This was an exhausting book to read. Because it reads like a prolonged poem with a stream of thoughts about everything and anything and with very little dialogue. Two things are very clear though: Woolf went very deep and therefore this book can not be anything else than autobiographical. Feeling already exhausted as a reader, I couldn’t even imagine what the process must have been for a writer to put this on paper.
It’s not my favorite kind of fiction but I am still glad I read it. It’s remarkable how Woolf is able to capture moments of human thought and emotion in an identifiable way: tempestuous and full of unfulfilled intent. And where love and hate are often not as indistinguishable as we think.