Rereading Woolf: The Waves at Forty
At twenty I read The Waves for the voices. At forty I read it for the interludes — the sun moving over a house where no one is home.
At twenty I read The Waves for the voices. At forty I read it for the interludes — the sun moving over a house where no one is home.
The third time through Eliot’s Middlemarch, and the first time I noticed who the book was actually about. Some novels wait for you to grow into them.