If reading The
Hours made me want to read something by Virginia Woolf, reading To the Lighthouse quickly made me
reconsider that. I initially borrowed a copy of the book from the library of my
Canadian school, never going beyond page 3, and last year I just forced myself
to read it.
I don’t think I’ve ever struggled as much with
a 200-page book. Its stream of consciousness was considerably heavier than any
I had read before. Its lack of dialogue drove me mad. I knew the novel wasn’t going
to have much of a plot, but I wasn’t expecting it to be essentially about
nothing.
The one thing I liked about this book was its
cover (one of Hopper’s lighthouses) and now I can’t even find it on Google
images. I’m glad I’ve read it because I felt like I had to, but I could think
of so many better things to do with my time (including popping bubble wrap,
doing jumping jacks, giving my grandma a call, etc.)
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