One of Woolf’s most experimental novels, The Waves presents six characters in monologue – from morning until night, from childhood into old age – against a background of the sea. The result is a glorious chorus of voices that exists not to remark on the passing of events but to celebrate the connection between its various individual parts.
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Yet I think it is likely that the best are made in solitude.
Some people go to priests; others to poetry; I to my friends, I to my own heart, I to seek among phrases and fragments something unbroken—I to whom there is not beauty enough in moon or tree; to whom the touch of one person with another is all, yet who cannot grasp even that, who am so imperfect, so weak, so unspeakably lonely. There I sat.
The world is beginning to move past me like the banks of a hedge when the train starts, like the waves of the sea when a steamer moves.
