Escrit el 1927. La 1a part, “La finestra”, descriu un dia d’estiu a la casa dels personatges principals, el matrimoni Ramsay i alguns amics, com la pintora Lily (que està fent un retrat de la Sra. Ramsay). Planegen una excursió al far però no hi van pel mal temps. La 2a part, “El pas del temps”, és la més curta. La sra. Ramsay ha mort, així com també un fill, a la Guerra Mundial. La 3a part és “Al far”. Han passat 10 anys, s’ha arreglat la casa i finalment el pare i dos fills van al far i Lily acaba de pintar el quadre.
Per qui no hagi llegit mai res de Virgínia Woolf, és una novel·la amb poc moviment, lenta, on veiem el fluir dels sentiments com un quadre impressionista on, punt a punt, tenim una idea de la globalitat. Retrats i sentiments de personatges. Reflexions sobre la bellesa, l’art, l’amor i la mort. L’art és immortal.
Confesso que vaig llegir aquest llibre en castellà fa molts anys; em va costar acabar-lo i no em va agradar. Després vaig descobrir altres llibres, vaig anar entrant en l’univers de Virgínia, vaig tornar a llegir Al Far (aquest cop, traduït per Andrés Bosch) i em va agradar. Ara l’he llegit en anglès, intentant fruir de l’escriptura tal com el va escriure l’autora. I a fe que ho he fet. Virgínia Woolf és una de les millors escriptores de la història i una dona excepcional.
Aquí teniu alguns fragments que he subratllat:
“The hoary Lighthouse, distant, austere, in the midst; and on the right, as far as the eye could see, fading and falling on them, which always seemed to be running away into some moon country, unhinhabited of men. (…) With stars in her eyes and veils in her hair, with cyclamen and wild violets -what nonsese was he thinking? Charles Tansley felt an extraordinary pride; felt the wind and the cyclamen ant the violets for he was walking with a beautiful woman for the first time in his life.
She never told him that she loved him, she never could say what she felt. As she looked at him she began to smile, for though she had not said a word, he knew, of course he knew, that she loved him. And smiling she looked out of the window and said, thinking to herself; nothing on earth can equal this happiness. She looked at him smiling. For she had triumphed again.
He began to search among the infinites series of impressions which time had laid down, leaf upon leaf, fold upon fold softly, incessantly, among scents, sounds, voices, hollow, sweet and ligths passing…
For one moment she felt that if they both got up, here, now on the lawn, and demanded an explanation, why was it so short, why was it so inexplicable, said it with violence, as two fully equipped human beings from whom nothing should be hid might speak, then, beauty would roll itself up; the space would fill; those empty flourishes would form into shape; if they shouted loud enough Mrs Ramsay would return. “Mrs Ramsay!” she said aloud, “Mrs. Ramsay!” the tears ran down her face.
Jame looked at the Lighthose. He could see the white-washed rocks; the tower, stark and straight; he could see that it was barred with black and white; he could see windows in it; he could even see washing spread on the rocks to dry. So thay was the Ligthouse, was it?
“He must have reached it!” (…) She looked at the steps; they were empty; she looked at her canvas; it was blurred. With a sudden intensity, as if she saw it clear for a second, she drew a line there, in the centre. It was done, it was finished. Yes, she thought, laying down her brush in extreme fatigue, I have had my vision.”
To the Lighthouse. Virgina Woolf. Wordsworth classics, 1994, 151 pàg.