National Review, March 23rd, 1998
AS with Henry James, I never felt comfortable with Virginia Woolf. Her fiction, that is; her nonfiction I have always found of considerable interest. Now comes the film version of Mrs. Dalloway, and though the movie is perforce different from the wholly stream-of-consciousness novel, it presents separate but equal problems. For starters, I have always mistrusted writings about men and women in love, sex, and marriage by authors lacking those experiences. (There are, to be sure, exceptions: Jane Austen and Tennessee Williams leap to mind.) But here we have Virginia Woolf in her long and totall...
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