This week in The Dabbler I conduct a long-overdue inquiry into the death of Virginia Woolf. If everything goes according to plan, this should be the first in a series of inquiries into the deaths of the great modernists, a necessary step, surely, into any proper understanding of postmodernism. I have convinced myself that, once I fully grasp every last little detail of the deaths of the modernists, I will be in a much better position to winkle some meaning out of the endless clogged blather of standard po-mo prose. Some would say it is not worth the effort, and they are probably correct, so perhaps I ought to put the whole project into a dustbin or wastepaper basket. What a quandary!