Woolf use of words is just full and rich,english as english should be.

My favorite story in this collection is "The Lady in the Lookinglass." This story contains a powerful image: the yearning to completely comprehend another person. Such longing, as the narrator distinguishes, is not desire for "dinners and visits and polite conversations," nor "things she talked about at dinner," but something deeper, "her profounder state of being that one wanted to catch and turn to words."

On one hand, Isabella represents a synecdoche. If the narrator understands her deeply enough, he could "know everything there was to be known about Isabella," but also life, and perhaps all persons as well.

On the other hand, perhaps Isabella objectifies the inability of one person to scale walls of privacy and anonymity another erects to protect herself from intimacy.

Our sympathy straddles that wall, perhaps lying first with Isabella who veils herself, then with the narrator who longs to know her. We aren't shown why Isabella has become the trembling convolvulus. But no one's face should reflect "masklike indifference." The phrase is not congruous -- the need to mask is anything but indifferent. And can't we concede tragedy to anyone who, after 50-60 years, remains a person for whom another can claim, "The comparison showed how very little, after all these years, one knew about her; for it is impossible that any woman of flesh and blood of fifty-five or sixty should be really a wreath or a tendril"? This is a heartbreaking image.

Woolf is not typically known as a writer of short stories -- "sketches" as she called them. However, the short fiction that she wrote provides a wonderful introduction to her narrative style. The early "Mark on the Wall," "Kew Gardens," and "An Unwritten Novel" give to the reader a sense of how Woolf's technique works within a smaller package than the usual assigned Woolf reading. Her feminist (apologies to VW since she considered the word dead once women were able to earn a living) leanings come through in "A Society" and "Moments of Being: 'Slater's Pins have no Points'." Woolf's early sketches are where she formed her interior monologue style, within which one thing leads to another as the work progresses. These short fiction works should be required reading for anyone delving into Woolf. Possibly those who read these sketches before they dive into the novels would understand a bit better of what Woolf's fiction is made. Excellent.

WHittingham has his finger on the pulse of the Windy City. From his two excellent police novels "My Kind of Town" and "State Street" to his sports books, he knows Chicago. This is a must for Whitesox fans as well as his Chicago Bears history.

This book is a great one for catching up on the Sox' history throughout the eras. From the Black Sox to the Go-Go Sox to the Big Hurt. It contains almost everything a fan would need to know and would want to know. It did not include all the great players career stats but does with a few. Overall, a thick book but a great and easy read.

When I lived in New Orleans I met the women that wrote this cookbook, and let me tell you - this is true "Nawlins" cooking. It has the best and easiest recipes for gumbo, jambalaya, crawfish etouffe and more. Yummy food, with great little stories and comments accompanying each recipe. You can't go wrong buying this - but don't expect any leftovers!!!)

"Between the Acts" was the last novel Virginia Woolf wrote, and it appropriately feels like a swansong; a sorrowful farewell to a country on the eve of a war that very well might have spelled its devastation. While it uses the modernist experimentation that characterized "To the Lighthouse," it is very easy to follow, but still invites several rereadings to explore its depths more fully.

The novel takes place on a single day in June of 1939 at an English country manor called Pointz Hall, owned by the Olivers, a family with such sentimental ties to its ancestry that a watch that stopped a bullet on an ancient battlefield is deemed worthy of preservation and exhibition. Every year about this time, the Olivers allow their gardens to be used by the local villagers to put on a pageant for raising money for the church. This year, the pageant is supposed to be a series of tableaux celebrating England's history from Chaucerian times up to the present.

The Olivers themselves are tableaux of sorts, each a silent representation of some emotion separated from the others by a wall of miscommunication. Old Bartholomew Oliver and his sister, Lucy Swithin, both widowed, are now living together again with much the same hesitant relationship they had as children. Oliver's son Giles is a stockbroker who commutes to London and considers the pageant a nuisance he has no choice but to suffer. Isa, his discontented wife, feels she has to hide her poetry from him and contemplates an extramarital affair with a village farmer.

Attending the pageant is a garrulous woman named Mrs. Manresa, who is either having or pursuing an affair with Giles. She has brought with her a companion named William Dodge, whose effeminate sexual ambiguity is noticed with reprehension by Giles and with curiosity by Isa. The somewhat romantic interest Isa shows in Dodge implies that she knows Giles would be annoyed less by her infidelity than by his being cuckolded for a fop like Dodge.

