Why is virginia wolf considered a good writer?
it's on account of her good writing
>>7874797
what makes it good tho?
>>7874800
she pulls off a flowing stream of consciousness aesthetic that dips in and out of impressionistic realities and musings of various levels of consciousness like an opiated faulkner. she's also noted for characters of great psychological depth, and, yes, she's even a woman which hate to say it accounts for part of her legacy
she really is fantastic though
>>7874834
would you mind posting something of hers that you particularly enjoy?
She was a cunt
>>7874795
Because she killed herself.
I'm reading to the lighthouse now and i really cant tell you. Maybe its cos shes a hard book to read, i dont mind that but there is pretty much no reward to going through the hard stuff which is turning it into a slog.
>>7874836
Not that person. I loved the following excerpt, but in particular maybe because of how I can relate to it.
>On the bare ground I will pick violets and bind them together and offer them to Percival, something given him by me. Look now at what Percival has given me. Look at the street now that Percival is dead. The human face is hideous. This is to my liking. I want publicity and violence and to be dashed like a stone on the rocks
Now for people saying it's hard I really don't get it. Maybe they are trying too hard. It's just a stream of thought. Swim in it, dip in it but don't try to count the atoms.
>>7874976
>It's just a stream of thought. Swim in it, dip in it but don't try to count the atoms.
better writing than what you jist shared
Here's some other ones.
>Alone, I often fall down into nothingness. I must push my foot stealthily lest I should fall off the edge of the world into nothingness. I have to bang my head against some hard door to call myself back to the body.
>With her foot on the threshold she waited a moment longer in a scene which was vanishing even as she looked, and then, as she moved and took Minta's arm and left the room, it changed, it shaped itself differently; it had become, she knew, giving one last look at it over her shoulder, already the past.
>So he was deserted. The whole world was clamouring: Kill yourself, kill yourself, for our sakes. But why should he kill himself for their sakes? Food was pleasant; the sun hot; and this killing oneself, how does one set about it, with a table knife, uglily, with floods of blood, - by sucking a gaspipe? He was too weak; he could scarcely raise his hand. Besides, now that he was quite alone, condemned, deserted, as those who are about to die are alone, there was a luxury in it, an isolation full of sublimity; a freedom which the attached can never know.
