, and at these times I liked the book. The rest of the weekend I was more my normal self, wanting a story that would grab me and whisk me away, and at these times I was bored with the book. Glad to have read it in case it comes up sometime in my life, and that's about the best feeling I can muster for this book.

What can be said harshly about the incredible Virginia Woolf?

More character development than plot-driven, the novel delivers, poignantly, a painful tolling through the hours of life.

Lara Engle

What a slog! I'm sorry, Virginia Woolf. I want to agree with you, but I can't stay awake long enough to get through this book about nothing. And it's not about nothing in a good "Seinfeld" sort of way. It's seriously about nothing.

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.

Miguel Ângelo Queirós 

O relato de um dia de Junho, no quotidiano mundano de Londres dos anos 50, que se torna deslumbrante pela escrita única de Virginia Woolf.

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

Jemima Scott

poprika

Really hard to get trought, hard to follow, i found the story pointless and characters nor likable or intresting... might give it a shot when i'm older but for now - not my jam. Too bad

Probably Virginia Woolf’s best-known novel, Mrs. Dalloway, originally published in 1925, is a glorious, ground-breaking text. On the surface, it follows Clarissa Dalloway, an Englishwoman in her fifties, minute by minute through the June day on which she is having a party. At a deeper level, however, the novel demonstrates, through an effortless stream of consciousness, the connections formed in human interaction—whether these interactions are fleeting, or persist through decades. This is a novel to read and cherish, if only to marvel at Woolf’s linguistic acrobatics. Words and phrases swoop and soar like swallows. Woolf’s sentences are magnificent: sinuous, whirling, impeccably detailed. As narrative perspective shifts from character to character—sometimes within a single sentence—readers come to understand the oh-so-permeable barrier between self and other. Through Clarissa we meet Septimus Warren Smith, his wife Rezia, and a cast of dozens more, all connected by the “leaden circles” of Big Ben marking the passage of every hour, by the pavements of Bloomsbury that lead everywhere and nowhere. Modernist London has never been portrayed more sublimely: replete with birdsong and flowers, resplendent in sunshine, youthful yet eternal—and even in the aftermath of war and pandemic, resilient. Mrs. Dalloway is Woolf’s attempt to express that which may be inexpressible. It offers a close examination of how difficult it is, even when our hearts are brimming, to say what we really feel; and it examines the damage we inflict through our reticence with words, our withholding of love. It is a novel of the soul, and a work of immense beauty. This book is part of the Standard Ebooks project, which produces free public domain ebooks.

Ah yes, my favourite genre: no plot, just vibes. I genuinely enjoyed reading this, although most of the sentences confused me terribly. I would recommend this to anyone who dreams of being an english society wife with no responsibilities except being in love with your childhood best friend who is also an english society wife (me).

Carine

Mrs Dalloway (published on 14 May 1925) is a novel by Virginia Woolf that details a day in the life of Clarissa Dalloway, a fictional high-society woman in post-First World War England. It is one of Woolf's best-known novels. Created from two short stories, "Mrs Dalloway in Bond Street" and the unfinished "The Prime Minister", the novel addresses Clarissa's preparations for a party she will host that evening. With an interior perspective, the story travels forward and back in time and in and out of the characters' minds to construct an image of Clarissa's life and of the inter-war social structure. In October 2005, Mrs Dalloway was included on Time's list of the 100 best English-language novels written since Time debuted in 1923.

By Virginia Woolf Mrs. Ms Miss Dalloway Galloway Calloway Wolfe Harcourt Hardcover Book

Kwan Ann Tan

Have just finished reading this in the library while slightly delirious from hunger & this damn sore throat; but god, I love Woolf! This book is everything I love about a good classic: tortured past relationships where neither party is quite over it (shoutout to Fitzgerald lmao) ruminations on time & societal constructs as well as just?? human relationships in general gosh I love this book time to destroy my love for it by tearing it apart in an essay

Claudia Ganea

Although I had to write a paper on this in high school, it's the first time I've actually sat down and read it - and I loved it, just as I knew I would.

Woolf's musical writing will probably always get to me...

Mrs. Dalloway

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