Virginia Woolf

To the Lighthouse is a 1927 novel by Virginia Woolf. The novel centres on the Ramsay family and their visits to the Isle of Skye in Scotland between 1910 and 1920. Following and extending the tradition of modernist novelists like Marcel Proust and James Joyce, the plot of To the Lighthouse is secondary to its philosophical introspection. Cited as a key example of the literary technique of multiple focalization, the novel includes little dialogue and almost no action; most of it is written as thoughts and observations. The novel recalls childhood emotions and highlights adult relationships. Among the book's many tropes and themes are those of loss, subjectivity, the nature of art and the problem of perception. In 1998, the Modern Library named To the Lighthouse No. 15 on its list of the 100 best English-language novels of the 20th century.In 2005, the novel was chosen by TIME magazine as one of the one hundred best English-language novels since 1923.

By Virginia Woolf Woolfe Wolff Wolf Book Paperback

To The Lighthouse

To the Lighthouse, considered by many to be Virginia Woolf's finest novel, is a remarkably original work, showing the thoughts and actions of the members of a family and their guests on two separate occasions, ten years apart. The setting is Mr and Mrs Ramsay's house on a Scottish island, where they traditionally take their summer holidays, overlooking a bay with a lighthouse. An experimental work that pushes the limits of what we know about the world and ourselves, Virginia Woolf's To the Lighthouse is one of the most beautifully crafted of all novels written in the English language. This Macmillan Collector’s Library edition features an afterword by Sam Gilpin. Designed to appeal to the booklover, the Macmillan Collector's Library is a series of beautiful gift editions of much loved classic titles. Macmillan Collector's Library are books to love and treasure.

To the Lighthouse

dyonisos.

It was done; it was finished. Yes, she thought, laying down her brush in extreme fatigue, I have had my vision. 

So loveliness reigned and stillness, and together made the shape of loveliness iself, a form from which life had parted: solitary like a pool at evening, far distant, seen from a train window, vanishing so quickly that the pool, pale in the evening. scarcely robbed of its solitude, though once seen. Loveliness and stillness clasped hands in the bedroom, and among the shrouded jugs and sheeted chairs even the prying of the wind. and the soft nose of the clammy sea airs, rubbing, snuffling, iterating, and reiterating their questions –Will you fade? Will you perish? - scarcely disturbed the peace, the indifference, the air of pure integrity, as if the question they asked scarcely needed that they should answer: we remain. 

But it was the doors that annoyed her; every door was left open. She listened.

To the lighthouse

Eli Alvah Huckabee

All this phrase-making was a game, she thought, for if she had said half of what he said, she would have blown her brains out by now.

Alawander Bouston 

On, but she never wanted James to grow a day older or Cam either. These two she would have liked to keep for ever just as they were, demons of wickedness, angels of delight, never to see them grow up into long-legged monsters.

andrea valentina 

Porque en la agitación de la vida cotidiana, con todos aquellos hijos, todos aquellos huéspedes, se tenía constantemente una sensación de repetición, de una cosa cayendo donde ya había caído otra y produciendo por ello un eco que resonaba en el aire y lo llenaba de vibraciones.

Antes de cambiar la fluidez de la vida por la concentración de la pintura, Lily pasaba siempre (...) por unos instantes de desnudez en los que parecía un alma non nata, un alma separada del cuerpo, que se debatiera en alguna cumbre ventosa, expuesta sin protección al azote de todas las dudas.

...frente a lo transitorio, lo pasajero, lo espectral, como un rubí; de manera que de nuevo aquella noche tenía el sentimiento de paz, de descanso, que ya había experimentado anteriormente durante el día. Con momentos así, pensó, se construye la realidad que permanece para siempre. Esto permanecerá.

Francesca 

Always (it was in her nature, or in her sex, she did not know which) before she exchanged the fluidity of life for the concentration of painting she had a few moments of nakedness when she seemed like an unborn soul, a soul reft of body, hesitating on some windy pinnacle and exposed without protection to all the blasts of doubt. 

His immense self-pity, his demand for sympathy poured and spread itself in pools at her feet, and all she did, miserable sinner that she was, was to draw her skirts a little closer round her ankles, lest she should get wet. 

