Mrs Dalloway — Virginia Woolf
On a single June day in 1923, Clarissa Dalloway walks through London preparing for her party while Septimus Warren Smith, a shell-shocked veteran, walks the same streets toward his death. Woolf tunnels into their minds and the minds of those around them — Peter Walsh returning from India, Richard with his roses, young Elizabeth on the bus — creating a web of consciousness that connects private memory to public spectacle, the personal past to the historical present.
Mrs Dalloway proved that the inner life of a woman preparing a party could sustain the weight of a novel — that consciousness itself, with its constant shuttling between past and present, is the real drama. Its twin-protagonist structure (Clarissa and Septimus never meet) pioneered a form of narrative doubling that influenced generations of writers. Woolf's London is as precisely mapped as Joyce's Dublin, but where Joyce catalogues, Woolf luminously inhabits.
It is exquisite and superbly constructed — the most beautiful novel Mrs Woolf has written.
Mrs Dalloway was, as far as I'm concerned, the first novel to split the atom — to reveal the microscopic life that teems within a single moment.
I dig out beautiful caves behind my characters. The idea is that the caves shall connect.
