To the lighthouse.

Or more precisely, to the National Portrait Gallery with my daughter for the Virginia Woolf exhibition. She’s reading To The Lighthouse for A Level. I did too and loathed what I can remember of it. Still, I thought, maybe I was too immature to appreciate the true genius of Virginia Woolf. This might be a good time to re-appraise. I’ve re-appraised and now loathe her even more. Her slim volumes are still overblown with pompous self-regard. And once you’ve decoded the tiresome, pretentious style, you’re usually left with banal, rather obvious pronouncements. Fast forward eighty years and I wonder what music she and the other dreary pseudo-intellectuals of the “Bloomsbury Set” would be earnestly discussing. Wait a minute, I think I’ve got it….