How then, she had asked herself, did one know one thing or another thing about people, sealed as they were? Only like a bee, drawn by some sweetness or sharpness in the air intangible to touch or taste, one haunted the dome-shaped hive, ranged the wastes of the air over the countries of the world alone, and then haunted the hives with their murmurs and their stirrings; the hives which were people.

A menudo le parecía no ser más que una esponja empapada al máximo en emociones humanas.

lelayna

Mrs. Ramsay sat silent. She was glad, Lily thought, to rest in silence, uncommnunicative; to rest in the extreme obscurity of human relationships. Who knows what we are, what we feel? Who knows even at the moment of intimacy, This is knowledge? Aren't things spoilt then, Mrs. Ramsay may have asked (it seemned to have happened so often, this silence by her side) by saying them? Aren't we more expressive thus? 

There it was before her-life. Life, she thought-but she did not finish her thought. She took a look at life, for she had a clear sense of it there, something real, something private, which she shared neither with her children nor with her husband. A sort of transaction went on between them, in which she was on one side, and life was on another, and she was always trying to get the better of it, as it was of her; and sometimes they parleyed (when she sat alone); there were, she remembered, great reconciliation scenes; but for the most part, oddly enough, she must admit that she felt this thing that she called life terrible, hostile, and quick to pounce on you if you gave it a chance.

It was love that never attempted to clutch it’s object; but, like the love mathematicians bear their symbols, or poets their phrases, was meant to be spread over the world and become part of the human gain. So it was indeed.

Directy one looked up and saw them, what she called "being in love” flooded them. They became part of that unreal but penetrating and exciting universe which is the world seen through the eyes of love. The sky stuck to them; the birds sang through them. And, what was even more exciting, she felt, too, as she saw Mr. Ranmsay bearing down and retreating, and Mrs. Ramsey sitting with James in the window and the cloud moving and the tree bending, how life, from being made up of little separate incidents which one lived one by one, became curled and whole like a wave which bore one up with it and threw down with it, there, with a dash on the beach.

How then did it work out, all this? How did one judge people, think of them? How did one add up this and that and conclude that it was liking one felt, or disliking? And to those words, what meaning attached, after all? Standing now, apparently transfixed, by the pear tree, impressions poured in upon her of those two men, and to follow her thought was like following a voice which speaks too quickly to be taken down by one's pencil, and the voice was her own voice saying contradictory things, so that even the fissures and humps on the bark of the pear tree were irrevocably fixed there for eternity.

Strife, divisions, difference of opinion, prejudices twisted into the very fibre of being, oh, that they should begin so early.

It seemed to her such nonsense-inventing differences, when people, heaven knows, were different enough without that.

Alec Karlen

“D’you remember?” she felt inclined to ask him as she passed him, thinking again of Mrs. Ramsay on the beach; the cask bobbing up and down; and the pages fying. Why, after all these years had that survived, ringed round, lit up, visible to the last detail, with all before it blank and all after it blank, for miles and miles?

To pursue truth with such astonishing lack of consideration for other people's feelings, to rend the thin veils of civilisation so wantonly, so brutally, was to her so horrible an outrage of human decency that, without replying, dazed and blinded, she bent her head as if to let the pelt of jagged hail, the drench of dirty water, bespatter her unrebuked. There was nothing to be said.

because distant views seem to outlast by a million years (Lily thought) the gazer and to be communing already with a sky which beholds an earth entirely at rest.

Alina

The mutilated body (it was alive still) was thrown back into the sea.]

What is the meaning of life? That was all—a simple question; one that tended to close in on one with years. The great revelation had never come. The great revelation perhaps never did come. Instead there were little daily miracles, illuminations, matches struck unexpectedly in the dark; here was one.

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.

read in a terrible, tender daze, mostly by the sea. today i finished the book at jacob riis beach surrounded by loving friends. what a terrible thing it can be to love and to be curious about another. and what a beautiful thing. 

i've pages dog-eared, and manymany words underlined. i know i'll remember how i feel forever, even if the details are a blur. 

aisha

read in a terrible, tender daze, mostly by the sea. today i finished the book at jacob riis beach surrounded by loving friends. what a terrible thing it can be to love and to be curious about another. and what a beautiful thing. 

i've pages dog-eared, and manymany words underlined. i know i'll remember how i feel forever, even if the details are a blur. 

This book demands your full attention and time when reading it, it is really quite challenging and Woolf's meandering sentences often require revisiting to interpret the point. However you are rewarded for this with one of the most interesting and visceral explorations of human thought. 

