Holy cow! Orlando is supposed to be the most accessible work of Virginia Woolf. I guess I can’t read her. I suppose it was the fabled stream of consciousness writing that fried my brains. It’s not like I didn’t understand anything in the book. But getting through it was a torture. And I am fully aware that I am saying this of a celebrated writer and a celebrated book.
To read or not to read: I don’t know. I can’t judge or review this book. Listen to someone more qualified.