Mrs. Dalloway?

Why didn’t I finish reading Virginia Woolf’s Mrs. Dalloway?

It was a glorious jumble of words, phrases, enunciations spilling over each other one after the other. I love words. They want to toll and dance over your tongue in the most delightful manner.

When I read a book, I want these magnificent creatures to have a purpose, a story that they can’t resist telling. It’s good to have sections where it isn’t anything but words. Perhaps I am lacking in the intellectual department. ‘Tis a fair assumption. But it was dull. No steady, regular thread to cling to. Just words. Piling up. Throwing in a character or two here and there. Making us guess and clutch at straws to figure out who they are as they suddenly appear and just as rapidly diminish. Not my sort of reading.
I might be willing to give this book another try someday. There is so much to read though! So many books and such little pockets of time in which to enjoy them. I’ll grab one or two other books by Virginia Woolf at some point. I haven’t given up the author as entirely lost just yet. There are far too many avid fans for there to be no merit in her writing.
But for now I shall find some other bookish adventure.

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