I just might be.
Virginia was a troubled woman. Her life was short, bohemian in the worst sense, and congested with inner turmoil.
Her work deals with anti-war themes, lesbianism, and the battle of the sexes. Her books ramble, but rarely rant, allowing the complexity of her very complicated characters do all of the talking. These characters are vivid and memorable, but often despicable. Her plots contain little action and pages of introspection, most of which makes as much sense as the average college student’s first thoughts upon waking up in the morning on a Monday.
And yet, for all their seeming randomness, Woolf labored over these few short novels. She wrote draft after draft, agonizing over atmosphere and mood and syntactic and word choices. Reading her work is like staying at a painting by Jackson Pollack: you think you’re looking at pointless splatters, but there is in fact purposeful meanings hidden underneath it all.
I don’t know what to make of her. I never will.
Yet I’ve chosen her for my paper topic.