Woolf did not surprise me this time. For the first few pages, I was utterly lost. Was this a play? A dialogue? People talking to each other? Playing games? What was this? Turned out, while I was reading the introduction later (one of those few that do not strive to show the introducer's intellect but actually introduces the content of the book) that they were, what Woolf called, soliloquies.So it was akin to a play after all. But not quite a play. Woolf has tried to do something different by representing characters as threads of individual thoughts rather than build them up through plot.
The book is more of character building than a story. The story is sparse and widely spread out. It centres around six individuals : Bernard, Neville, Louis, Susan, Jinny and Rhoda. Each has his or her own individuality that they speak out loud as a stream of thoughts. The story follows them from their childhood through to their waning ages. There is a seventh "silent" character of Percival whom everyone adores. Bernard is somewhat more central than the others and finishes the book with an existential piece that revisits the life of all his friends.
I was expecting nothing different of Woolf. Despite all the difficulties that it posed, the book was something of a delight to read. No one uses words like Woolf does. They are a piece of art by themselves. But then I strongly hold her conscious disregard for a plot against her. It was as if I had jumped from one Nietzsche to another, only, the original was far easier to read.
