I actually read an Italian edition of this book, left behind by a neighbour in London. Its cover page didn't have the moody blue tones of this Penguin Modern Classic. Instead, it was all very pink and flowery. How very fitting.
Having previously read (or, more appropriately, struggled to read) To the Lighthouse, my expectations were suitably low, not out of dislike for Woolf, but rather out of my own problems following her prose. I'm happy to report that said low expectations were widely exceeded, chiefly because in this essay Woolf appears more accessible, self-aware and still relevant to today's contest than what I would have ever imagined.
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