The Hours, by Michael Cunningham

It is one of the greatest acts of literary audacity that I can think of not only to write as Virginia Woolf, but to write Virginia Woolf herself. One of the essential modernist writers who reconceived the novel, her prose is instantly identifiable with its rivers of breathless clauses. Of course she is also infamous [...]

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Orlando, by Virginia Woolf

My redmist book is Virginia Woolf’s Orlando, the acme of Bloomsburyish poppycock, a self-flattering appropriation of English literature and history, distilled from Woolf’s temporarily addled brain by the heat of her infatuation for the aristocratic Vita Sackville-West. Should be sold with a sick bag attached.
Tarquin Hall, writer
The preceding quotation comes from the article in my [...]

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