Virginia Woolf's writing is utterly beautiful, transcendent in nature but mellow in tone.
What struck me most about The Waves is how throughout its length (and especially towards the end) it seems to be pondering the supposed meaningless of life; yet I find that Woolf's intricate prose and subtle descriptive talents (whether it be on a human or an inanimate object), serve as a strong argument against Woolf's nihilism.

To our proto narrator Bernhard; the repetitions, strangeness and small goings-on that occur daily in our lives cause him to develop a strong sense of disgust and despair at the passage of time. Perhaps it's because I'm not as old or as intelligent as Woolf, but I find all the things that Bernhard laments to instead be praiseworthy.

The Waves made me realise two things: One; that prose writing is its own high-art, and with enough talent it can reside in the same sphere as Michelangelo's paintings, or Rachmaninoff's symphonies.
And two; that perhaps I'm more of an optimist than I thought.