It rises to some occasion, wakes with the lark to meet the weekend-moves “with an indescribable air of expectation” because it is going to meet someone around the corner, and, with the shock of encounter you sometimes feel in reading, you find that it is you. It begins with the weather, just like a real day. But I never have the sense, opening To the Lighthouse, that it could have been anything else. I have sometimes, picturing all the characters in black leotards, found myself laughing at the first 10 pages of The Waves. Dalloway-that Clarissa Dalloway should have been the one to kill herself, for example. Yet if you are a reader, this pleasure can be drawn out for only so long. As long as it remains unread, the story can be anything-free, immortal, drowsing between white sheets. Krook in his unchanging grease spot, always to look the same, never to raise a hand differently. There is a pleasure to be had in putting off the classics as soon as you open Bleak House, you foreclose all other possibilities of what it could be, and there sits Mr. Yet I put off To the Lighthouse for a long time, in order to live in delicious anticipation of it. Dalloway is about some lady, The Waves is about … waves, To the Lighthouse is about going to a lighthouse-turned out to be basically accurate. My premonitory sense of what her novels were about- Mrs. I knew what she looked like and what had happened to her I knew that her books took place inside the human mind and that I had my whole life to enter them. I had met Virginia Woolf before I ever opened her books. Check out more from this issue and find your next story to read.
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