In signing up for a class focused solely on Virginia Woolf, I had misgivings. Two weeks into the course I'm ready to puncture my frontal lobe with a shrimp fork simply to excuse myself from another ten weeks of reading this stuff. I must remind myself that novelists in the 1920s weren't shackled to an editor by well-meaning publishers as they are today. A pity, that, for what could have been a cutting-edge short story was allowed to swell into two hundred pages of stream-of-consciousness writing. In a word, ugh.