The following review contains some mild spoilers

Virginia Woolf’s Mrs. Dalloway is like a much needed sucker-punch to the subconscious. Being one of the founding texts in the blossoming “stream of consciousness” genre during the interwar period, I was fully prepared for something dry and more on the experimental side. How engaging can a century old novel centering party preparations of privileged peerage peppered with pages of mundane musings truly be? Breathtakingly so, it would seem.

I found myself pleasantly surprised by the down-to-earth realness of it all. The thread which Woolf weaves from dialogue, subconscious perception, and internal monologue creates a rhythmic pattern akin to treading a tightrope— too fast or too slow and you’ll quickly lose your balance, but travel the right speed and it feels like walking on air itself. No better is this demonstrated than the first encounter of the novel between Peter and Clarissa. Every moment of this scene felt like heartbreak; the way in which both of them desperately crave the approval of the other, yet find themselves exasperated by the peculiarities they once found charming, all the while reminding each other why a future together was hopeless and sparking some hope deep down of what still might be. It made me put the book down to wipe my tears before picking it back up to immediately read another 50 pages.

Woolf’s narrative style translates particularly well to accurate portrayals of mental health struggles. I enjoyed the story-line of Septimus not because it was pleasant, in fact, I was deeply anxious for most of it; but because of how the novel tread the fine line of nuance through it all. It’s clear how deeply the war affected Septimus, and how he was a victim of it, but it’s also clear that he’s not a good husband to Lucrezia— not necessarily out of malice, but mostly due to his total inability to accompany her in enjoying life’s pleasantness (aside for one occurrence later in the novel which so tragically gives a glimmer of false hope). Relatedly, while it’s clear that Dr. Holmes embodies the dangerous combination of ignorance and confidence that destroys lives in the medical field, Sir Bradshaw is by all means quite competent and professional. Yet even Bradshaw cannot save Septimus from himself.

In the end, I guess why I’d recommend this book so highly is that it captures my own neurotic subconscious in a way I’ve never quite experienced before. I will definitely be reading more of Woolf’s novels, likely after taking some time to mentally recover.