All of Virginia Woolf's novels, ranked.

"April is upon us, pitiless and young and harsh," as Edna St. Vincent Millay so justly expressed it, and I can think of no better time to dive into the work of my beloved Virginia Woolf.  Woolf is probably my top favorite author at this point, so I wanted her to have at least one dedicated post on this blog.  And, since I've officially read all of her novels now, a ranking post naturally seemed the way to go.

Here, then, are my thoughts — in a few nutshells — on Woolf's long-form fiction, from the worst of it to the best. 😍

(General content warning for all of these books:  As you might expect from literature of this time period, there are, unfortunately, throwaway racial slurs or instances of casual racism peppered throughout most of them.)

#10. 

Night and Day (1919)

“When you consider things like the stars, our affairs don't seem to matter very much, do they?”

Babe, no.  If Olivia Rishell is telling you that you're taking parlor politics too far, then you're really taking parlor politics too far.  Olivia has an above-average degree of tolerance for parlor politics.  If you've passed her threshold, you've messed up.

This is ridiculous, often bordering on insufferable.

#9.

Flush (1933)

Between them lay the widest gulf that can separate one being from another. She spoke. He was dumb. She was woman; he was dog. Thus closely united, thus immensely divided, they gazed at each other. Then with one bound Flush sprang on to the sofa and laid himself where he was to lie for ever after—on the rug at Miss Barrett’s feet.

(The fact that this book — about which I have truly the most neutral, non-feeling feelings imaginable — is ranked higher than Night and Day really speaks volumes about how silly Night and Day is.)

I'd love to make an intelligent comment on this book but I'm coming up empty.  Truly just a random piece with neither anything very good nor anything very bad to be said about it.  (It's also a semi-biographical account of Elizabeth Barrett Browning's life, so some online sources don't count it among Woolf's novels, per se, but I'm going to because I do what I want.  Gosh.)

#8. 

Mrs. Dalloway (1925)

She felt very young; at the same time unspeakably aged.  She sliced like a knife through everything; at the same time was outside, looking on.  She had a perpetual sense, as she watched the taxi cabs, of being out, far out to the sea and alone; she always had the feeling that it was very, very dangerous to live even one day.

Meh.  It has its moments, but it's not the best.  I wish this wasn't one of the curriculum staples when teaching Woolf, because she produced far better, far more interesting work.

#7.

The Years (1937)

Millions of things came back to her.  Atoms danced apart and massed themselves.  But how did they compose what people called a life?

This one is tricky, but I think it has some subtle merit.  I'll direct you to my Goodreads review, linked to the title, for a summary of my thoughts.

#6.

To the Lighthouse (1927)

What is the meaning of life?  That was all — a simple question; one that tended to close in on one with years.  The great revelation had never come.  The great revelation perhaps never did come.  Instead, there were little daily miracles, illuminations, matches struck unexpectedly in the dark; here was one.

My very first foray into Woolf, and I credit the English teacher at my homeschool co-op who taught this book to our class with piquing my interest in trying more of the author's work.  That teacher did an excellent job of illuminating some of the subtle narrative detail in this story for us.  I don't think I would have had the success I've had with Woolf if my first exposure to her style hadn't come under the guidance of a talented instructor.

I'm more than overdue for a reread of Lighthouse, but from what I remember, I think I'll still like it just as much, if not more, when I try it again.

#5.

Jacob's Room (1922)

In any case life is but a procession of shadows, and God knows why it is that we embrace them so eagerly, and see them depart with such anguish, being shadows.

To be honest, I'd have to reread both To the Lighthouse and Jacob's Room before I could accurately confirm that I prefer JB, but I seem to recall liking the latter slightly more upon finishing it than I liked the former upon finishing it.  

Woolf's trademark vagueness when it comes to actual plot points can be frustrating if you don't embrace it, but I think once you do embrace it, it becomes a valuable tool to help you dig into what she's actually here to discuss — the almost inarticulable flow of individual human thought, the transience of a single visual impression, etc.  Jacob's Room is no exception:  gauzy and insubstantial in certain particulars and startling clear and specific in others.

#4.

Between the Acts (1941)

“But we have other lives, I think, I hope,” she murmured. “We live in others … We live in things.”

Is every single one of the dilemmas faced by the characters in this book almost laughably first-world?  Yes.  But there's no one I'd rather read dissect rich people problems than Ginny.  (And Edith Wharton.)

#3.

The Voyage Out (1915)

“I want to write a novel about Silence,” he said; “the things people don’t say.”

This was Woolf's first published novel, and her distinctive stream-of-consciousness modernist style hadn't quite solidified yet, so the story reads in a more traditional narrative pattern.  However, the emphasis on interiority and "noticing" that defines so much of the author's work is certainly present here.  I think the latter portion of the book waxes a touch sentimental here and there, but overall, it's still an excellent debut achievement with plenty of meaty characterization and existential theorizing to explore.

#2.

Orlando (1928)

For she had a great variety of selves to call upon, far more than we have been able to find room for, since a biography is considered complete if it merely accounts for six or seven selves, whereas a person may well have as many thousand.

Magical realism before it was cool, one might say.  Woolf plays with the concepts of gender roles, gender fluidity, and generational identity in this sleek, cheeky, and genuinely funny fable about an apparently immortal English noble.  I could eat it up with a spoon.

#1.  

The Waves (1931)

I am clouded and bruised with the print of minds and faces and things so subtle that they have smell, colour, texture, substance, but no name.

This is one of the single best novels I've ever read and one of my top three personal favorites.  A truly laudable exercise in interiority, The Waves is remarkably insightful and written in prose of such dripping beauty that it floors me every time.

If you've never tried Woolf before, I hope this post has piqued your interest in her writing!  I'm biased, of course, but I really do think it's worthwhile — depending, of course, on what you look for in your literature. 😉

Who is your favorite classic author?