Six voices rise and fall across a single day that is also an entire life, their soliloquies braided together like currents in a tide. Virginia Woolf's 1931 novel abandons plot, abandons dialogue, abandons the furniture of fiction to pursue something more elusive: the rhythm of consciousness as it moves through time. Bernard, Susan, Rhoda, Louis, Neville, and Jinny speak from childhood through old age, circling the absent seventh figure, Percival, whose death becomes the silence around which all meaning gathers. Between their voices, italicized interludes trace the sun's arc over a seascape. This is Woolf at her most uncompromising, composing not a story but a prose poem about the self dissolving into the world it tries to name.