Read this the same week I ran along Piccadilly, a bunch of flowers covering my head from the rain, very dead literary innit. Mine were from M&S and I was off to work, not a fancy party in a great house, but I felt that thin link for a few sweet moments between my actions and the inner life of Woolf’s heroine.
I read Mrs Dalloway years ago, and it had left only the vaguest impressions. I’d thought it was less fun than Orlando and hard going overall. This time around I loved every line. I chose it to kick off my late-March Roaring Twenties reading fiesta. It’s an oceanic book, containing multitudes, and I’m sure I’m still not bright enough to get that much of it, but the writing is wonderful, and the London references made me so happy to be able to live here right now.