![]() ![]() ![]() Dalloway as my starter novel because, among the library’s modest selection of literary classics, it was shorter than Jane Eyre or Anna Karenina. Dalloway, as opposed to intellectual curiosity or even an early devotion to reading. I confess to this as my motive for picking up Mrs. I imagined reinventing myself as a figure in an overcoat and scarf, solitary and contemplative instead of merely unpopular. I figured that if I wasn’t going to be lithe and beautiful, never mind getting invited to those parties, I might as well give bookish a try. It was easy to feel not only ignored but incorporeal. My school, like so many, was ruled by a cohort of youths who might have been athletes in ancient Greece, spoke only to one another, and were rumored to hold parties to which almost no one was invited. Dalloway out of the school library, with the idea that some measure of erudition might bolster my sense of myself. Once I’d determined that Woolf was in fact a writer, and a highly esteemed one, I took Mrs. I’d heard her name, but was not entirely sure whether she was an actual person or part of the title of the movie that won Elizabeth Taylor a Best Actress Oscar. ![]() Woolf was not on our school’s reading list, nor were any of the more “challenging” writers. “By chance” in that I was a lonely, not particularly studious kid who went to a lackluster high school in a suburb of Los Angeles, far, far away from the postwar London of Virginia Woolf’s novel. DALLOWAY by chance, when I was fifteen years old. ![]()
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