Virgie was a rare poetic master. Consider The Waves a maximization of those frilly words. They clothe the concept novel purely based upon six character soliloquies. The events are thus reflectively bounded by "their" intermingled perceptions. The prospect is undoubtedly intriguing, but her application proved to be a tad too much for me to endure for very long. I'm usually in favor of highly imaginative writing and casting practicality aside; but alas, my realism kicked in. Within this impressionistic discourse, it is all too obvious that everyone's perceptions are pure Virigina Woolf, regardless her constructs of mood and motivation. This makes it all too "unbelievable" to consider the thought that these men and women, beginning in their youths, are all given to *precisely* the same style of flowery, verbal introspection. Ironically, this expansive, multiplicative approach actually gives a more one-dimensional feel due to that intimate profusion ultimately originating from a single human being! (Although, perhaps a writer need have multiple personalities to implement such an intensely intimate yet scattered task?!) Am I bashing the omniscient perspective completely? No. I believe it is the intensity of this work accorded to its particular design that has revealed this perspective's best limit. Some avid fans apparently can suspend that judgment and endure it on poetic and innovative merit alone (by innovative, I mean *anything* new). I, however, could only reduce my intake to samplings of her basic style. A few moments are surely somewhat enjoyable. "Endurance" reading is what causes the book to falter. As balanced, The Waves is a series of pointed crests and weary troughs, excessively decorated on perhaps too implausible a concept.