Whether a skill issue or not, I felt myself constantly fighting to keep apace while reading; Woolf seeming always a step or two ahead of my ability to metabolize her words. Yet, running alongside, there was the feeling that trust in her conception and command of language would be met with more than equal reward. And so it was, To The Lighthouse belongs firmly in the upper heavens, a pure, unimpeachable work of literature. We can only be thankful that it lovingly condescends itself, like the lighthouse, to, in moments of prosaic ecstasy and rhythmic calm, shine its ray of light into the gnawed and worn crevasses of our too-narrow minds.