Mrs. Dalloway Author: [UK] Virginia Woolf Publisher: Huazhong University of Science and Technology Press

This book tells in detail Clarissa Dalloway's preparations for an upper-class party. Through the memories and associations of each character, it travels through time and space and enters and exits the characters' inner world, thus unfolding her love-hate entanglement, her situation, her youth, the fear of death brought to her by aging, and her review of interpersonal grievances caused by the arrival of the guests. The novel is full of stream-of-consciousness descriptions and rich imagination, bringing readers a brand new experience.

Editor's Recommendation:

1. Ten masterpieces are collected into the "Collected Works of Virginia Woolf" series for the first time.

2. Freely switch between more than 20 characters and write about a woman's life in one day.

3. Compare and contrast multiple versions.

4. A great modernist writer and pioneer of feminist literature in the 20th century, she is also a legendary figure in the British literary world. During the two world wars, she was a core figure in the London literary world and one of the organizers of the famous literary organization "Bloomsbury Group".

Professional book reviews:

British biographer Forster: "She belongs to the world of poetry, but is fascinated by another world. She always stretches out her arms from her enchanted tree of poetry and grabs some fragments from the hurried stream of daily life. From these fragments, she creates novels one after another."

French writer André Maurois: "She hoped to find a new technique for the novel so that the novelist could depict the inner reality very realistically; moreover, she wanted to show that this reality could only be an inner existence. In her mature period, Woolf was neither as judgmental as Sartre nor as didactic as Lawrence. All she cared about was to provide the reader with a clearer and more novel perspective on life, to broaden his horizons and enable him to discover those imperceptible thoughts and emotions beneath the surface events."

Highlights:

The hall was cool, like a cellar, and Mrs. Dalloway raised her hand to shield her eyes. The maid Lucy's skirt rustled as she closed the door. Mrs. Dalloway felt like a nun, a nun away from the world, feeling the familiar veil around her, feeling the response of her old piety. The cook whistled in the kitchen, the typewriter clicked, this was her life. She bowed her head at the hall table, bowed in inspiration, feeling blessed and purified. Mrs. Dalloway took the book of telephone numbers from the table and said to herself how much this moment was like buds on the tree of life, flowers of the dark night (like some lovely roses that bloomed only for her). She had never believed in God for a moment, and because of this, she should be grateful to the servants, the dogs, the birds in her daily life. More importantly, she should be grateful to her husband Richard, who was the foundation of it all, because of him there was joy, because of him there were these green lights, and even because of him, the cook could whistle without worry. Because Mrs. Walker is Irish, they have the habit of whistling all day long. - People, you must give something back, otherwise there will be no such wonderful moments hidden in your heart. Lucy happened to be in front of her, so she wanted to explain it to Lucy, still holding the phone book in her hand.

"Mr. Dalloway, ma'am..."

Clarissa looked carefully at the message in the phone book: "Mrs. Bruton wants to know if Mr. Dalloway can have lunch with her today."

"Mr. Dalloway asked me to tell you, ma'am, that he is not coming back for lunch."

"Oh my God!" Clarissa said. She wanted Lucy to feel as disappointed as she did, and she was indeed disappointed (but not to the point of pain). Lucy felt the tacit understanding between her and Mrs. Dalloway, and she understood the hint. She thought about the love between people in the upper class and planned a beautiful future with a peaceful mind. Lucy took the parasol from Mrs. Dalloway's hand, just like taking a sacred weapon unloaded by a goddess after returning from the battlefield, and then placed it on the umbrella stand.

"Don't be afraid anymore," said Clarissa. She was not afraid of the sun or the heat, because she was trembling at the fact that Lady Bruton had invited Richard instead of her. She shook and trembled as the plants on the riverbed tremble when the oars are passed.

