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OK - I finished this yesterday and I only gave it two stars.
On the one hand, I really loved some of the prose. I enjoyed the writing more than James' What Maisie Knew. However, I really didn't like the story much at all - if it was a story.
There were moments where I was really drawn in. Most of the scenes with Clarissa including the dinner party at the end, I found quite compelling. But where in James' novel, I appreciated what he did with the story and could see where he was going, with Woolf, I spent too many pages feeling like Woolf was just taking an opportunity to be "floaty" again for no particular reason. A postman walks past? Time for a delightful diversion.
I liked the dark counterpoint of Septimus' journey. I felt like he was the encroachment of the war into a totally frivolous society. Even the ending of the novel was so bland that I almost felt Septimus provided the ending that Woolf wanted us to pay attention to - even as he haunted Clarissa's pointless party.
But despite the flow of the prose and the meandering story, despite the poignant moments and the possibility of deeper intent, the book just didn't work well enough for me.
Of course it didn't help that (just like with James' novel), I read it during a week where I was tired and was trying to get through it in public transport. I find these kinds of books work so much better when I'm sitting with a coffee in my library and reading in silence.
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