HALLELUJAH

I finally finished Mrs. Dalloway. When did I start this 194-page book, you ask? The answer, I tell you, is last July. As in almost a year ago.

What a slog! It's the only Woolf I've ever read, but damn, does it make me very unwilling to pick up another. Maybe because I'm still reeling from the wit and ingenuity of Ulysses or maybe because I had such high expectations in the first place, but I am actually flabbergasted at how boring I found it. The protagonist was insufferable, I didn't find any of the language terribly moving or beautiful, and the only character I was remotely interested in went and killed himself.

So suck on that, Stereotypers of English Majors: here's one who will not soon be joining the Virginia Is For Lit Lovers club.