The Years by Virginia Woolf
A rather endless composition of one’s memory of time and time’s own reticent memory privy to one’s being. You can hear this book, The Years by Virginia Woolf, as the ruffling sound of leaves falling from a thick, gray tree. When you read her To The Lighthouse, then proceed on her persistent consciousness of time, relationships, and empathetic richness of life, you will find a soulful pattern. It is a slow and drifting quality of living. The passing of time chronicling people and their essence. The book notices everything; every fall of the breath, every rise, taking up a pace too distant yet warm, still yet transformable. Stamp this book upon your memory after you spend time with Virginia Woolf. Her other imaginative works like Orlando, To The Lighthouse; even her audacious reflection in A Room Of One’s Own.
Only then will you grasp the intricacy of the narration, the brooding and beautiful pages she creates, the extraordinary willingness of her characters throwing themselves at the mercy of empty, hollow spaces like paintings hung on parched and discoloured walls. These paintings never have a say in where they are placed. And yet, as is the fabric of reality suffused with time, as the river of history runs deeper than sorrow, they offer consolation to those looking up at them. The reading of this book is a journey. The story goes beyond the measuring of its years, illuminating as vividly as a mirror’s reflection those that stand on the other side of it. Never once altering in consciousness, intelligence, beauty, and substance.