Speaking of great works of world literature - and also of great inept as me, who wait until age 25 to read - I would like today to talk a little bit of this "everything" that is unstoppable the novel "The Waves" by Virginia Woolf.
The argument passes the lives of seven friends, whose stock was not relate as any fiction novel by facts but by way of their conciensas, where the author peels the spirit of its characters with a language and endless wandering while from time to time we advance the melancholy image of a beach from sunrise until the dark. This group of friends is made up of 3 women and 4 men, Jinny, Rhoda, Susan, Louis, Neville, Bernard and Percival, all spend the last months of school before being separated by the passage of time encouraging everyone to take a different path.
youth wear, and its inevitable end constant threat of death is one of the issues that hit you deep. The reflection of this changing reality and the characters are overwhelming for monologues exquisite and breathtaking. Especially those in keeper Bernard perhaps a much longer time than his co-rapporteurs, working as a reference when a stage has ended.
And the time - said Bernard -. Drops his gout. The drop is formed on the roof of the soul and falls. Time has brought down. Last week, while I shaved, I felt the drop fell on me. Standing with the knife in hand, I suddenly realized the mechanical nature of my gestures (the drop is forming) and congratulated ironically my hands, to preserve this routine. "Shaving, shave, shaving," I said, "continue to shave ..." The drop fell. Throughout the day, while working, my mind escaped and rolled intervals an empty place in search of something lost, something dead. "I'm dead and gone, I said playing with words to comfort me. People were aware of my air away and the emptiness of my conversation. Never finishing my sentences. And as I buttoned the overcoat to go home, even more dramatically told me: "I lost my youth" "
A high point in the novel is the death of Percival, distant and almost unreal produce el rompimiento y la caída hacía un abismo. Esta perdida desordena el mundo de todos los demás personajes descargando sobre sus espaldas la arrolladora interrogante sobre sentido de sus existencias. La sombra de esta muerte se presenta de forma indeleble en todo el resto del libro, quizás esto se deba a que la autora había sufrido un ruptura igual cuando su hermano Thoby murió de tifoidea en 1906.
Con su muerte, Percival me ha revelado esto, me ha hecho caer en la cuenta de este horror, me ha sometido a esta humillación, rostros y rostros servidos como platos de sopa por marmitones, rostros vulgares, codiciosos, indiferentes, rostros que miran escaparates con paquetes colgantes, gentes que miran fijamente, pushing, destroying everything, besmirching our love, touched now by their dirty fingers
The language of Virginia Woolf walks by the limits of the human spirit, strong and unmistakable, leaves the reader shocked face an impeccable aesthetic, that can only be spoiled by a bad translation, (this I recommend the translation of Andrew Bosch). "Waves" is transformed into the novel that draws the passing of life and the future of our existence as long as ephemeral. Not for nothing that this great writer said Life is a dream, waking up is what kills us .
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