Orlando by Virginia Woolf
Cass recently mentioned that she’s a little intimidated of Virginia Woolf, hence the reason that she hasn’t attempted Orlando. I’m fascinated by this, because I don’t get intimidated by writers. This is not to say that I am some kind of fearless reader, laughing in the face of Dovstkhey and Namakov. No, this is because I simply don’t know any better. While growing up in a pop culture-free bubble has its disadvantages (“TV shows come on every week?” I exclaimed, at the age of fifteen), it also has its advantages; namely, I usually find out an author is considered difficult after we’ve frolicked on some literary shores together. (That is, by the way, exactly what reading The Three Musketeers feels like. Albeit with more cannons.) So, in my usual state of oblivious serenity, I picked up Virginia Woolf’s Orlando.