Virginia Woolf – Ripple Effects

Virginia Woolf’s The Years sparks some surprising associations… Downton Abbey?

“She wanted to see the owl before it got too dark. She was becoming more and more interested in birds. It was a sign of old age, she supposed.” –––– Virginia Woolf, The Years* (186)

Finally, I finish my other 1937 Club read hosted by Kaggsy and Simon that took place in April, two months late, and that’s Virginia Woolf’s The Years, published in 1937. It sure feels like years for me to finish this book. Better late than never, for I have full intention to see what Woolf had to say in her last novel published during her lifetime (Between the Acts was published shortly after her death in 1941), specifically, what was in her mind just a few years before she took her own life.

The book follows the children of Colonel Abel Pargiter’s family as they go through the years crossing the 19th century into the 20th. It’s a family saga through chapters titled for a specific year, beginning with 1880, 1891, then into the new century 1907, 1908 and to the First World War, and finally the “Present Day” which is the 1930’s. Within each chapter the narratives are episodic, characters appear without introductions; readers would have to piece together who’s who and how they relate to each other.

A few unexpected mental associations came to me during my reading. The quote above at the beginning of this post is one of those surprises. A loud Whoa! when I read it: Interest in birds as a sign of ageing. It’s a thought in the mind of Eleanor, the eldest of the Partiger children, when she is fifty-five. She goes on to live past seventy when the book ends, and I’m sure has seen many more owls.

Another surprise for me in my reading experience of The Years is how it’s like watching an arthouse film, or any good movie for that matter. My first impression of that beginning chapter 1880 is that it reads like a script where the expressions and actions of the characters are highly nuanced and the subtext in their conversations speak volumes. Nothing much is happening but the seemingly uneventful narrative carries unsettling undercurrents.

Here’s an example. The Colonel, with his wife Rose on her death bed, is a troubled and temperamental man whom his seven children fear more than respect or love. He comes back home unexpectedly during supper time in the opening chapter and the way he drinks his tea while trying to strike up conversations in a surly manner with his children reflects his changing mood. A ready movie scene here. I’ve taken out the dialogues, but just the description of his tea-drinking actions reveal a lot about his character:

He stirred his sugar round and round in the cup as if to demolish it… ground the grains of sugar against the walls of his cup. [After some tense conversations with his children] Then he seemed to repent of his gruffness… He drank up his tea. Some drops fell on his little pointed beard. He took out his large silk handkerchief and wipe it impatiently… [Later] the Colonel took up his cup, saw there was nothing in it, and put it down firmly with a little chink. The ceremony of tea-drinking was over. (13-14)

Another surprise is that reading The Years makes me think of Downton Abbey, how a family goes through changes both in the larger socio milieu and in their personal lives through the years. The time-lapse is about the same as the six seasons of Downton, from horses to cars, from candles to electric lights, WWI and the changes it brings. The following line in Woolf’s novel makes me think of the Dowager Violet Crawley:

Then he looked at a car. It was odd how soon one got used to cars without horses, he thought. They used to look ridiculous. (215)

BTW, Edith Crawley, who breaks the mould and ventures out to live in London on her own and heads up a magazine she inherits from Michael Gregson and a London flat, has mentioned that she had met Virginia Woolf there, one of Michael’s Bloomsbury acquaintances. One can imagine the author just might have certain influence on her.

The Years is about lives lived, actions or non-actions, the regrets and the resignation of what had happened, the unchangeability of the past. Check out these lines, the introspection of Eleanor’s, just reminds me of Mary Crawley, who had uttered similar words thinking of her own past errors in judgment:

But once it’s done, there it is… How irrecoverable things are, she thought. We make our experiments, then they make theirs. (185)

Above all else, The Years is about the past and memories, and the meaning of it all. Proust’s Remembrance of Things Past comes to mind, no surprise. Both authors value the writing down of lives lived. But Woolf goes into a more depressed mode of seeing even the futility of it. As the chapters, ie, the years, move on, Woolf is more explicit about her view on life––I suppose that’s her perspective––through Eleanor’s point-of-view. Considering Woolf taking her own life just four years after this book was published, I paid attention to the reflections and internal search for existential meaning, or the failing of which, and find these passages particularly poignant. Short sentences like this: “Scenes passed over scenes; one obliterated another,” to reflection like the following, again, quite a cinematic moment:

