From The Waves, by Virginia Woolf, 1931.
Dear Darling,
Today I want to tell you about The Waves- it's just so good! It's genius; and I feel two weights in my chest: why did no one tell me?? And, how can I tell you? You may not love it as I do; but much more than that possible truth, is this feeling of facing another mile of uphill hike, from the trail sign of having come 56 miles already. What I mean by this, is, I have been enthusing on stuff since I was a toddler. I feel, like my excitement and interest in a thing is just your ennui at this point. Or, just another thing you'd have to put on your to-do list. That seems so sad, doesn't it? I know, I sound like I am blaming you, but that's not it. I guess being excited about a mouldering old book seems a bit daft right now. Can anyone summon up go-juice for anything, anything at all right now? It's such a relentlessly heavy and grief-filled time. I suppose I am just apologizing for my frivolous thoughts and I do not need you to absolve me, nor do I expect you to Let me say just that it is really something, this book, and I don't want you to come to the place I have arrived, where you are thinking, why did no one suggest this book to me?
PS
There is another book (there is always, thankfully, another book: just lying there, waiting to blow your mind, or set you to feeling, or scramble you utterly, or even to let you know you are not alone), Orbital, by Samantha Harvey (no relation). I adored The Shapeless Unease, as well. Like The Waves, this book has six people who are overlapplingly, additionally, one: they make an unsubstantial territory. May it share some of your area soon. It is a wonderful book. Both these books will take you there.
