Woolf's first distinctly modernist novel follows an aloof yet beloved young man from his childhood through his student days to his too-early death during World War I.Annotated and with an introduction by Vara Neverow

VIRGINIA WOOLF (1882–1941) was one of the major literary figures of the twentieth century. An admired literary critic, she authored many essays, letters, journals, and short stories in addition to her groundbreaking novels.

MARK HUSSEY, general editor of Harcourt's annotated Woolf series, is a professor of English and women's and gender studies, and editor of the Woolf Studies Annual, at Pace University. He lives in Upper Nyack, New York.

List of Illustrations	p. vii
Preface: Virginia Woolf	p. xi
Chronology	p. xxi
Introduction	p. xxxvii
Jacob’s Room	p. 1
Notes toJacob’s Room1	p. 89
Suggestions for Further Reading:	p. 315
Virginia Woolf Suggestions for Further Reading:	p. 319
Jacob’s Room Illustration Credits	p. 325
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ONE "SO OF COURSE," wrote Betty Flanders, pressing her heels rather deeper in the sand, "there was nothing for it but to leave." Slowly welling from the point of her gold nib, pale blue ink dissolved the full stop; for there her pen stuck; her eyes fixed, and tears slowly filled them. The entire bay quivered; the lighthouse wobbled; and she had the illusion that the mast of Mr. Connors little yacht was bending like a wax candle in the sun. She winked quickly. Accidents were awful things. She winked again. The mast was straight; the waves were regular; the lighthouse was upright; but the blot had spread. ". . . nothing for it but to leave," she read. "Well, if Jacob doesnt want to play" (the shadow of Archer, her eldest son, fell across the notepaper and looked blue on the sand, and she felt chillyit was the third of September already), "if Jacob doesnt want to play"what a horrid blot! It must be getting late. "Where is that tiresome little boy?" she said. "I dont see him. Run and find him. Tell him to come at once." ". . . but mercifully," she scribbled, ignoring the full stop, "everything seems satisfactorily arranged, packed though we are like herrings in a barrel, and forced to stand the perambulator which the landlady quite naturally wont allow. . . ." Such were Betty Flanderss letters to Captain Barfootmany-paged, tear-stained. Scarborough is seven hundred miles from Cornwall: Captain Barfoot is in Scarborough: Seabrook is dead. Tears made all the dahlias in her garden undulate in red waves and flashed the glass house in her eyes, and spangled the kitchen with bright knives, and made Mrs. Jarvis, the rectors wife, think at church, while the hymn-tune played and Mrs. Flanders bent low over her little boys heads, that marriage is a fortress and widows stray solitary in the open fields, picking up stones, gleaning a few golden straws, lonely, unprotected, poor creatures. Mrs. Flanders had been a widow for these two years. "JACOB! JACOB!" Archer shouted. "SCARBOROUGH," MRS. FLANDERS wrote on the envelope, and dashed a bold line beneath; it was her native town; the hub of the universe. But a stamp? She ferreted in her bag; then held it up mouth downwards; then fumbled in her lap, all so vigorously that Charles Steele in the Panama hat suspended his paint-brush. Like the antennae of some irritable insect it positively trembled. Here was that woman movingactually going to get upconfound her! He struck the canvas a hasty violet-black dab. For the landscape needed it. It was too palegreys flowing into lavenders, and one star or a white gull suspended just sotoo pale as usual. The critics would say it was too pale, for he was an unknown man exhibiting obscurely, a favourite with his landladies children, wearing a cross on his watch chain, and much gratified if his landladies liked his pictureswhich they often did. "JACOB! JACOB!" Archer shouted. EXASPERATED BY the noise, yet loving children, Steele picked nervously at the dar

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