
The Waves
Reviews

“We insist, it seems, on living.” / “However beat and done with it all I am, I must haul myself up, and find the particular coat that belongs to me; must push my arms into the sleeves; must muffle myself up against the night air and be off. I, I, I, tired as I am, spent as I am [...]”

i don’t say this lightly (and probably i say this controversially) but this was an unexpected, bad miss from woolf // appreciate the disembodied voices in high concept but found the cultural whiteness grating & the execution sort of meandering & uninspired

This was not just a book, it was an experience. The stream of consciousness style is so challenging to read though. I should read this again someday.

24 oct, 2023
i had to sink into the syntactical landscape of the waves (woolf) first but like... WOW okay. people might say the narration of the children are dramatic but i digress - thats how those emotions feel, espc as a child,raw & earnest & without pretension & care of "is it acceptable"
p. 217: "I have a little dagger of contempt and severity hidden up my sleeve. But I am apt to be deflected."
/
the way the narrative contracted towards the end (of being adults, of aging, of after death) and clearer yet became repetitive vs. the all-expansive wildly leaping story in the beginning (of childhood, youth, every brimming possibility) was so masterful

I wish I could write like this

✦ picture the prettiest artwork you've ever seen but make it prose ✦ an otherworldly experience in all its tides ✦ lowkey changed my life

the in-depth stream of consciousness that flows in each and every alter egos Woolf has written, brings an elucidation towards the multitudes she owned, and a journey of a reconfigurement she thoroughly seek, all bridges in an un-deliberate connexion of intertwined fates, towards an attempt to make sense of what is living itself. we succumb into the erosion of living, the cumbrances of luminescence from the sunrise, the warmth of the ocean breeze, the coldness of the dawn, the loneliness of the mist, and eventually, the ebb and flow of the waves. we live, unordinarily so, we lay in stillness, in forwardness, in remembrance, yet so, we live. the very thing that could put a cease upon our constant oscillation in veneering through life, the making sense of it, in forging towards it, is the very waves of death that advances towards us, and we all eventually, lay in residual acceptance, or in the perpetuity of defiance, against the inevitable ultimatum of living, death, and such, the waves broke on the shore.

a challenging read, especially in the first two chapters, but it doubly rewards you for sticking with it. wouldn’t recommend as anyone’s first introduction to woolf though - feels extremely abstract and stylistic even for her.

There are different kinds of depressing stories. One kind of depressing story is the personal tragedy. Through the events of the fiction, horrible things befall the characters, allowing you to experience that painful journey with them. Think Romeo and Juliet, Moby Dick, Winter's Bone, or The Gashlycrumb Tinies. That sort of thing is a little bit depressing. But it's not that bad. Then, there's tragedy that points to a systemic flaw in humanity, or human culture. Horrible things happen to (or because of) the characters, and we see how these flaws are a consequence of the culture around these characters. Society is the catalyst for tragedy and horror, and without changing an entire society, these tragedies will continue to take place. Think Requiem for a Dream, Blood Meridian, The Yellow Wallpaper, or The Wire. These stories are more deeply depressing, because the story--and the horror--aren't over at the end of the book. The true villain is ourselves, and these books promise that the tragedy will continue. These books force us to confront something hard about what it means to be human. But, I would argue these books leave a little room for hope that people will evolve, and these tragedies could eventually be overcome. And then there's this fucking book, The Waves. The Waves is an experimental novel with six protagonists, and in 250 pages you travel with these characters from childhood to old age. You see the way these people change (and don't change), how they come together and grow apart, and how they experience the passage of time, and the final section of the book is a long meditation on death, life, and the meaning of story. This book is a lot of things, but among them, this book is a contemplation of the smallness and shortness of human life. Of how quickly we become old. Of how few paths we have time to explore in just seventy or eighty years. Of how narrow the individual human experience truly is, and how fast we move down that narrowing path. This book, then, feels least hopeful of all, because we are all mortal, and the few moments of our lives are ticking by, at a rate that never slows, but often feels like it is accelerating. With the book structured so that we check in on the characters periodically over the course of their entire lives, it's easy to reflect on how quickly youth passes, how quickly humans begin feeling the effects of age. It is a book that confronts you with mortality simply by showing you people as they move steadily and inevitably from the beginning to the ending of the time they have. And when you look at life from beginning to end, to what extent do people change? The characters in this book get married, have careers, have children, change in a variety of ways, but nonetheless reflect in their old ages the same values and quirks of personality they showed as children. This could be comforting, but it could also be seen as tragic, because if so much of who we are is inescapable, how much choice do we have in who we become? I'm sure this book could be read in many other ways, and perhaps the near-death experience I had while reading it changed how I interpreted it. (Not literally while reading it. . . the book didn't attack me.) But being in the emotional place I was in while reading it, The Waves felt like the most depressing possible kind of book, one that shows you without flinching what it means to be mortal, and that asks you to contemplate all the inescapable limitations of being human.

