This book has been on my must read list since I saw Sally Potter’s exquisite adaptation back in 2004. I have to say that I was a little disappointed by the book. I generally have a love/hate relationship with Woolf’s writing. I loved Mrs. Dalloway, Three Guineas, and A Room of One’s Own, but absolutely hated To The Lighthouse, Between the Acts, and the recently published Carlyle’s House and Other Skeches. I was very much hoping that Orlando would fall into the “love” category. Alas, it did not, but I was pleased to discover that it did not therefore fall immediately into the “hate” category.
There are serious flaws in this book, at least from my point of view as a reader for pleasure. Both action and genuine introspection were rare, and though centuries passed, the pace of the novel was far slower than it should have been. Woolf could certainly turn a phrase, but I found myself bored by her prose rather than energized by it. The only sequence of the novel where I felt like Orlando was anything other than a disinterested, cardboard cut-out observer of his/her life was at the very end, when Woolf’s trademark brand of stream of consciousness took over from the biographical parody. Had I approached this book as an academic (something I don’t do often anymore) I would have found it full of interesting things. There’s an excellent exploration of the progression of English literature and criticism, no end of biographematic possibilities, all of which are overshadowed by the most fertile ground for the discussion of gender identity I’ve ever seen.
So while I didn’t hate it, I didn’t love it either. I approached the book as a casual reader and was bored by it (why else would a mere 314 pages have taken me weeks to read), but had I been more willing to work as a reader I probably would have found it remarkable. Potential readers should take that as a caveat (but everybody should go out and see Sally Potter’s wonderful film adaptation).
Next: Ian Fleming’s Thunderball.
