To the River: A Journey Beneath the Surface

Laing, O. (2012). To the river: A journey beneath the surface. Canongate.This is the story of Olivia Laing's walk from source to sea along the River Ouse, a river in which Virginia Woolf drowned in 1941. A wonderful part of this story is the interwoveness of literature, mythology and history as Laing reflectively considers historical events pertinent to sites along the river and the importance of rivers in our lives. Laing offers a fresh perspective of Virginia and Leonard Woolf.Quotesp. 3 I am haunted by waters. It may be that I'm too dry in myself, too English, or it may be simply that I'm susceptible to beauty, but I do not feel truly at ease on this earth unless there's a river nearby.p. 7 There is a mystery about rivers that draws us to them, for they rise from hidden places and travel by routes that are not always tomorrow where they might be today. Unlike a lake or sea, a river has a destination and there is something about the certainty with which it travels that makes it very smoothing, particularly for those who've lost faith with where they're headed.p. 73 Sometimes the lone walker feels that he is moving backwards in time, and sometimes that he stands at the threshold of a different world, though whether it is heaven or hell is anybody's guess.p. 111 The present, the present. It never stops, no matter how weary you get. It comes unstintingly, as a river does, and if you aren't careful, you'll be swept off your feet.p. 113 I felt as if I were shuffling memories like cards in a deck. They fell onto the bank: a king and a jack, a four of clubs. This is, I suppose, why people go abroad after a change of some troubling sort, to walk on ground untenanted by ghosts.p. 178 The river's transformations bothered me because they seemed to highlight the wrongheaded rapaciousness of my own species, carving the world up with no thought to its consequences: behaviour, ironically enough, that seems doomed to bring an apocalypse of floods and droughts upon us all.

This is the story of a journey that author, Olivia Laing, took in midsummer; walking the length of the River Ouse. The journey was prompted by the break-up of a relationship and the journey prompts her to muse on many different subjects; from nature, geology, fossil hunting, history, children’s novels and, of course, Virginia Woolf, who committed suicide by drowning in the River Ouse, in 1941.Although Woolf’s shadow lies heavily over the book, so does the history of the area. Although you do feel that the past is very much part of the landscape, there is also much that makes the journey feel immediate. Sometimes, this is due to snippets of conversation, or simply rubbish that the author comes across.It is difficult to define this book, but Laing is an excellent travelling companion and I enjoyed her company for the length of her journey. This is reflective and interesting; part memoir, part history and part nature/travel book, the subjects covered meander like the turns of the river bank that the author follows.

Super enjoyable wander through history and landscape - Laing is excellent here as always. Great book to spend time with

A beautiful book of meditation on life, loss, bereavement, death, nature through history, literature and personal memories. Written with fluidity, her own style of stream of consciousness, floating between personal and literary reflections and activities and observations. Writing rich in all 5 sensory stimulations and classic British love for botany-her being herbalist, particularly is very pronounced, I needed look up many flowers and birds and creatures. The river as the main element, the many concepts, images of water--source of life, but also burial place of many, the mysterious wonder and fear of what is underneath and the constant flow--is enriched by the author's knowledge of literature and ability to relate timelessly from mythology, Dante, Grahame, Iris and Beyle Murdoch, Virginia and Leonard Woolf and to herself and the readers."But that's how we go, is it not, between nothing and nothing, along this strip of life, where the ragworts nod in the repeating breeze? like a little strip of pavement above an abyss, Virginia Woolf once said."

Beautiful writing, but I expected more personal experiences from the author. I knew this title would include historical references, but was disappointed that it feels as though three-quarters of the book is a history of the land and surroundings. Obviously, I'm a Woolf reader, which is the main reason I wanted to read To the River and I thoroughly enjoyed all the Woolf references; some of the best are about Leonard Woolf (interesting man), but I wanted personal perceptions and experiences. I had expected more of a connection between Laing and reader; less history, more Laing and I would've been happy.I discovered Iris Murdoch and John Bayley through reading this book, which is a plus. Also, even though the prose style is appealing, I thought it was verbose and intense in sections where Laing could have given the reader some breathing room.Still, I'm keeping my copy and am looking forward to reading Lonely City.

Every aspect excellent. Thanks!

I like Olivia Laing's writing. She's deeply personal even when looking at a river. I've learned so much: the deep history along the Ouse River in Sussex; the history of Leonard Woolf (as well as Virginia Woolf but most everyone knows something of her history); as well as reviewing a romantic relationship recently ended. There's tales of life and death along the Ouse, not only Virginia, but common and not so common folk. If you've yet to read Olivia Laing, do. She's a masterful writer.