!!! (I have a more eloquent opinion on this book than just exclamation marks, but those pretty much sum it up. Just... hypnotizing.)

A beautiful book, will definitely need to read again. Questions: what is self? How does one find self or is our idea of self always a projection? What is "true" authenticity? What is the role of others in finding ourselves?

I’ve been curious about this ever since reading Bunny by Mona Awad; one of my favourite books. It kept referencing The Waves and I didn’t even know what the premise of it was, just that it eluded to a pretty heavy melancholy. I loved everything about this. Sinking into rich prose and layered meaning is my absolute favourite thing in this world, and this is all that, all the time. I’ll be rereading it, without a doubt. What a fantastic concept for a book. I have done plenty of reviews what I talk about first person narration being interesting, but flawed or unreliable. We miss so much as an audience and as individuals when we aren’t privy to a perspective outside of ourselves. We lack a very fundamental component to our humanity, I think. We have to be perceived and consume that information to really form any sense of a whole. The Waves takes this to heart, pivoting point of views in same situations, showing the differences of interpretations and the impacts the same event can have on a person is done so well here. Then the added component of this insular group speaking on and interpreting their friends across a lifetime - and the added component of it being what? autofiction / memoir / biography, is just so satisfying at a meta level as well. It is fairly incredible to me how progressive this and To the Lighthouse feel, but especially this one. Certainly makes Woolf one of my all time favourites.

Certainly, one cannot read this poem without effort. To read this poem one must have myriad eyes.

The waves by Virginia Woolf is perhaps one of the most experimental works I've come across and i don't mind admitting that it took me reading it twice to fully grasp it. The book is written in an unusual style and speaks of 6 frinds and a seventh ghost character who never speaks in his own voice. The book stuck me as the search for meaning of the beings of the characters through a lot of chaos. The book is also VERY descriptive.

A confusing, thoroughly intricate tapestry of thoughts and consciousness, this novel is nothing short of a painting told in words, a look into the minds of six individuals that all come together to create the story. Not a light read, but a very enjoyable one that I will have to come back to later on.

I don't know what to say so I'll sum it up with: I really feeeeel this book. That is all.

THE VIRGINIA WOOLF PROJECT: THE WAVES Book 1: Orlando [3.5/5] Book 2: To The Lighthouse [5/5] Book 3: Mrs. Dalloway [4/5] Book 4: The Waves [4.5/5] I want to bottle the feeling of finishing a Woolf novel late at night and live in it forever. To get new followers and friends acquainted, The Waves is the fourth novel I've read in a self-imposed project to read all of Virginia Woolf's novels. Yes, you read that right. A high school student with absolutely no pressure from English class to read more than one book every two months decided to tackle the entirety of a classic author's work of her own volition. If you think I'm pretentious online, you should see what I'm like in real life. However, I digress—the point is that reading this book was the latest instalment in this project. It was really, really exceptional. It's a very experimental novel—it's told in the form of soliloquies from six different characters, with third-person descriptions of waves interspersed—but it has such a uniquely humane perspective on life and relationships that it succeeds in being a compelling story. It reminds me of one of my favourite films, Mirror (or The Mirror, depending on the translation) in that it feels like art that is meant to be felt rather than understood. I couldn't dissect this book's plot if you asked me, but I know I felt a visceral ache in my chest for more than half of it. For lack of a better word, The Waves feels like a dream. You wander around a plain filled with people, listening to their stories while waves (sorry, it is genuinely relevant) crash in the background. While you may not be able to puzzle out what the story means to each specific person, or even what they mean to say from a chronological point of view, you feel a deep transfer of emotion while absorbing the story. It does take a while to get into it (hence 4.5 as opposed to 5) but once you're in, you're done for. Naturally, this absorption is assisted by the insane caliber of Virginia Woolf's prose. I cannot stress this enough: Woolf was an utter genius who deserves to be taught alongside Orwell, Salinger, and Shakespeare. (I did a quick search for most common authors taught at the high school level because I go to an alternative school. It's okay to be pretentious if you admit to it!) I finished reading this book fifteen minutes ago; I always feel such an intense urge to write about Virginia Woolf's novels immediately after I read them. I suppose that this review is my way of trying to bottle this feeling, to articulate in some form the sheer emotional response that finishing a book like this causes. In a similar sense to Bernard's final words, I felt as though I was every character (Neville, Jinny, Louis, Rhoda, Susan, Bernard, and even Percival) and yet, in an incoherent but relevant way, utterly myself. This book earns my highest recommendation. I think that this project may end up causing me eternal emotional distress, and I mean that as a compliment. Next up, I'll take on Woolf's first novel. Join me in the coming weeks in reading The Voyage Out.