The omniscient narrator storytelling gives you an insight into the psyche of the characters and delves into the opposing inner monologue of people in shared experience. 

A story in which so little happens would likely not be so gripping in someone else's hands. 

Liam Richardson

This book demands your full attention and time when reading it, it is really quite challenging and Woolf's meandering sentences often require revisiting to interpret the point. However you are rewarded for this with one of the most interesting and visceral explorations of human thought. 

The omniscient narrator storytelling gives you an insight into the psyche of the characters and delves into the opposing inner monologue of people in shared experience. 

A story in which so little happens would likely not be so gripping in someone else's hands. 

I think I may have to read it again.

Could not disassociate while reading; had to pay attention the whole time; clearly written before tiktok 

"Will you fade? Will you perish?"—scarcely disturbed the peace, the indifference, the air of pure integrity, as if the question they asked scarcely needed that they should answer: we remain."

Like waves folding into themselves—soft, relentless, inevitable—To the Lighthouse is a quiet current of memory, time, and the spaces between people. It moves without warning, without plot-bound urgency, yet every sentence pulses with interior life. A gentle exploration of perception, motherhood, family dynamics, love, and gender principles—both spoken and silent.

To the Lighthouse, for me, is a startling reflection of how much we live inside our own minds while reaching, imperfectly, for connection. It’s about the fragility of roles we inherit, the beauty of moments too small to name, and the lingering weight of what’s left unsaid. It left me with a certain ache—the kind that comes from recognizing something deeply, wordlessly true.

Woolf, with this timeless masterpiece, evinces a graceful style of consciousness that moves like light across water. An utterly absorbing but subtle beam of the inner life.

Rien

"Will you fade? Will you perish?"—scarcely disturbed the peace, the indifference, the air of pure integrity, as if the question they asked scarcely needed that they should answer: we remain."

Like waves folding into themselves—soft, relentless, inevitable—To the Lighthouse is a quiet current of memory, time, and the spaces between people. It moves without warning, without plot-bound urgency, yet every sentence pulses with interior life. A gentle exploration of perception, motherhood, family dynamics, love, and gender principles—both spoken and silent.

To the Lighthouse, for me, is a startling reflection of how much we live inside our own minds while reaching, imperfectly, for connection. It’s about the fragility of roles we inherit, the beauty of moments too small to name, and the lingering weight of what’s left unsaid. It left me with a certain ache—the kind that comes from recognizing something deeply, wordlessly true.

Woolf, with this timeless masterpiece, evinces a graceful style of consciousness that moves like light across water. An utterly absorbing but subtle beam of the inner life.

i am obviously so late to the party on this one but !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

lucy rosenthal

Mais uma prova clara da eloquência de Virginia Woolf e a sua capacidade assombradora de lidar com os pensamentos e a fluidez consciente de cada uma de suas personagens — a facilidade com que a narrativa se constitui e subsiste de si mesma é particularmente fascinante. A premissa é simples o suficiente: uma família, o relato da sua vida diária e dos seus amigos. 

Mas o casal vive em constante tortura, a mulher e o marido vivem cada um limitados por si próprios e pelos desejos que possuem, o que idealizam um do outro mantendo-os presos, incapazes de avançar no relacionamento. Os filhos falecem graças a imposições sociais: um, na guerra, outra, no parto (as prisões dos sexos, seria?). Os que permanecem, como o Farol, parecem impassíveis à passagem do tempo; nunca mudam, presos ao passado, a eles mesmos, a quem foram. E vão ao Farol. Aquela figura grandiosa que se impõe na paisagem marítima, que assombra a narrativa lenta mas eficazmente. 

Mais uma prova clara da eloquência de Virginia Woolf e a sua capacidade assombradora de lidar com os pensamentos e a fluidez consciente de cada uma de suas personagens — a facilidade com que a narrativa se constitui e subsiste de si mesma é particularmente fascinante. A premissa é simples o suficiente: uma família, o relato da sua vida diária e dos seus amigos. 

