Here’s the truth: I haven’t finished Mrs Dalloway. I meant to. I even got quite far in. I enjoyed it, admired it, felt genuinely impressed by how sharp and emotionally clear it was and then I just… stopped. Not out of boredom, not because I didn’t “get it,” but because life happened, that and a couple of new book acquisitions that kept calling to me from the TBR pile.
And yet, I haven’t stopped thinking about it. I have the Penguin Classic edition with a portrait of Virginia Woolf painted by her equally amazing sister, Vanessa Bell.
There’s something about Virginia Woolf’s writing the way she shifts so seamlessly between people’s inner lives, how a single moment can hold so much depth. It’s technically brilliant and somehow tactile at the same time. Even in the bits I did read, I could see what makes this book so beloved and so important. You don’t need a degree in modernism to feel its impact.
I’ve always felt a strong sense of loyalty with books, like if a writer poured so much into something, the least I can do is see it through. But maybe it’s also fine to appreciate something without having finished it. Maybe even stopping partway through can be a kind of tribute, a sign that a book made enough of an impression to stay with you.
Mrs Dalloway isn't part of Bookishly's range...yet. But in the meantime you can get it from bookshop.org here.
