The Death of the Moth and Other Essays

Virginia Woolf is one of those writers who manage to be interesting regardless of how interesting her chosen topic is in itself. We find this out in this volume of 26 essays, which was published posthumously, however a good proportion of these had appeared separately in various literary outlets before.
The main reason that her writing is so engaging, irrespective of the topic, is that she seems to have interesting, poetic, or thought provoking reflections on almost every subject she writes on– whether it be a walk around London in the lamplight of Autumn; a trip out in the car in the countryside, a moth expiring on her windowsill, a random old woman in her house, historical figures famous and obscure, or the phenomenon of middlebrow. show more
I wish I could write like Virginia Woolf, and I don't think that about most writers that I admire. In some cases I wish I was as imaginative, or as inspired, however what stands out about Virginia Woolf's essays here is just how readable they are. She shows that as well as dealing with what are serious or academic topics, essays can be playful, they can be imaginative, and they can show the character of the writer, their inner train of thought, whether it is rambling or structured – and remain an art form in itself. show less

I love Virginia Woolf, but I found that I became bored about halfway through this particular collection. I still appreciate her style, intelligence, and insight, but didn't truly enjoy reading these essays enough to give them a higher rating. Perhaps I'll revisit a few of them in the future to see if my opinion changes at all.

A highly acclaimed collection of twenty-eight essays, sketches, and short stories presenting nearly every facet of the author's work. Up to the author's highest standard in a literary form that was most congenial to her (Times Literary Supplement (London)). Exquisitely written (New Yorker); The riches of this book are overwhelming (Christian Science Monitor).
Editorial Note by Leonard Woolf.

A year after reading this, nothing of it remains in my head. No doubt that's my problem rather than VWs

novel since 1939, reed reviewed