This second read really solidified this book as possibly the greatest novel ever written in my mind. Very few novels seem to capture the very essence of existence, the ephemerality of our lives, and our attempts to make something important out of it all. To the Lighthouse captures the paradoxical core of what it means to simply be a human being—the fact that love and connection are necessary to provide tangible meaning to our lives and yet are perhaps the hardest thing to accomplish, let alone maintain. If the main purpose of our lives involves living metaphysically through and making a lasting impact on others, how do we do this when the distances between us all are so vast, and the interior worlds of others forever unknown?

A lot of people describe this novel as bleak and depressing, and while that's true, there's also definite glimpses of beauty and hope throughout it as well. I think the fact that the novel acknowledges the beauty present in the world while also acknowledging how the universe is chaotic and indifferent prevents it from feeling too lopsided. There are instances in Ms. and Mr. Ramsay's lives where they even understand each other's interior worlds, despite all odds. Things like Mr. Ramsay's feelings upon reaching the lighthouse being purposefully left ambiguous also give the reader angles to view the story thematically, which really benefits the work in my opinion. It doesn't feel like a declaration of defeat in the face of our fragile lives and the marching presence of time, but more like an open ended exploration on how to find meaning in spite of it, and I believe that this is something that Woolf struggled with herself, resulting in this vision.

The way memory is described in this novel and how the past bleeds into the story is so beautiful and poetically described. That entire chapter where Lily is painting after revisiting the Ramsay house and is reflecting on Ms. Ramsay's life is one of my favourite chapters in the novel because of this. And that's not even getting into the form of this thing, my god. The past and present in this novel intermingle like streams of a river intertwining, and it's so easy to get lost in it. Interiority vs. exteriority is handled so well not only through the content of the story itself but also through the prose and form; the way Woolf will describe an incredibly profound and complex thought that one of the characters is having only to briefly describe some mundane thing happening in the external world, like lights flickering dimly outside a window or a character glancing at a potted plant, is just incredible. The prose itself is very surreal and psychedelic at points, as Woolf really knows how to craft unique similes and metaphors.

I feel like anything else I say about To the Lighthouse wouldn't really do it justice. It profoundly impacted me. We're all struggling against the tide in some way or form and are grasping for a distant light of our own. We may drown in the waters, alone, although we'll try our best to drown together, but there's always that vague hope that we'll one day reach that distant light, and be able to stand tall, just to finally say, "I have reached it, I have found it."