This masterpiece right here is, to me, the most striking demonstration of the power that novelistic expression (or even literary expression in general, since Virginia Woolf rejected the very label of novel) can achieve.

The Waves doesn't bother to depict a social milieu, to denounce society, to make a political comment or whatever. It describes the very experience of human life. What makes us human? What kind of desire drives us? Who are we, where are we going?

To read The Waves is to plunge into a dazzling and revealing artistic vortex. I hate it when this expression is overused, but in this case it's really justified: this book isn't a book, it's an experience. And the most unique experience I've ever had.