first met Virginia Woolf’s ‘Orlando’ as a young (and yes, admittedly pretentious) literature student looking for chance encounters with the most mummified of modern classic paperbacks. There’s so much to revel in and appreciate about the novel: as unorthodox biography; as feminist classic; as dreamlike satire; as one of the great love letters in English literature. But what struck me the most as an impressionable, aspiring writer, was how Woolf’s subject was as
