"Night and Day," by Virginia Woolf. Virginia Woolf was an English writer, and one of the foremost modernists of the twentieth century (1882-1941).

"The Voyage Out," by Virginia Woolf. Virginia Woolf was an English writer, and one of the foremost modernists of the twentieth century (1882-1941).

It was a Sunday evening in October, and in common with many other young ladies of her class, Katharine Hilbery was pouring out tea. Perhaps a fifth part of her mind was thus occupied, and the remaining parts leapt over the little barrier of day which interposed between Monday morning and this rather subdued moment, and played with the things one does voluntarily and normally in the daylight. But although she was silent, she was evidently mistress of a situation which was familiar enough to her, and inclined to let it take its way for the six hundredth time, perhaps, without bringing into play...

Love, marriage, happiness, and success. Night and Day contrasts the lives and romances of Katharine Hilbery and Mary Datchet.

Virginia Woolf was one of the foremost modernist English writers of the twentieth century. During the interwar period, she was a significant figure in London literary society and a central figure in the influential Bloomsbury Group of intellectuals. This book first published in 1915 was her first novel. It introduces Clarissa Dalloway, the central character of Woolf's later novel, Mrs. Dalloway.

Jacob's Room is the third novel by Virginia Woolf, first published on 26 October 1922. The novel centres, in a very ambiguous way, around the life story of the protagonist Jacob Flanders, and is presented entirely by the impressions other characters have of Jacob. Thus, although it could be said that the book is primarily a character study and has little in the way of plot or background, the narrative is constructed as a void in place of the central character, if indeed the novel can be said to have a 'protagonist' in conventional terms. Motifs of emptiness and absence haunt the novel and...

It was a Sunday evening in October, and in common with many other young ladies of her class, Katharine Hilbery was pouring out tea. Perhaps a fifth part of her mind was thus occupied, and the remaining parts leapt over the little barrier of day which interposed between Monday morning and this rather subdued moment, and played with the things one does voluntarily and normally in the daylight. But although she was silent, she was evidently mistress of a situation which was familiar enough to her, and inclined to let it take its way for the six hundredth time, perhaps, without bringing into play...

Whatever hour you woke there was a door shutting. From room to room they went, hand in hand, lifting here, opening there, making sure-a ghostly couple. "Here we left it," she said. And he added, "Oh, but here too " "It's upstairs," she murmured. "And in the garden," he whispered. "Quietly," they said, "or we shall wake them."

"So of course," wrote Betty Flanders, pressing her heels rather deeper in the sand, "there was nothing for it but to leave." Slowly welling from the point of her gold nib, pale blue ink dissolved the full stop; for there her pen stuck; her eyes fixed, and tears slowly filled them. The entire bay quivered; the lighthouse wobbled; and she had the illusion that the mast of Mr. Connor's little yacht was bending like a wax candle in the sun. She winked quickly. Accidents were awful things. She winked again. The mast was straight; the waves were regular; the lighthouse was upright; but the blot had...