Things can’t go on for ever, she thought. Things pass, things change, she thought, looking up at the ceiling. And where are we going? Where? Where?… The moths were dashing round the ceiling; the book slipped on to the floor. .. made an effort; turned round, and blew out the candle. Darkness reigned. (195)

to what seems like ultimate despair, take note that Woolf wrote this in the 1930’s:

But how can one be ‘happy’? she asked herself, in a world bursting with misery. On every placard at every street corner was Death; or worse––tyranny; brutality; torture; the fall of civilization; the end of freedom. (358)

I gave the book 3.5 out of 5 stars in my Goodreads review, an evaluation that’s based on my first reading, having had to figure out who’s who –– considering the Pargiters have seven children and some of them have their own children. And then there are extended family members, cousin, niece and nephew, and servants. I’m sure upon second reading, I’d be able to get a clearer picture of all the characters and would enjoy it more, for it really deserves more than one reading.

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* The edition that I used (photo above) is Vintage Classics, Penguin Random House UK, London. 401 pages. Introduction by Susan Hill. With this inscription before the Introduction:
“The text of this edition of The Years is based on that of the original Hogarth Press Edition, published by Leonard and Virginia Woolf on 15th March 1937.”

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Related Post on Ripple Effects:

In Praise of Austen: Virginia Woolf’s A Room of One’s Own

In Search of Lost Time by Marcel Proust: A Movie Reviewer’s Long Take

My other 1937 Club Posts:

Out of Africa by Karen Blixen from Book to Movie

Somerset Maugham’s Theatre and Screen Adaptation

Jane Austen 200: Room or No Room, She Did It

Today is the Bicentenary of Jane Austen’s death. On July 18, 1817, suffering excruciating pain, Jane died of her illness at age 41. As a tribute, I’m reposting my article on Virginia Woolf’s A Room of One’s Own.

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A Room of One’s Own is based on a series of lecture Woolf delivered at the two women’s colleges in Cambridge University on the topic of “Women and Fiction”. It was published in 1929.

Woolf lamented the disparities women in a patriarchal society had to face throughout history. The stream of consciousness flowed into torrents of incisive social observations and satirical commentaries.

She noted that women had long been deprived of equitable opportunities in education and employment. Men were rich, women were poor; men got to roam the country and travel the world, women had to be satisfied with the domestic. Men were great writers, poets, playwrights, women had to concede to find fulfillment in “making puddings and knitting stockings”. Men had rooms to work, to rest, to create…women, the average, middle class women, seldom had a room of their own.

…to have a room of her own, let alone a quiet room or a sound-proof room, was out of the question, unless her parents were exceptionally rich or very noble, even up to the beginning of the nineteenth century.

And sadly, Woolf had to utter this statement:

Yet genius of a sort must have existed among women as it must have existed among the working classes.

Isn’t it true, Jane spent her most prolific years writing in a very public room in Chawton House. In the midst of family activities, at a small and spartan desk, she revised Pride and Prejudice and Sense and Sensibility, wrote Mansfield Park, Emma, and Persuasion, and began Sanditon:

And isn’t it true that only in movies do we see the idyllic desk against a clear window, with soft light diffusing in, gently illuminating a lady dressed in elegant regency gown, writing on expansive papers and stationary, contemplating in solitude:

Room or no room, recognized or not, something happened towards the end of the eighteenth century that, according to Virginia Woolf, deserved much more mention in history than the Crusades or the Wars of the Roses: The middle-class woman began to write.

Woolf pointed out that not only did Jane Austen lack a room of her own, having had to write her novels in the very public sitting-room, she had to hide her manuscripts or cover them with a piece of blotting-paper, as observed by her nephew James Edward Austen Leigh in his Memoir of Jane Austen.

Ironically, there lay the genius of Austen, and the few woman writers around her time such as Bronte and George Eliot. Woolf wrote:

…and we must accept the fact that all those good novels, Villette, Emma, Wuthering Heights, Middlemarch, were written by women without more experience of life than could enter the house of a respectable clergyman; written too in the common sitting-room of that respectable house and by women so poor that they could not afford to buy more than a few quires of paper at a time upon which to write.

