Reviews tagging 'Abandonment'

Orlando by Virginia Woolf

1 review

sherbertwells's review against another edition

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emotional funny hopeful reflective fast-paced
  • Plot- or character-driven? Character
  • Strong character development? Yes
  • Loveable characters? Yes
  • Diverse cast of characters? No
  • Flaws of characters a main focus? It's complicated

5.0

 “To put it in a nutshell, leaving the novelist to smooth out the crumpled silk and all its implications, he was a nobleman afflicted with the love of literature. Many people of his time, still more of his rank, escaped the infection and were thus free to run or ride or make love at their own sweet will. But some were early infected by a germ said to be bred of the pollen of the asphodel and be blown out of Greece and Italy, which was of so deadly a nature that it would shake the hand as it was raised to strike, cloud the eye as it sought its prey, and make the tongue stammer as it declared its love” (49)

Wonder of wonders: a Modernist has stolen my heart.

I didn’t think it was possible to regard the great innovators of 20th-century literature with anything other than cold admiration  (no, I haven’t read Kafka yet). But if I must pledge my loyalties somewhere, I will gladly do so at the feet of Virginia Woolf, whose masterpieces To the Lighthouse and now Orlando have won me over.

The latter is easier to adore than the former, not just because it’s less bleak. Like many other modernist novels, it follows the development and experiences of a young artist. But unlike the protagonists of In Search of Lost Time or A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, the titular nobleman in Orlando is not (fundamentally) insufferable. A little dramatic perhaps, but hardly an overwrought outsider with a Madonna-Whore Complex. Granted immortality and a sex change by mysterious narrative forces, he wanders through British literary history with a little luck and a lot of privilege. His—later her—observations on gender roles and art are genuinely entertaining, and she plays marvellously off the various real and absurd figures she encounters. One of my favorite scenes takes place as she shares a coach with the Augustan poet Alexander Pope:

“‘It is equally vain,’ she thought, for you to think you can protect me, or for me to think I can worship you. The light of truth beats upon us without shadow, and the light of truth is damnably unbecoming to us both.’
All this time, of course, they went on talking agreeably, as people of birth and education” (157)

Woolf’s ruminations on the time and experience entertain and occasionally stun. She describes the passage of time way better than Proust, and grounds every era in humorous historical details. But Orlando doesn’t live in the world of History. He lives in the world of English Literature. The nineteenth century may not have been heralded by a “welter of cloud” and an epidemic of depressive poetry, but after reading Jane Eyre and Oliver Twist it sure as heck feels that way (159). The Elizabethan era is ancient and brutal, the Restoration is whimsical and the chaotic last pages of the book successfully capture the Modernist Vibe™.

If I’m being honest, Orlando is 70% vibes.

Most of the modernist works I have read so far are utterly detached, which makes for uncomfortable reading. Woolf isn’t like that. Orlando is a thoughtful protagonist, of course, but his perspective is connected to the world he inhabits. No matter what page you turn to, you’re bound to find a witty commentary on the state of English Letters or a glorious little moment in the life of a truly interesting character.

I know I’m going to reread the works of Virginia Woolf a million times, Orlando included. It’s an incredible feeling to have found such a literary love.

“She turned back to the first page and read the date, 1586, written in her own boyish hand. She had been working at it for close on three hundred years now. It was time to make an end. Meanwhile she began turning and dipping and reading and skipping and thinking as she read, how very little she had changed all these years” (168)
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