One of the current titles is Orlando by Virginia Woolf that was published in 1928. I love the writing style, I can hear her talking much like what happens when I read Wendell Berry. The sentences are long and, in my mind, they read quickly with a hushed voice that ends slightly breathless. Very interesting. The only problem is that I can’t escape the mental picture of her wading into a cold river. Woolf ended her life by filling her coat pockets with stone and walking into a river near her home during a wintery March.
“Each has his past shut in him like the leaves
of a book known to him by his heart, and his
friends can only read the title.”