Little did they know, it was in such a room that they were trained in the prerequisites of novel writing:

…all the literary training that a woman had in the early nineteenth century was training in the observation of character, in the analysis of emotion. Her sensibility had been educated for centuries by the influences of the common sitting-room. People’s feelings were impressed on her; personal relations were always before her eyes. Therefore, when the middle-class woman took to writing, she naturally wrote novels…

Not only that, they wrote good novels. With reference to Jane Austen, Virginia Woolf concluded:

Here was a woman about the year 1800 writing without hate, without bitterness, without fear, without protest, without preaching. That was how Shakespeare wrote.

High praise indeed.

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Previous Post on Jane Austen 200:

Jane Austen’s Persuasion: A Bath Walking Tour

Books and the Gender Issue

My review of Girl With A Pearl Earring has recently been linked to a book list. While I appreciate the link, I must admit it has stirred up in me some unintended ripples. It’s the title of the list: ‘101 Books Every Woman Should Read’.

Now I’m always wary about books that are labeled and geared towards one gender. Like recently I came across a book entitled 100 Places in Italy Every Woman Should Go… makes you wonder what exactly they’re luring you into. Imagine a book called 100 Places Every Man Should Go…

Anyway, back to the list of books every woman should read. The range is eclectic with the titles neatly categorized.

Just let me list a sample from each of the categories:

The Classics: Frankenstein by Mary Shelly, The Fountainhead by Ayn Rand, Howards End by E. M. Forster, To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee, Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen, Wuthering Heights by Emily Bronte, Middlemarch by George Eliot, Mrs. Dalloway by Virginia Woolf…

Children’s Literature: Pippi Longstockings by Astrid Lindgren, The Wizard of Oz by L. Frank Baum, Charlotte’s Web by E. B. White, Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland by Lewis Carroll…

Books into Movies: The English Patient by Michael Ondaatje, Beloved by Toni Morrison, Memoirs of a Geisha by Arthur Golden, Out of Africa by Isak Dinesen…

Books Featuring Familial Relationships: The Joy Luck Club by Amy Tan, The Poisonwood Bible by Barbara Kingslover, The God of Small Things by Arundhati Roy, Away by Jane Urquhart…

Books Celebrating the Strength of Women: Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte, The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath, The Scarlet Letter by Nathaniel Hawthorn, Babette’s Feast by Isak Dinesen…

Current Literature: Unaccustomed Earth by Jhumpa Lahiri, The Elegance of the Hedgehog by Muriel Barbery, Water for Elephants by Sara Gruen…

Books about Finding Oneself: Bee Season by Myla Goldberg, The Heart is a Lonely Hunter by Carson McCullers…

Stories of Real Women: I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings by Maya Angelou, Amelia: A Life of the Aviation Legend by Donald M. Goldstein and Katherine V. Dillon, Diary of a Young Girl by Anne Frank, The Story of My Life by Helen Keller, Portrait of an Artist: A Biography of Georgia O’Keeffe by Laurie Lisle…

Banned or Challenged Books: Leaves of Grass by Walt Whitman, Fahrenheit 451 by Ray Bradbury, Of Mice and Men by John Steinback, The Kite Runner by Khaled Hosseini.

Non-Fiction: Pilgrim at Tinker Creek by Annie Dillard, Silent Spring by Rachel Carson, Gorillas in the Mist by Dian Fossey, On Death and Dying by Elisabeth Kubler-Ross, A Room of One’s Own by Virginia Woolf…

You get my point. Sounds like any typical high school and college reading list, but why specify women?

Yes, they’re mostly written by women authors, and many with strong female protagonists. They depict the journey of self-discovery, of overcoming odds, of seeking meaningful relationships and ideals in a hostile world. In the non-fiction section there are influential books that have achieved significance in the area of writing, psychology, environmentalism, social justice.

But my query is: If these books depict the inner journey of women, or portray the poignant reality of their struggles, if they have shed any light on the human race in terms of equality, justice, or existential meaning, are these not all the more reasons for men, or anyone, to read them?

Of course, for the sake of argument, one could point out that the statement “books every woman should read” doesn’t preclude that men should not. But that’s just being contentious.

Books for women, books for men, why can’t books be just books? Maybe it has to do with the writing of books, or, step back further, society’s view on male and female authors.

Posting on the Guardian blog, writer and editor Harriet Evans vehemently declares that:

“I’m fed up with seeing some of our best novelists written off as ‘chick lit’ — you don’t see the same belittling line taken with male writers…

It winds me up that books about young women are seen as frivolous and silly, while books about young men’s lives that cover the same topics, are reviewed and debated, seen as valid and interesting contributions to the current social and media scene.

