"To the Lighthouse" by Virginia Woolf (pt. 2 of 2) and incoherent ramblings

The lighthouse. Like the thought of summer, it beckons in the distance, that shining beacon of endless possibilities and opportunities; the buzzing of cicadas, droning of the lone biplane overhead, and the smell of dried grass. I close my eyes every now and then while reading this book. Thinking about summer makes me yearn for a distant past, of a past that haunts my hopes of summer and peace. A door slams. I step out of my room into the hallway, and from the lounge at the end of the hall, the grating babble of a sports commentator suddenly washes over me, disrupting a moment of peace I had found. No; a paper to write--two papers. Have I heard back from that summer job posting? What did I forget?--No, what is the use of thinking, worrying, always chastising myself for not being the best I can possibly be. But what is the use? Yes; we are here as students. Our sole task is to absorb knowledge, learn about new ways of thinking, and maybe have a little fun. Like hampsters on a hampster-wheel, we push forward in repetition; unthinking; unfeeling--so we beat on.

Notice The Great Gatsby reference in that last line. The last line of that book was so powerful I inadvertently committed it to memory. It goes something like: "So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past."

Okay so maybe my attempt at stream-of-consciousness writing pales in comparison to Virginia Woolf's talent, but we can start to see why To the Lighthouse is sometimes referred to as one of the greatest books of the twentieth century. Woolf enters the sublime (whatever that means). Think about it. Try to catch all the thoughts that pass through your mind. Each thought may have a specific topic, but collectively, all your thoughts are an incoherent mess--only white noise. Woolf, however, has been able to catch these thoughts, and even set them down in words.

To make a profound statement, Lily's painting can be recursively interpreted as Woolf's writing: an attempt at depicting reality--things as they really are--requires an immense amount of effort and concentration. Reflection. Introspection. Meditation. And no, not hippies and yoga.

But Virignia Woolf is too real for me. I noticed that I started looking for run-ons as I was reading, trying to find that glitch in her sentence. At any rate, Woolf is great. I think I will read the book again; let the glorious waves of nostalgia wash over me. And perhaps reread The Great Gatsby while I'm at it.

It's 1:00am. Good night.