A beautiful book. It was well written and I loved the writing style and the characters. So cool how the whole book was build out of monologues. The flow of the book was very smooth and I loved how Virginia wrote the ending. Virginia Woolf is an amazing writer.

"All that we might have been we saw; all that we had missed, and we grudged for a moment the other's claim, as children when the cake is cut, the one cake, the only cake, watch their slice diminishing". My first experience with Woolf and I truly loved every moment. It struck a chord with me.

' All mists curl off the roof of my being. That confidence I shall keep to my dying day. Like a long wave, like a roll of heavy waters, he went over me, his devastating presence - dragging me open, laying bare the pebbles of the shore of my soul.' The waves is a beautifully poetic novel that had me marking every page. When I started this novel, I had no clue what it was about, and when I began, it wasn't what I expected. This book, to me, is one giant poem, and it is so beautiful. A lot of the lines spoke to me in ways I never expected. The entire book is about living, growing and death, and we follow the characters all through their lives as children, adults and seniors. There isn't much to say in plot or character development because it isn't much; it's all lives put into words that create a poem that moves with the waves. It is a beautiful book; however, I feel like I need to share the issues I found. (I got bored...) “There was a star riding through clouds one night, & I said to the star, 'Consume me.” Towards the end, I got bored. Although I still found the book beautiful, the words didn't resonate with me, and maybe its because I am still too young to understand, and at a later stage may resonate and connect with them more; however, at this point, I could not love them as I did the first chunk of the book. I think this book is beautiful, and at a later stage in my life, I will re-read to see if I resonate more with the words in the last portion of the book.

Unpopular opinion of the day: there are objectively good and objectively bad books. After is an objectively bad book, and so are most things SJM writes. Bleh. There are also objectively good books. This is plainly a good book, and the old case of "it's not you, it's me". You'll have a hard time finding anything other than 5 star reviews for The Waves, and yet I personally didn't enjoy it much. Stream of consciousness doesn't do it for me. I found myself interested in the plot, but it was completely drowned in the thoughts and extensive scenery descriptions of terrifyingly eloquent children. I don't really care enough to dig through six kids describing the same mountain for 10 pages, so I can't say I enjoyed it much.

Such a different style of writing. I think she was very experimental with this piece of work and while some parts were hard to get through, it was a new way of experiencing a story. Woolf is just a damn good writer and this is perfect proof. Each character was differentiated while contributing to the story as a whole. Very wonderful book! Would highly recommend.

Dream-like, almost hallucinatory in its intensity and lyricism, a journey inside the mind where a myriad of images, or perhaps should I say visions, appear, fuse, dissolve with the swiftness of an Alpine brook, gradually revealing the inner consciousness of six selves. Is Woolf simply holding a pen or a brush? "All great writers are great colorists" says Woolf. In order to achieve this, she uses words in a very suggestive way like an impressionist painter squeezes the colors from the tube and the reader can only absorb in awe and wonder these everlasting moments. There seems to be no architectonic structure in the novel, no plot. We have to face the fluidity of wave-like thoughts, always pressing on the mind of the characters, Bernard, Rhonda, Jinny, Louise, Neville and Susan and on the mind of the writer. If it is true there's no plot, there's certainly a rhythm pervading the novel; when read aloud the reader will perceive the musicality, the pitch and the cadences of the words. Words, now, like brushstrokes of colors straight onto the white canvas. Now, words like notes. At times, to my ears, "The Waves" sounds like the eternal lullaby of the mind. A most beautiful, dramatic, poignant orchestration of words whose aim is, I believe, to present the mystery of human existence.

Highlights

We are nothing, I said, and fell. I was blown like a feather, I was wafted down tunnels. Then very gingerly, I pushed my foot across. I laid my hand against a brick wall. I returned very painfully, drawing myself back into my body over the grey, cadaverous space of the puddle. This is life then to which I am committed.

Look, the loop of the figure is beginning to fill with time; it holds the world in it. I begin to draw a figure and the world is looped in it, and I myself am outside the loop; which I now join-so-and seal up, and make entire. The world is entire, and I am outside of it, crying, “Oh save me, from being blown for ever outside the loop of time!”

I hold a stalk in my hand. I am the stalk. My roots go down to the depths of the world, through earth dry with brick, and damp earth, through veins of lead and silver. I am all fibre. All tremors shake me, and the weight of the earth is pressed to my ribs.

The mind grows rings; the identity becomes robust; pain is absorbed in growth.
Bernard, p. 257

i think sometimes i am not a woman, but the light that falls on this gate, on this ground. i am the seasons, i think sometimes, january, may, november; the mud, the mist, the dawn.

I am rooted, but I flow

I am the seasons, I think sometimes, January, May, November; the mud, the mist, the dawn.

I will give; I will enrich; I will return to the world this beauty. I will bind my flowers in one garland and advancing with my hand outstretched will present them—Oh! to whom?



“It is strange how the dead leap out on us at street corners, or in dreams.”