Yet another book I’ve had since forever, and quite the classic this time as well. In fact, I have to admit this will be my first, proper, Virginia Woolf (and related) read, that’s if you don’t count the occasional fragment to analyze in high school English coursebooks, and Michael Cunningham’s The Hours (which I loved!).
I think I’ve intentionally avoided her all these years, afraid I’d end up not liking her writing. And it’s always intimidating starting reading a new, top of the pile author everybody is raving about, even more so when your gut feeling tells you it’s most likely going to bore you to death.
I’ve yet to be bored out of my mind, but then again I’ve only managed to read a couple of pages on my way to work today, and I think I’m more intimidated than anything else so far. Since guess what, my Kindle says my reading speed is at its very lowest. I’d like to think it’s because I’m growing old, and not because Mrs Dalloway is too profound/complicated/fill-in-with-other-attributes-resulting-in-lower-and-lower-levels-of-my-self-esteem for me. Only time will tell.
You know what? Last week’s top of the pile, Brave New World, was actually not that bad. I know a bunch of people have told me they didn’t really like it, and though I can’t call it my favorite dystopia, it definitely didn’t make me want to kill myself, as V. put it. It was an all right read, and a nice surprise. Three (and a half!) stars out of five. Take that, Huxley haters!