It is one of those reads that no synopsis of mine can encompass the multitudes hidden within those pages. It is a great comfort if you’re feeling lonely or particularly ‘nuts’ because no one depicts the gnarly & honest nature of internal “madness“ like Woolf. She writes from raw experience—and she’s not trying to teach you anything either. Another thing she does like no one else is demand the readers attention on the overlooked. She follows this modernist/mystic tradition that the mundane & sublime are more alike than we think, if we are truly conscious.
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