by Virginia Woolf
The serene and maternal Mrs. Ramsay, the tragic yet absurd Mr. Ramsay, and their children and assorted guests are on holiday on the Isle of Skye. From the seemingly trivial postponement of a visit to a nearby lighthouse, Woolf constructs a remarkable, moving examination of the complex tensions and allegiances of family life and the conflict between men and women.
OK, I know this is a great classic, but what can I say? I just couldn’t get into it. I really enjoyed Mrs. Dalloway, but this was a painful slog that I only completed out of some masochistic, misplaced sense of not leaving things unfinished. It started out well, but the more I read, the more I felt trapped in a tar pit. I am aware the failing is mine, and perhaps I will try again at a later date. For now, I am just glad to be done. Ugh.
…any turn in the wheel of sensation has the power to crystallize and transfix the moment upon which its gloom or radiance rests.
It seemed to her such nonsense – inventing differences, when people, heaven knows, were different enough without that The real differences, she thought, studying by the drawing-room window, are enough, quite enough.
It was necessary now to carry everything a step further. With her foot on the threshold she waited a moment longer in a scene which was vanishing even as she looked, and then, as she moved and took Miata’s arm and left the room, it changed, it shaped itself differently; it had become, she knew, giving one last look at it over her shoulder, already the past.
I am sure there were more worthwhile quotes, but I stopped underlining.