The other principal character is not an Oliver at all, and this is Miss La Trobe, the harried writer and director of the pageant. At first, she appears to serve the mere purpose of comic diversion, as she frustrates herself over details that nobody in the audience notices anyway; however, when the pageant is over, a new aspect of her character is revealed, one that has made her an outcast among the village women. Nevertheless, she graciously accepts the role of a struggling, misunderstood woman artist, and in this sense, she echoes the character of Lily Briscoe in "To the Lighthouse," as does Isa with her repressed poetry.

At the end of the pageant, to celebrate the "present," Miss La Trobe has planned something special and startling: She has the players flash mirrors onto the audience as if to say, "Look what England has become. Shameful, isn't it?" Likewise, with this novel Woolf holds up a mirror to humanity, reflecting our unhappiness in her characters. It's not a cheerful notion, but it's a fitting one to sum up the career of a writer like Woolf, one of our greatest chroniclers of sadness.

I just finished the most amazing book I've read this year (After Sputnik Sweetheart though) and its called "Between The Acts" by Virginia Woolf. This was the last work of a gifted genius and the first that I read of this author. Amazing! Simply Superlative to the core!

The story goes like this:

Written in 1939 - the year Woolf Died..."Between the Acts" is a masterpiece in its own genre. Lyrical and highly poetic, this is one of its own.

The story goes like this:

On a single day of June, 1939--with the war imminent but virtually unperceived--the action takes place at Pointz Hill, an English country house. It revolves about a pageant played upon the lawns by the local villagers. Despite her necessity, the solitary, thick-legged, masculine Miss La Trobe,who knew how "vanity made all human beings malleable," is not one of the principal characters. The chief actors are the members of the Oliver household. The head of the house is old Bartholomew Oliver, who like so many retired English soldiers has only his India to cling to. He marvels at his widowed sister's orthodoxy. ("Deity," as he supposed, "was more of a force or a radiance, controlling the thrush and the worm, the tulip and the hound;
and himself too, an old man with swollen veins.") This aging sister, Mrs.Swithin, who would have become a clever woman is she could ever have fixed her gaze, is the most sympathetic figure in the book. Living with the older Olivers are Isa, the poetry-quoting daughter-in-law, temporarily attracted to a gentleman farmer, and Giles, the stock broker son, handsome, hirsute,
virile and surly.

To this special group are added buoyant, big-hearted Mrs. Manresa, "a wild child of nature" for all that her hands are bespattered with emeralds and rubies, dug up by her thin husband himself in his ragamuffin days in Africa. Uninvited she drops in at luncheon, bringing along with the picnic champagne a maladjusted, putty-colored young man named William Dodge, whom Giles contemptuously sizes up as "a toady, a lickspittle, not a downright plain man of his senses, but a teaser and a twitcher, a fingerer of sensations;picking and choosing; dillying and dallying; not a man to have a straightforward love for a woman."

William tries dallying with Isa, and Giles, partly to annoy his wife, pays court to the full-blown charms of sparkling Mrs. Manresa, who confesses she loves to take off her stays and roll in the grass.

the cream of "Between the Acts" lies between the lines--in the haunting overtones. And the best of the show--the part one
really cares about--happens between the acts and immediately before the pageant begins and just after it is over. So the play is not really the thing at all. It is merely the focal point, the hub of the wheel, the peg on which to hang the bright ribbons and dark cords of the author's supersensitive perceptions and illuminated knowledge. It is in her imagery,
in her "powers of absorption and distillation" that her special genius lies. She culls exotic flowers in the half-light of her private mysticism along with common earthgrown varieties and distills them into new essences. Her most interesting characters move in an ambiente of intuition. With half a glance they regard their fellow-mortals and know their hidden failures. They care less for the tangible, the wrought stone, than for fleeting thought or quick desire.

"Between the Acts" has no more ending, no more conclusion than English history. The pageant is played out, the guests depart, night falls.

The physical embodiment of Virginia Woolf is no more, but her inimitable voice remains to speak to generations yet unborn. The first line of her last book begins, "It was a Summer's night and they were talking"--The last paragraph ends: "Then the curtain rose. They spoke."

A Must Read for Everyone!!

This under-appreciated work is slowly gaining the recognition it deserves from Woolf critics... but I would say that, since I wrote my dissertation on it! Woolf's fiction is never light reading, but Woolf lovers will here find a masterful synthesis of descriptive power, her exhaustive knowledge of English history and literature, her feminism, her passionate hatred of war and her conviction that only aesthetic experience can enable humanity to question the status quo and *perhaps* create a better world... interested readers might consider reading it alongside The Years, Three Guineas, Moments of Being, the last volumes of the diary, or such Woolf essays as "Thoughts on Peace During an Air Raid," as well as Shakespeare's Tempest. This slim novel speaks volumes; it is a work of mature genius by one of the 20th century's greatest writers.