I am spellbound by Woolf's powers of description; she lays out a feast of adjectives and metaphors, weaving a shimmering tapestry of words, here forming a continuous surface without break of tone. Exposition is forbidden to intrude on the musical flow of language and the 'six sided' inner voice carrying the narrative is only interrupted by the simple frame device of a passing day on a deserted beach
The gift Woolf displays here is for putting sensations, the delights and torments of being alive, from the humblest to the most monumental, into words; however it is not grateful recognition I feel but a sense of initiation into the mysteries. I am pushed beyond the limits of my experience; Woolf shows me how to feel as Bernard, as Jinny; I cannot impose my own, old ways of feeling on them. Both the pleasure and significance are respected.