The first time I read Virginia Woolf’s To the Lighthouse was around forty-six years ago. I have just re-read it. Not only that, but I was reading from the self same book I purchased in 1980! Boy, are the pages yellowed and dry!
I had forgotten just how wonderful the novel was. It seemed to me as it Woolf was attempting to settle on something just out of reach, to describe the indescribable, and the way the narrative flits around and repeats itself is highly effective. Perhaps it’s also indicative of Woolf’s state of mind, fragile as she was. I can imagine her trying to describe something – especially emotion – and getting terribly frustrated with the impotence of words (just as Lily Briscoe is frustrated with her painting).
Isn’t it marvellous when you re-discover something? I’m not an avid re-reader, but I may just have to dip back into my Woolf collection…
Ian Gouge - Writer 