Just as some people have perfect pitch, which they can then learn to tune even more finely, and some have eyes which are attuned to see ever finer gradations of tone, colour and shade, and can then further train and refine this gift, some, I believe, resonate with a precision and refinement towards words, language itself, and are capable of conceptualising and describing the world new-minted, fresh, present.Such a one is Olivia Laing, as this marvellous book effortlessly demonstrates. When I say `effortlessly' I don't mean that its construction necessarily came trippingly and fully formed for the writer - maybe it did, I don't know - but that the reader has no sense of affect being striven for, no sense of `my, what beautiful writing in terms of showy flashness in description. It isn't that I read with a sense of `what a beautiful description of a sunset' - more, I read without effort, slowly, presently, observantly. Sentence followed sentence, and both the parts and the whole just WERE. This is authentic writing, and from first to last I just had the sense, which might often come with music which is balanced, and somehow winds the listener more deeply into itself, that `this is the moment; and this; and this'Laing has written a walking journey the length of the River Ouse, which effortlessly weaves the long history of the planet, of geological time and evolution, with recorded historical fact, with the industry of place, with social history - and with the short lives of individuals, and how they connect to place. She renders all fascination, and the powerful presence of her writing had me reading with a kind of breathlessness, heart and lungs almost afraid to move on, so much did I want to ingest and inhabit each step of the journey, each sentence of the book.Presiding over all, for Laing, and moving through the feel of the book, is Virginia Woolf, who, as we know, on a day in 1941 walked out into the Ouse with a pocket full of stones. Woolf was a woman perhaps too finely calibrated for the world, sharing with some other writers with an exquisite sensitivity to the natural world, a feeling too attuned to unsheathed nerve endings, unmyelinated. But what such writers can do is perhaps to waken and unwrap those of us who are too tightly sheathed AGAINST perception.Laing solidly walks the journey, feet well on the ground, noticing, noticing.I could have taken virtually any and every sentence from her book to illustrate the harmony, perception, reflection of her writing. I did start underlining, but quickly abandoned, as the book itself needs underlining"The path spilled on down a long lion-coloured meadow into a valley lined with ashes. There the river ran in riffles over the gravel beds that the sea trout need to breed. I crossed it at Hammerhill Bridge, running milky in the sun, and climbed east again into Hammerhill Copse.The land had lain opento the morning and now it seemed to close up like a clam. There was a woman's coat hanging over the gate to the wood, the chain padlocked about it like a belt. Who drops a coat in a wood? The label had been cut out, and the pink satin lining was stippled by mould"Reading this book, I feel invited, constantly by the writer, to both inhabit the presence of the time and place of her journey, and, in an echo of Robert Frost's poem, stay aware of the other paths and possibilities that might have been takenTwo roads diverged in a yellow wood,And sorry I could not travel bothAnd be one traveller, long I stoodAnd looked down one as far as I couldTo where it bent in the undergrowth;Then took the other,

Olivia Laing has written a stunning reflection on the Ouse, and actually on all rivers. Her prose undulates along with the changing watercourse, prodding out regional histories as she wends her way along the riverbank. Past and present mingle and merge; you share the author's surprise at being jolted from her daydreams by occasional hikers and fishermen. A lovely book that reinforces our connections with the chronology of our chosen place.This book is pure delight.

I'm not sure how interesting To The River would be for someone who didn't live along the River Ouse and have an interest in local history, but I do and have, so I count myself very fortunate that Olivia Laing has written it.It's beautifully written, with just the right mix of history, geography and personal story. She moves along the river at a decent clip, not dwelling on each and every bend - not least because large parts of it are inaccessible, sadly - but making small details of her trip, such as what she eats and where she stays, interesting somehow. The descriptions all seem completely accurate too. I'm grateful that even though she's a herbalist, she resisted the temptation to list every single plant she meets along the way (though I would have liked more about the what's IN the river).The best bits, for me, are the historical diversions. For example, bringing to life the Battle of Lewes - I now walk through the local twittens thinking about the terrified soldiers being pursued through them by De Montfort's knights. The Piltdown hoax, Kenneth Grahame, the churches, the ancient lime forest, the grissly details of Virginia Woolf's suicide, etc and so on, are never allowed to get boring. Vignettes like Leonard Woolf hearing about the start of WW1 while swimming at the Tide Mills, are just wonderful, for a local.The only off notes are a slight feeling that she finds other people - especially men and children? - irritating. And is Newhaven really that bad? Seems a bit shallow to criticise its little streets and council houses so harshly: they're full of people priced out of the villages by people like Virginia Woolf... It's the kind of snobbery that puts me off reading Virginia Woolf. But maybe I'm being over sensitive.It's a great book - shame that everyone doesn't get their environment written about as well as Olivia Laing has described mine.