Orlando by Virginia Woolf

I totally didn’t get this one, although it was strangely readable. I lost track of who was transgendered and who was immortal and who was both, and wished that those aspects were a subject of the novel and not a device. Like many stories involving longer-than-human lengths of time, a great deal of it is spent on the beginning and then we zoom through the next few hundred years and come to a quick conclusion.

This is #63 on the 100 Best Novels list I am trying to knock out, and I suppose that if I found it as interesting as I did while not understanding most of it, then it must be good. If I understood it, it’d probably blow my literary mind.



Spanning three and a half centuries of boisterous, exuberant adventure in England, in Constantinople, with aristocrats and gypsies – first as a man and then as a woman – Orlando’s story is a wild farce, a humourous history, a gay romance filled with the delightful experiences of one of the most fascinating and fantastic characters ever to rule the realm of fiction.