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I first met
Mrs. Dalloway in a class called Great Novels of the Twentieth Century. The year was 1990. I was 19. And though she had been going to get the flowers herself for 65 years, Clarissa shimmered on the page. My paperback copy had a bright yellow cover and when I think of it my mind fills with dappled sunlight and joy in spite of the novel’s streak of darkness and unease death in the middle of a party. Back home in Idaho after college I read all the Woolf I could find in the Boise Public Library, ecstatic over