Jacob's Room

This is the third novel of Woolf's that I've read. Although I enjoyed the other two ([b:Orlando|18839|Orlando|Virginia Woolf|https://d.gr-assets.com/books/1404345499s/18839.jpg|6057225] and [b:Mrs. Dalloway|14942|Mrs. Dalloway|Virginia Woolf|https://d.gr-assets.com/books/1319710256s/14942.jpg|841320]), Jacob's Room is easily my favorite. Here, Woolf allows herself a freedom of perspective that's unmatched in the other books. Jacob as not so much a protagonist as a still point on the center of the map, a focus that lightly anchors the narrative's panoramic progression. The fluidity with which Woolf trades registers from the formal to the histrionic to the elegiac, the assured way she marshals a panoply of voices, it's simply astonishing. show more

The result is, in a word, poetic. Although some parts of the novel hold more interest than others, the best passages are instantly engaging, with a canny use of repetition and rhythm that's almost musical. I wish I had had the time to read it in one sitting, because I expect that my shoddy memory is obscuring some of the interplay across the span of the book.

This is not just for Woolf completists. It's a fully mature work, and worth a look for any enthusiast of the modern novel. show less

Existem dois autores que sabiam lidar com o tempo literário de forma absolutamente brilhante no início do século XX: Marcel Proust e Virginia Woolf, embora de formas diametralmente opostas. Jacob's Room é fragmentado como a vida o é, seu protagonista é construído através de impressões que flutuam no espaço-tempo dos mais diversos pontos de vista e o capítulo final reflete o vazio do quarto abandonado quando se termina um livro.

I initially thought this was a bit cold, devoid of emotion, keeping me at a distance－and as an experiment in narrative form, of course it holds the reader at a distance, but I was wrong about it being cold. This is a small marvel, and it’s not even considered one of her better books. It is like an anti-Bildungsroman, impressionistic, with brief sketches of a character－one Jacob Flanders－whose name is his destiny. So much here is like life: how one can never know a person, only estimate or guess at another’s character; how in the midst of trying to form impressions of one’s own, of taking in life and enjoying the view of Scilly Isles, one realises that one’s copy of Shakespeare has fallen into the ocean. Or as Fanny Elmer show more notes, “One’s godmother ought to have told one”. Told one what? “Told one that it is no use making a fuss; this is life, they should have said”.

There is something here about grief and memory and the war, the countless number of men who died and who live on in the collective memory as numbers. How the act of remembering sometimes feels like a betrayal, because it begins to reveal to you something about the nature of death similar to what Woolf wrote in her diary as she was writing this novel: in death, like “a new form for a new novel”, the bare structure of the person becomes ever more hazy and indistinct, "no scaffolding; scarcely a brick to be seen”, and all you have left are memory as scraps, snatched from here and there, like something they said to you one day as you did the dishes after dinner. The whole person, their form, eludes you.

But it’s also a sly parody of the Bildungsroman and the conventions of realist fiction. Everyone is made fun of in small ways; Jacob and the society that produces countless Jacobs are not let off without subtle commentary. The distance the narrative technique employs is ironic; Woolf’s tone is one of mocking regard of patriarchal institutions and of Jacob himself, who thinks women, like dogs, shouldn’t be allowed into church services in Cambridge. In a way, Woolf skewers the men of her class. A satire that’s an elegy at the same time, about a society that valorises its Jacobs and is prepared to sacrifice them for abstract ideals that benefit a few.

Woolf’s prose is always like air being let into a stuffy room: you sit up straighter and begin to pay more attention to everything around you. If anything, maybe the style here is more fragmented, and less symphonic like in To the Lighthouse. Still, it tells you something about her ability with language that this is considered one of her minor works; most writers would be happy to call it a day if they could produce one novel like this one. The essayistic asides/fragments are, to me, worth the price of admission: “Don’t palter with the second rate. Detest your own age. Build a better one.” show less

Existem dois autores que sabiam lidar com o tempo literário de forma absolutamente brilhante no início do século XX: Marcel Proust e Virginia Woolf, embora de formas diametralmente opostas. Jacob's Room é fragmentado como a vida o é, seu protagonista é construído através de impressões que flutuam no espaço-tempo dos mais diversos pontos de vista e o capítulo final reflete o vazio do quarto abandonado quando se termina um livro.

I read this one in college, but that was over 20 years ago so I didn't retain much beyond a generally positive feeling. Reading it now in the context of my very serious Virginia Woolf bookclub (reading everything she published in chronological order) really highlights how Woolf expands into herself with this novel. It has some of the Britishness and relationship stuff of Night and Day, the experimentation of Kew Gardens, the travelogue nature of the Voyage Out, and the playfulness with authorial perspective that weaves in and out of Monday or Tuesday. Jacob is an unknowable cipher, even though we stick with him till the end. But, in trying to know him, we end up knowing a lot about everything else. Which is kind of the way life works. show more Which is why I love Virginia Woolf. show less

I suspect that I chose the wrong Virginia Woolf book for my first read. Jacob’s Room was beautifully written, full of descriptive passages, original in both outlook and style but for most of the book I had not clue as to what was happening. The author after giving us glimpses and hints, leaves it up to her reader to put the pieces together. The words “stream of consciousness” come to mind and I admit I was put off by the disjointedness and lack of plot.

Jacob’s Room appears to be the life story of a young man and it unfolds in a series of scenes from his childhood, his time at Cambridge, his love affairs, his travels and on to his apparent death in World War I. The author’s intention in showing fragments of his life and leaving show more the whole picture elusive and incomplete is perhaps her way of making Jacob a symbol for an entire generation.

This was a poetic, layered, confusing and intriguing read. For much of the book I felt the author was immersed in her own nostalgia and sadness, but I was never totally drawn in and didn’t feel any sense of connection to the story. I fully intend to read more of Virginia Woolf’s writing and perhaps I can learn to appreciate an author who makes her readers work to understand the whys and wherefores of her writing. show less

The book is so extraordinary, I like it more every time I read it. The novel is so filled with voices, especially women's voices, often unheard by anyone, like the letter from Jacob's mother that waits outside his door.

Who are we when others define us? What is the shape of our life? Add the waste of a generation slaughtered in the war.

Sigh. So satisfying.