Mas o casal vive em constante tortura, a mulher e o marido vivem cada um limitados por si próprios e pelos desejos que possuem, o que idealizam um do outro mantendo-os presos, incapazes de avançar no relacionamento. Os filhos falecem graças a imposições sociais: um, na guerra, outra, no parto (as prisões dos sexos, seria?). Os que permanecem, como o Farol, parecem impassíveis à passagem do tempo; nunca mudam, presos ao passado, a eles mesmos, a quem foram. E vão ao Farol. Aquela figura grandiosa que se impõe na paisagem marítima, que assombra a narrativa lenta mas eficazmente. 

The scene where Cam and James are fighting about the pig skull and mrs. ramsay wraps her shawl around it says to Cam "just imagine it's a birds nest and the fairies are playing around it" until she falls asleep and then goes over to James' side of the room and says "dont worry it's still the pig skull under there"

Minjae

fæ 

Set in the summer home of an English family, this novel unfolds through shifting perspectives of each character's stream of consciousness, recalling childhood emotions and highlights of adult relationships.

Maureen

“About here, she thought, dabbling her fingers in the water, a ship had sunk, and she muttered, dreamily half asleep, how we perished, each alone.”

***

Heralded as one of the best modernist texts, To the Lighthouse delves into the complexities of human emotion—particularly the dynamics of power among human relationships. On the surface, the novel centers around the Ramsey family and their plans to go to the lighthouse. Literally and metaphorically, however, the lighthouse remains elusive. By the end, only a few the members actually make the trip. In all truth, I failed to appreciate this novel in its entirety, as its modernist sentiment didn't really resonate with me. Nevertheless, Woolf’s mastery of the stream of consciousness is apparent, for she deftly inhabits a character's thought and shifts to another's in a heartbeat.

The relationship between Mr and Mrs. Ramsey is intriguing. The former is a cold-hearted philosopher, while the latter is the perennial homemaker. Although Mr. Ramsey doesn’t seem to show remorse whenever he belittles his wife’s capacities, he nevertheless openly demands her sympathy. For all his stoicism, he depends on her constant reassurance. On the other hand, Mrs. Ramsey cannot bring it upon herself to tell her husband the three words he so desperately wants to hear. Her love language was not words of affirmation but acts of service. The complexity of their relationship is best captured at the end of Part I, wherein Woolf assiduously discloses the thoughts of each. It is revealed that despite all their marital troubles and miscommunications, the love they have for each other is undeniable. 

Overall, I must confess that I had to force myself to finish this book, so it was not much of a pleasant read. It is, however, sprinkled with good quotes. Though some would declare that To the Lighthouse is Woolf’s greatest novel, I would much prefer Mrs Dalloway over this.

Sajiya Chaudhary

I bought this and A Room of One's Own together, when I was going through a very tough time. It felt like these two books would help me understand the difficulty that comes with being too anxious, an overthinker, someone who communicates with themselves excessively in their own head. And it took me three attempts to get going with this one. Every time I started, it felt difficult to understand what is going on here. Now being stuck at our homes, living our life in the same monotonicity, and having to talk to ourselves, this book made a lot of sense. It seemed less complex. Helped understand how complex human emotions, and how tangled human thoughts are, and the effects they can have on life their own and everyone around. Woolf has given some really beautiful metaphors in this one. I know I would require many more reads to get acquainted with the complexity here, but it was worth the many reads.

a compelling melody of the complexities of family dynamics, artistic unity, & the meaning of life that i never wanted to end

marlisa

my review: Stunning. 200 pages of pure poetry. 

jake's review: snoozefest

"Mr and Mrs Ramsay and their eight children have always holidayed at their summer house in Skye, surrounded by family friends. The novel's opening section teems with the noise, complications, bruised emotions, joys and quiet tragedies of everyday family life that might go on forever. But time passes, bringing with it war and death, and the summer home stands empty until one day, many years later, when the family return to make the long-postponed visit to the lighthouse. One of the great literary achievements of the twentieth century, To the Lighthouse is at once an intensely autobiographical and universally moving masterpiece."

To the Lighthouse (Vintage Classics Woolf Series)

iris 

nothing even happened bro wtf 🤣🤣🤣

Jim Hagan

Finished this after reading it about 6 years ago, and pleased to say it still garners 5 stars. Glad I reawakaned my memory to this startling book. The middle part particularly stood out to me as excellent this time around.

mahek

jack

somehow better than i remembered it <3. incredibly special.

