To the Lighthouse by Virginia Woolf
This is an infinitely sorrowful book. All through The Window one feels a great weight. Not the burden of sadness or despair. This is the agony of life. Where nothing hurts nor leaves a mark but rather ebbs along internally without mention until an occasional manifestation of reality explodes at the seams. Only to be reduced once again to the relentless tide of existence.
Melancholy but whimsically so.