Reading To The Lighthouse by Virginia Woolf is like learning how characters blend with each other and their surroundings. And yet the boundaries between their language and inner nature never stay the same.
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The book is about the passing of time; stamped by ephemeral moments and endearment. It’s about an unaware, sullen shift; simmered in feeling and an intimate transaction. And the words left unsaid hanging by a thread between two lives. The story lives longer than its making allows. It’s a beautiful meditation to grasp the brittleness of life. How we argue with it, with the notion of death itself, in a tight coupling of what is permanent and what is now and forever evolving. And that is the fabric of relationships we long for but that never comes to be. To read it is to surrender to the forceful tide of sorrow’s inevitable current. The ebb and flow of holding on to the shadowed details of life. And how they slip past us as hurriedly as they settle back in.