Mrs. Dalloway

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This is the book you read when you've lost interest in everything. Note the psychotic look in Mrs. Dalloway's eyes. You're in for a real ride.

“Someone just had to write a book about how great nothing is. How ironic it is that the shallow bitch of an author offed herself. And she has no sympathy of mine, for she lost it completely after I came across the two-hundredth semicolon while reading this thing.”

~ Oscar Wilde on Mrs. Dalloway/Virginia Woolf

“And you Mr. Wilde; have all the charm and wit of fag butt;”

~ Virginia Woolf using British idioms on Oscar Wilde

Mrs. Dalloway (published on 14 May 1925) is a deliciously dull novel written by the infamous semicolon molester Virginia Woolf. It's known as one of the most hailed literary pieces by critics because their shitty attitude toward life causes them to enjoy reading about a woman who looks out of windows and describes everything in detail more than a fashion designer with OCD on Ecstasy. And of course it's the book that won Virginia Woolf her most-prized possession, the award for Most Unnecessary Abuse of the Semicolon in a Work of Literature.

The Plot[edit]

Mrs Dalloway shares a train journey with Septimus Smith. He is waiting for a tunnel to start some funny business involving flowers.

The Plot is... well, that's just it. There really is no plot. The story takes place on one day - just like James Joyce's fellow ass wiper of a book Ulysses! You may be thinking, "Oh, but two-hundred pages all taking place in one day? A lot must happen." And that's just it! Nothing happens! Not to mention, the book has no chapters, so you get to read one, 197-page chapter about how boring Mrs. Dalloway's day is. Instead, the book just takes place at different times throughout the day, drawing the reader into a very riveting moment in the novel with the first line, "Mrs. Dalloway said she would buy the flowers herself." Do you wish to read on? Most people don't unless it is a compulsory book for their course work, but those Intellectuals in the world who wish to read on, it's basically the softest of softcore porn about walking and shopping and staring out of windows. They love this thing.

The story starts off with, as mentioned, Mrs. Clarissa Dalloway about to buy some flowers. Do we care about what kind of flowers? No! Just buy the fucking things and move on! Instead of doing so, Clarissa Dalloway - our antagonist in the novel who we want to see either die or get laid so it will end - finds beauty in "the little squeak of the hinges" when she opens a French window, and she has a physical experience which appears to be distinctly orgasmatic in context. Was that the flowers or the change in weather? Then Mrs Dalloway alights upon the vegetables in her garden, their twisting forms reminding her of stolen shags in the undergrowth of some suburban mansion. Or perhaps I am imagining that bit.

...I am going to drop fag ash on your literary criticism...

Mrs Dalloway's sensual meanderings are interrupted by the arrival of her brother Peter. He sees what she is looking at and says "Musing among the vegetables?" The narrator then has a bout of ADHD and describes in passionate detail Clarissa's orgasm to all of the people outside walking around and wonders if she had married the right guy instead of being with her brother who actually makes her happy unlike her husband; This goes on for several pages, and she amazingly never manages to squirt. As you can see, the use of semicolons is rubbing off on the person typing this article;.

Once she goes outside, Clarissa has another implied orgasm while walking down Bond Street and thinks about how the street turns her on. All the while, Woolf makes up words like “primroses” and Clarissa witnesses an “explosion”. There's actually an explosion! It comes from a “motorcar” when she's in the flower shop. The only thing is, after reading this section; I learned it isn't an actual explosion at all. There is no fucking explosion! Instead Clarissa just sees someone in the “motorcar” and nobody knows who the hell it is. Is it the British Prime Minister? Is it King George V or Winston Churchill?? Who gives a shit!!! Go home!!!! All of this crap happens on her way to the flower shop and in the place; Oh, sorry. What I meant to say is, nothing happens on the way to the flower shop. She thinks about death and how she will live and shit; and thinks about some lesbian couple; one of whom she hates. Woopty fucking doo. So Mrs Dalloway goes home.

Then the book switches to some other guy named Septimus Smith, who was a soldier in World War I or Vietnam or something. He's basically traumatized and so fucked up to the point where something is so beautiful that he cries. He literally cries. But the guy is lucky and has a hot; young; Italian wife named Lucrezia or Lazarus or Rezia, whatever you want to call her. She loves his sorry ass and goes on for pages about how she loves him and shit and how “to love makes one solitary” and whatever. So basically it's a bunch of bullshit like the rest.

Then the book switches back to Clarissa and then Peter as they fantasize about romantic love (incest alert, incest alert), and then there are more memories from Clarissa, and more voracious details about flowers and people and more memories to accompany those; and then there's a party where nothing happens. As the party happens, more of nothing happens as Clarissa goes shopping and, oh no, worries that she may not make it back in time for the party. You get to read about Clarissa reading poems. She worries about things. She acts like a woman. And then the party ends. Sound like fun? It is if turning a doorknob amuses you. Oh and I forgot to mention, Septimus Smith commits suicide by jumping out of a window. So there ya go; that's Mrs. Dalloway in a nutsack. If you want to buy it; nobody wants to meet you.


A vase of blooming Euphemisms.

The most suggested use for this book, a huge step above actually reading it, is destroying it by any means necessary. Burning it is most effective if you want a simple method and something leisurely to watch and kick back to. However, there are several other methods:

  • Ripping each of the pages out, attaching them together somehow, and rolling them up on a cardboard roll for use as toilet paper
  • Tearing out each page and cursing at them individually as you crumple them up and eat them
  • Writing a semicolon over each letter in the book (This one doesn't take as long as it sounds, considering the author has kindly already done half of that for you)
  • Putting it into a pot roast or stew of some kind and mixing it up into it. The noted taste has been one of a sourness, mostly caused by the semicolons. There's also a reputed bland bitterness to it, due to its dull contents.
  • Sending it to those whom you wish to commit Suicide
  • Sending it to those you hate who have already committed suicide (Usually just putting it on their grave works)
  • Writing a letter to Virginia Woolf about what a failure the book is, telling her “no wonder you killed yourself,” and setting it on her grave. Many have done this already and there now lie thousands upon thousands of discarded copies atop her grave, which is why they moved it from England to an island of used tampons specifically made for her off the coast of Virginia which is connected to the state by a small bridge.

Note From The Publisher[edit]

If you enjoyed this Angry Student's Study Notes for Mrs.Dalloway, then you will be pleased to know that we at Trite Criticism Review will soon make available Spanking Guide to Tom Brown's School Days and Expurgated Vatican Edition of Tropic of Cancer.

See also[edit]