Frank N. Magill on Virginia Woolf: “Masterpiece of World Literature”

British writer, poet and pioneer Virginia Woolf (25 Jan 1882–28 March 1941) couldn’t survive her cheerless melancholy life a second time and suicided upon hearing strange voices drumming her ears. Her letter reveals how much love they had in between them.

Any horse rider already know his next turn better and thus he keeps moving his legs and hands. Thus, in that sense to have a smooth, unadventurous and perfect ride. Virginia considered within one of the most fast changing lifestyle writers in her time. Her inspirations were almost of the celebrated family line including Marcel and Igor Stravinsky.

Her studies and explorations in literature were not just limited to calculating the depth of the ocean, but it was just beyond that. Furthermore, her focuses were more on society, culture, modernism and impact of post world-war 2. Woof’s most of the work (e.g: “A Room of One’s Own”) talks about women of the society and the time of the city.

Lytton Strachey with Virginia
Lytton Strachey with Woolf

Virginia, being a British writer was most famous for her excellent style of writing. The narration in her novels is fabulous, not just one time read, it always looks groundbreaking. It has been proved today that her writings made a difference in young generations. Her thoughts were never local, daily action in her scenes still proved how to incorporate a unique way of thinking and made her many protagonists unequalled in her novels.

The writing of Woolf was railing against her relentless parents of the great Victorian geological era. Likewise, her parents were not from just a local family. She was born in upper-middle class and thus her traits were palmy thriving for the idea of contemporaneousness.

The life of Virginia soon became numb when swiftly a cyclone entered into the full Stentorian brain. And left it inside her head for many months (but, anyhow she overcame). It was the death of her beloved mother. Virginia’s life went melancholy for a while, days and months.

Poem: The Wave by Virginia Woolf

I see everything.
We may sink and settle on the waves,
the sea will drum in my ears.
The white petals,
will be darkened,
with seawater.
They will float,
for a moment,
and then sink.
Rolling over the waves,
will shoulder me under,
Everything falls in,
tremendous shower,
dissolving me.

The Novel, “The Waves” Review

Her novel, “The Waves” has many stories, some says that it is not a novel or others say that it is my best companion. The Waves held exceptional space in the heart of many book readers. Not only writer from young generation but also it is a book of every reader and literate person.

Virginia and Leslie Stephen, 1902
Virginia and Leslie Stephen in 1902

The Waves” was first published in 1931, the most famed work of Virginia Woolf. It is still a comrade for even many inexperienced writers and readers. Frank N. Magill labelled this book as one of the best of 200 books of all the time in “Masterpieces of World Literature”.

One of the British authors, Amy Sackville wrote,

As a reader, as a writer, I constantly return, for the lyricism of it, the melancholy, the humanity.

The  Waves” sometimes referred to as blurring the line between poetry and prose as per many reviews. Often people don’t like to pronounce such a book “Novel”, Julian Briggs in her book, “Reading Virginia Woolf”,

Woolf call it not a novel, but a Polypoem.

Read: The last handwritten letter of Virginia Woolf wrote to her beloved husband

It was a suicide note — I don’t think two people could have been happier than you and me.

Virginia Woolf's last handwritten letter to her beloved husband (suicide note)

Dearest, ... I feel certain I am going mad again. I feel we can’t go through another of those terrible times. And I shan’t recover this time. I begin to hear voices, and I can’t concentrate. So, I am doing what seems the best thing to do. You have given me the greatest possible happiness. You have been in every way all that anyone could be. I don’t think two people could have been happier till this terrible disease came. I can’t fight any longer. I know that I am spoiling your life, that without me, you could work. And you will, I know. You see I can’t even write this properly. I can’t read. What I want to say is I owe all the happiness of my life to you. You have been entirely patient with me and incredibly good. I want to say that — everybody knows it. If anybody could have saved me it would have been you. Everything has gone from me but the certainty of your goodness. I can’t go on spoiling your life any longer.

Read another suicide poet and melancholy of another British Amy Levy and Russian, Sergei Yesenin: To Die, In This Life, Is Not New, And Living’s No Newer, Of Course.