‘Books are the mirrors of the soul…’
Playwright Edward Albee once posed the question Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf? Well, I am not afraid of Woolf herself, but I am terrified that I might have to read another one of her dreary books…
Between the Acts follows the preparation for and acting out of an annual village pageant that takes place just before the onset of the Second World War. There are no chapters. The narrative jumps from character to character, never focusing on one person long enough to draw any real meaning about anything.
My English Literature degree is now in its third and final year and while I have enjoyed most of it, this was probably the most difficult text I have endured so far. I just didn’t understand what I was supposed to get from this novel? Is it a comedy? The tone is light enough but I certainly didn’t laugh. Is it a tragedy? Not really. Despite the fact that Woolf killed herself before this, her final novel, was published. Between the Acts just feels like a whole load of nothing. The kind of the book that the word ‘nonplussed’ was invented for. I didn’t feel anything at all during the reading of this novel other than a weary impatience. This kind of book makes me question whether anyone has ever actually enjoyed it, or whether they just feel they have to pretend as if they have for the purposes of academia. Is it high art? I just don’t see how it can be considered such when it meanders across hundreds of pages without saying anything of note.
Eventually, I’m going to have to write an assignment on this tosh and unfortunately I can’t just state what I really think which is to say that I wish this book didn’t exist. The world would be a better place without Between the Acts stinking it up. Utter nonsense.