I’m a day late to the party, hosted by Frances of Nonsuch Book, because yesterday I was, erm, indisposed. I was quite upset to miss the scheduled day for Woolf in Winter’s discussion of Orlando, but constant nausea puts a damper on an kind of coherent blogging!
That being said, I still want to talk about Orlando, so I was happy to wake up feeling much better. Orlando was my first Woolf ever: I read it when I was 15 or 16, and it began my affection for Woolf, that has only increased over the years. The idea of revisiting it, now that I’m better acquainted with Woolf’s other work and her life (if you haven’t read Hermione Lee’s biographer of her, you’re missing out), intrigued me. And it certainly didn’t disappoint!
The main scene I remembered about Orlando from my first reading: the Elizabethan court skating on the Thames, and Orlando falling for a Russian princess. I have no idea why that stuck in my head, except for the obvious reason (Woolf is an incredible author), but it was just as delicious the second time around. I love Woolf’s version of Elizabeth’s era, and it’s so fun to come along with her for the ride. I also love how she looks at the shifting social mores over the centuries.
Honestly, though, what really struck me on my rereading is Woolf’s playfulness. I’ve always said that I began reading Woolf when I was too young to realise that she was supposed to be difficult, and that’s why I’ve been able to love her writing from the beginning. And that’s certainly part of it, but now I think a lot has to do with me randomly deciding to start with Orlando. The writing is so much lighter than any other Woolf I’ve read! Sure, she’s still dealing with her ‘themes’ like gender and sexuality, how perceptions shape reality, society v. the individual, etc. But the touch is lighter. Usually, when I read Woolf, I can see the time she took over every word. I can imagine her labouring to get each sentence absolutely perfect. But Orlando feels more dashed off, which isn’t to imply it’s shoddy quality at all. Her characterisation, her observations of society, are still spot on. Her almost disturbingly perfect portrayal of Orlando’s thoughts, the way a human mind works, is still there. The continual, effortless flow of narrative is definitely all Woolf. And in addition to all this, it’s more immediately accessible than any other Woolf I’ve read.
There is a fun magical realist touch to this, what with Orlando’s gender change, and his/her centuries-long life, all accepted without question. Since magical realism is one of my favourite writing styles ever, that’s just an extra bonus to me. 
It’s funny…even though I loved this book when I first read, and love it now, I’m finding that I don’t really have much to say about it. Woolf does that to me! 
(For the last Woolf in Winter, we’ll be discussing my fave Woolf ever, The Waves, and I hope I have more to say about that one!) All I really want to say is that, for those who are new to Woolf, and who are perhaps a bit nervous about her, I’d highly recommend picking up Orlando. I bet you’ll be amazed by how hilarious and fun Woolf’s writing is. In the meantime, here’s a little taste, that I’m sure all you book lovers will appreciate:
To put it in a nutshell, leaving the novelist to smooth out the crumpled silk and all its implications, he was a nobleman afflicted with a love of literature. Many people of his time, still more of his rank, escaped the infection and were thus free to run or ride or make love at their own sweet will. But some were early infected by a germ said to be bred of the pollen of the asphodel and to be blown out of Greece and Italy, which was of so deadly a nature that it would shake the hand as it was raised to strike, and cloud the eye as it sought its prey, and make the tongue stammer as it declared its love. It was the fatal nature of this disease to substitute a phantom for reality, so that Orlando, to whom fortune had given every gift–plate, linen, houses, men-servants, carpets, beds in profusion–had only to open a book for the whole vast accumulation to turn to mist. The nine acres of stone which were his house vanished; one hundred and fifty indoor servants disappeared; his eighty riding horses became invisible; it would take too long to count the carpets, sofas, trappings, china, plate, cruets, chafing dishes and other movables often of beaten gold, which evaporated like so much sea mist under the miasma. So it was, and Orlando would sit by himself, reading, a naked man.
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