In Regards to Prose.

The authors we have been reading have such a diverse array of prose styles that it felt like quite the dynamic contrast placing them side by side. From the  the flowing, unwinding flow of Woolf to the concise chop of Hemingway, then to the plain yet bitter words of Kafka, I have found myself oftentimes in awe of how these authors use their different talents to attain a common goal - to write a good story. I really do miss Woolf and her beautiful way of descriptions. Her words have often struck me as a kind of abstract art, each sentence layering on top of another like watercolor washes. She paints a vivid and incredibly scenic picture. Transitioning from her to Hemingway was a challenge for I could not bring myself to entirely let go of her style. And Hemingway's prose is much like the antithesis of hers.

The Sun Also Rises was a short and dense novel. It had sentences that averaged about seven to ten words. Judging by prose alone, Hemingway is familiar territory for me. Modern authors have imitated him, and reading his novel was soothing. No longer would I have to seek out the meaning behind every sentence like I had for Woolf because everything was stated as clearly and concisely on the surface. His words didn't quite fly like the way words combined and weaved through Mrs. Dalloway, but they did resonate. And Hemingway's prose is very dramatic. He says everything like it's a royal decree. His words make you pause and wonder. For example, his description of bullfights is a great example. He does't go into meticulous details, but he gives us even better ones - "the crowd didn't want it to end," or "Pedro Romero had the greatness."

Lastly, there's Kafka. His prose is undeniably unremarkable. It's good, but not extraordinary. There's a curious edge to his tone as if he too is wondering about how the story will end. He writes as if he's recording data - for example, Gregor Samsa woke up one morning and found himself transformed into a giant insect. There's something similar between the way Kafka and Hemingway writes. They both seem to strive for objectivity in their voice and they focus on facts rather than on the inner mind, which Woolf loves. There is also a shared bitterness between the two. One chose an injured war veteran to be his hero and the other a traveling salesman that is turned into a cockroach. Both seem to be writing in reaction to the society around them - for Hemingway it's WWI and for Kafka, it's the world.

Virginia; Woolf

There are many things one can enjoy in Mrs. Dalloway: the writing ("to watch a leaf quivering in the rush of air was an exquisite joy"), the characters (oh Septimus!),  and even the endless semicolons (this; is; a; great; example). But my personal love for this book springs from the beauty it creates. Take, for instance, the quote: "As a cloud crosses the sun, silence falls on London; and falls on the mind. Effort ceases. Time flaps on the mast. There we stop; there we stand (48)." From beginning to end, this sentence brews in one's mind like a relentless painter, its every word washes over like millions of brush strokes. When one reads Woolf, one reads the words; any of them is beautiful enough to be a novel; every turn of phrase worthy of a poem.

And yet, the author somehow manages to assemble a book out of all these perfect expressions - unimaginable! Now these words become parts of a greater picture, a masterpiece no doubt, and the sentences swirl together effortlessly into an splendid painting. It's incredible, enviable, and notably Woolf-esque. I don't know about you, but I'm planning to read ahead! (Sssh.)