This book made me feel like I wasn’t reading English, it was all over the place. I could never tell who was talking, what was happening in the plot or what time in the story we were at. I read this to try a classic but this was obviously not the right one for me.

I don't think I ever quite read a book like this... well, until now. It is the most unusual book. You are the fly that sits on the wall, listening in on people's thoughts, spying on them, until someone brushes the wall and the hand's movement, the gust of wind, tells you fly again, to the next wall, where you stay for a brief moment listening in, until it bores you and you test your wings anew, although this time perhaps a bit longer, perhaps you continue to fly to an altogether new place, where the process is repeated, but it's not the various people's conversations you listen in on, it's their thoughts. The words they never speak and the opinions they never utter.

It reads as an endless stream of consciousnesses, which Woolf expertly navigates us through much in the same way someone guides you, with a hand on your back, through a large group of people in an all too small room, lest you get lost on your own. It's the most skilled and accurate depiction of the mere act of thinking and observing, of people and things around us as we move around from place to place, I have ever read.

It's such a... I'm not sure how to describe it, it's a unique read, but the word in itself doesn't feel appropriate, it's too common, too general. It's a definitive must-read, life pours out of this novel like the water from the carafé, or the waterfall, and when the stream of water hits the bottom it clashes with the rest of it, the streams forced together create a powerful, wonderful, beautiful chaos.