And regarding the reading public, it has been noted that women read more than men, both in the U.S. and the U.K. With that in mind, Evans goes on to state that:

The truth is, women happily read books (and watch films and TV) aimed primarily at men…. They read thrillers, travel books, biographies – and yet the majority of these books are marketed for men… But men rarely try women’s fiction, because they’ve been conditioned to think they can’t pick up a book with a pink cover.”

Indeed, worthy literature written by women authors are sometimes reduced to ‘romance’ or ‘chick lit’. Jane Austen is a prime example. Her incisive social satires, eloquent writing and sense of humor have often been swept aside while the romantic union of the protagonists at the end is given the main focus. In this way, her work is conveniently labeled as ‘chick lit’, dreaded by male readers, until some brave souls dare to take up the challenge and are floored by her relevance and intelligence.

Virginia Woolf sharply observes in her Cambridge lecture series compiled in A Room Of One’s Own that historically, social norm has always been one that coops up women in the domestic while offering men the world.

Taking her view further, I can understand why the dichotomy, however arbitrary, in male and female writing, their difference in subject matters, subsequently, books for men and books for women.

I have a feeling that if the protagonist of The Catcher In The Rye is called Helen Caulfield, the book could well be dismissed as another trivial version of teen angst, schoolgirl blues, fussing over boys and growing up. And likely we won’t see it on any reading list.

Art Imitates Life, Life Imitates Art, or…

Neither. After reading Tomalin and Shields on the life of Jane Austen, I am inclined to draw that conclusion. The often sanguine outlook of Austen’s works is deceptive. The seemingly jovial ending may lead some to assume they are reading the simplistic stories of a woman wrapped in romantic bliss all her life.

Reality is, that Austen could persevere, write and published is already an incredible achievement considering the confining social environment she was in. Instead of embracing the normative female role in comfort, she chose to trod the road less traveled to become a writer despite the gloomy prospect of poor spinsterhood, enduring rejection even from her own mother. She wrote in secret and struggled in isolation. For a long period she battled depression. Upon her death, her beloved sister Cassandra could not attend her funeral because the presence of females at such events was not sanctioned, apparently for fear of any outbursts of emotion.

It is Austen’s imagination that empowers her to break free of her reality and to rise above her constraints. She has created her art from the palette of the imaginary, as Tomalin has lucidly observed:

Hampshire is missing from the novels, and none of the Austens’ neighbours, exotic, wicked or merely amusing, makes recognizable appearance. The world of her imagination was separate and distinct from the world she inhabited.

Austen’s contemporary, the renowned Gothic writer Ann Radcliffe, has attested that it is the imagination and not real-life experience which gives rise to story-telling. A scene in the movie Becoming Jane (2007) has vividly illustrated this point.

In the famous little book, The Educated Imagination, a must-read for any literature student, the late great Canadian literary critic Northrop Frye states that :

The world of literature is a world where there is no reality except that of the human imagination.

Austen has great proficiency in the language of imagination. In her novels, she has created a world that never was, but one that makes her readers yearn for. There is no Mr. Darcy in real life, or Elizabeth Bennet for that matter, but we could well use them as the ideal types to measure by, or, to strive for.

What about the satirist in Austen? How can the social critic be extracted from reality? How can one write social commentaries devoid of real life input? Austen may have toiled in isolation for fear of social repercussion, she did not write in a vacuum. While her art did not imitate her life, Austen had the chance to sharpen her observation from the very public sitting-room of her home and those of her relatives and friends, an opportunity that was conducive to her novel writing, as Virginia Woolf has pointed out. Ever since her childhood, the Austen home was the hub of family readings and discussions. Her brothers grew up to be men well versed in the fields of the military, clergy, and business.

In her ingenious way, by satirizing the things that ought not to be, Austen is bringing out the world that ought to be. In Frye’s words:

The fundamental job of the imagination in ordinary life, then, is to produce, out of the society we have to live in, a vision of the society we want to live in.

If art imitates life, it would be just a reproduction; if life imitates art, well… ours would be one very wacky world. But life could well be the reason for creating art, channeling our imagination to build a sublime vision of the ideal.

Visual: Starry Night by Vincent van Gogh

Update: This article has just been published in the Jane Austen Centre Online Magazine. Click here to go there for other interesting reads on Jane Austen and the Regency World.

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In Praise of Austen: Virginia Woolf’s A Room of One’s Own