Millicent Bruton's luncheon was said to be special, but Bruton did not invite her. Vulgar jealousy would not separate her from Richard, but time would change. Look at Mrs. Bruton's face, which is like a sun corona carved on insensible stone. It is not difficult to see from her face that the quality of her life is declining. Her life is decreasing year by year, and the remaining time is so short that it can no longer be extended as in youth, and can no longer absorb the colors, nutrients and sounds of life as in youth. So when she enters the house, the room is full of her breath, and when she stands at the door of her own living room, hesitating, she can often feel a wonderful anxiety, like the moment when a diver enters the water. At this time, the water under her feet is bright and dark, and the waves are likely to split the sea surface, but they only scratch the surface lightly. The seaweed is sometimes rolled and sometimes covered by the small waves with water drops.

Mrs. Dalloway put the telephone book on the table in the hall and went upstairs. She put her hand on the banister of the stairs, as if she had just come from a party. At the party, this friend or that friend recalled her voice and smile in the past. It was as if she closed the door, went outside, and stood alone for a long time, facing this terrible night, or more precisely, facing the gaze of this real June morning. It was a sunny morning, and the rose petals sparkled, she could feel it. Mrs. Dalloway stopped at the open window in the stairwell. The sound of the curtains snapping and the barking of dogs broke through the window. As she thought about it, she suddenly felt that she had shrunk and grown old, and her chest had become flatter. The sound of grinding flour, the wind, and the flowers blooming also came in. She felt that she had suddenly gone out of the door, out of the window, away from her body and brain. Now her brain was not working well either, just because Mrs. Bruton had a special lunch party, but she was not invited.

Like a nun exiting, like a child exploring the mysteries of a tower, she went upstairs, paused at the window, and came to the bathroom. The floor mat was green, and a tap was dripping. The center of life was empty. And the attic. Women had to take off their fine clothes, and at noon they had to undress. She stuck her pins in the pincushion and laid her yellow hat with feathers on the bed. The sheets were clean and tied tightly to the bed with a wide white band. Her bed was as narrow as it could be. The candle was half burned down, and she was reading Baron Marbot's memoirs, and she read the part about the retreat from Moscow late at night. Because the House of Commons always sat late, and she was not well, Richard insisted that she sleep alone, so that she would not be disturbed. To be honest, she liked to read the part about the retreat from Moscow, and he knew it, so he arranged for her room in the attic, with a narrow bed, so that she could lie there and read, because she often had trouble sleeping. The virginity that remained after the birth of the child wrapped around her like a sheet. She had been lovely as a girl, but suddenly, at one moment - for example, by the river in Clifden Wood - she disappointed him because of her cold nature. Later in Constantinople, and several times later. What was wrong, she knew herself, was not in her looks or her brains. It was something that radiated from the center, something warm that could break through the surface and make ripples in the cold contact between men and women. She could vaguely sense this thing. She hated it and had a scruple in her heart. God knew where this scruple came from, and she thought it was a gift from nature (for nature is always wise). Yet sometimes she could not help being attracted by the charm of women rather than girls, the charm of women who dare to admit their mistakes after a quarrel or after doing something stupid, which they often did. Whether it was sympathy, or their beauty, or her age, or some chance—a faint scent, or the sound of a violin next door (which was quite powerful at times), she felt the same thing as the men. Only for a moment, but it was enough. It was an unexpected discovery, like a blush that you try to control but can't, so you let it go, and then you hide away, tremble, the whole world closes in, and the amazing power and uncontrollable ecstasy continue to expand, finally breaking through a thin layer of skin and gushing out, pouring out with endless comfort on the cracks and pains. At that moment, she saw the light, like a burning match in saffron, and the inner meaning was expressed. But things that are approaching begin to move away, and hard objects begin to soften. At that moment—it's over. In such a moment (there are such moments with women), the bed, Baron Marbot, and the half-burned candle are in sharp contrast (when she puts down her hat). She lay awake, the floorboards creaked, the brightly lit house suddenly went dark, and if she looked up, she could hear the doorknob creak softly, Richard creeping up the stairs in his socks, probably scolding himself for dropping the hot water bottle. How happy she laughed then!