Guess what? I love Virginia Woolf. Shocker. If you've known me much longer than 2 weeks or ever asked for some sort of "top 5", you already know this. I love Virginia Woolf so much that she shows up on not only my book list, but also plays, movies, and music. Ferreals. Her name has come up twice in conversation recently, so I went to the shelf and revisited my old friend. Here's the deal: I don't generally like short stories. And I'm more apt to be drawn to Woolf's journals or nonfiction (go read Room of One's Own. NOW.) than her fiction. However, in this collection the prose is tilted slightly toward her typical stream of consciousness style, so it still seemed as if she was talking to me. Just to be clear: I LOVE CRAZY LADIES. Her writing is at times so effortless it has the cadence of poetry. Mmm mmm mmmh.
"Flaunted, leaf-light, drifting at corners, blown across the wheels, silver-splashed, home or not home, gathered, scattered, squandered in separate scales, swept up, down, torn, sunk, assembled-and truth?"
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