A Room of One's Own is not what I expected. Woolf sidles up to her theme, employing an old-fashioned style- facetious and flowery- rather in the manner of Charles Lamb- and distinctly inferior to the style of her novels. I guess this is strategic. You're about to whop the patriarchy round the head, so you mince and mow as you advance on it, hoping to charm the brute- and you keep the cudgel hidden behind your back. If your're lucky you'll be out the room before it figures what happened. In some ways I'm disappointed. I'd expected something tighter and angrier. The Edwardian floridity pisses me off. The humour is laboured.