Ayla Hawthorne

This book became much easier to read when I thought of it like long-form poetry instead of a Story. There are some beautiful lines, and I was definitely moved by the exploration of grief in parts two and three. Honestly the entire first part went over my head a little bit - I struggled to keep track of the characters and it was incredibly long winded considering there was minimal plot. I think I would get a lot more out of this story on a reread.

No rating since I would like to sit with this a bit and maybe revisit in a different format.

Reading this as an audiobook may have been a bit of a mistake; it is just not the kind of book that lends itself well to the format. However, the prose was beautiful and Ruth Wilson's narration was incrdibly lyrical and enchanting.

No rating since I would like to sit with this a bit and maybe revisit in a different format.

Reading this as an audiobook may have been a bit of a mistake; it is just not the kind of book that lends itself well to the format. However, the prose was beautiful and Ruth Wilson's narration was incrdibly lyrical and enchanting.

Hannah Yang

"What is the meaning of life? That was all- a simple question; one that tended to close in on one with years, the great revelation had never come. The great revelation perhaps never did come. Instead, there were little daily miracles, illuminations, matches struck unexpectedly in the dark; here was one."

"And as she looked at him she began to smile, for though she had not said a word, he knew, of course he knew, that she loved him. He could not deny it. And smiling she looked out of the window and said (thinking to herself, Nothing on earth can equal this happiness) [...] And she looked at him smiling. For she had triumphed again. She had not said it: yet he knew."

"They had not needed to speak. They had been thinking the same things and he had answered her without her asking him anything."

"Yes, she thought, laying down her brush in extreme fatigue, I have had my vision."

what a beautiful, beautiful novel. the blurb of my book says that it gives "language to the silent space that separates people and the space that they transgress to reach each other," and i don't think i can put it any better than that. graciously expresses the give-and-take, unstated transactions, and profound comfort of relationships (to others, to ourselves, to our work).

Cheyenne Willis

It's a fascinating and moving story, but I struggled with the writing style - it was difficult sometimes to understand what I was reading

Jamieson

“What is the meaning of life? That was all- a simple question; one that tended to close in on one with years, the great revelation had never come. The great revelation perhaps never did come. Instead, there were little daily miracles, illuminations, matches struck unexpectedly in the dark; here was one.” 


I had the most unusual experience reading this where I enjoyed every page but simultaneously was wishing and hoping something would happen. There's very few actual lighthouses in this book, most of it follows various characters over an afternoon and evening as they ponder their relationships with eachother and their various anxieties about life and love and family are slowly explored. 

Woolf is a phenomenal writer and that can't be argued. Her prose is stunning, and this book feels like something only one person could write. Woolf manages to capture the transient nature of time and the flow and ebb of time between one moment to the next and that is no easy feat. Part two, "Time Passes", especially, stood out to me in this book. The death of the characters so unceremoniously announced in bracketed footnotes was a unique choice, and a uniquely modernist choice, and I found that I kind of liked it. 

I think I'd like to read more Woolf for sure, Orlando might be up next. This is not what I expected, and I can't explain it to you because it's not about what its ABOUT but I enjoyed reading in nonetheless and could even see myself rereading it in the future. 


  “And all the lives we ever lived and all the lives to be are full of trees
and changing leaves.”

Shona Tiger

Stream of consciousness again; so, Mrs Dalloway; but (interminably) longer. Racist ("she stood screwing up her little Chinese eyes in her small puckered face", "With her little Chinese eyes and her puckered-up face, she would never marry", etc. Repulsive.). 

A wonderful study of people; but why must we study in so much bewildering depth?

andrea

my advice on what mindset you need when starting to the lighthouse is: patience and focus. woolf is demanding with the reader. she wants your entire attention for a text that is complex in its prose, for sentences so long that you might (and you will) get lost, for a narrator that jumps from one character's subjectivity to that of another without giving previous warning. 

but this book is so rewarding, so rich when you stratch its surface. once you understand what is requested from you by woolf, it is a very pleasant journey. because to the lighthouse is in itself simply a journey in media res with no apparent goal, a stream of consciousness with no end.

it is a story about feelings, about complex human relationships, about time and love and death and loneliness and one's perspective of the person sitting next to you.
this is one work that i'm sure i will reread in the far future, and it will be even more enlightening because i know it is going to be an entirely different experience.

To The Lighthouse By Virginia Woolf Woolfe Wolff Wolf Book Paperback

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