My Apology

"We live our lives, do whatever we do, and then we sleep--it's as simple and ordinary as that. A few jump out of windows or drown themselves or take pills; more die by accident; and most of us, the vast majority, are slowly devoured by some disease or, if we're very fortunate, by time itself. There's just this for consolation: an hour here or there when our lives seem, against all odds and expectations, to burst open and give us everything we've ever imagined, though everyone but children (and perhaps even they) knows these hours will inevitably be followed by others, far darker and more difficult. Still, we cherish the city, the morning; we hope, more than anything, for more" (225).

This is my favorite passage from Michael Cunningham’s The Hours. In these few sentences, Cunningham encompasses what seems, in my opinion, to be the primary message of the novel: three women, Virginia, Clarissa, and Laura, trying desperately to hold on to the consolatory “hour here or there when our lives burst open and give us everything we ever imagined.” Laura Brown’s sneaking off to read in a hotel room epitomizes this clingy desperation.

I am a bit disappointed in myself for not recognizing Laura’s desperation. During her narrative, I was often frustrated with her shiftiness. It seemed to me that one minute she is unhappy and contemplating suicide, and the next minute she regrets her ungratefulness and appreciates her life. I viewed her as a tempermental complainer. I was not alert enough, as a reader, to recognize the game Cunningham plays with notions of happiness versus gratefulness. Happiness exists on its own. On the other hand, gratefulness can exist with other emotions, especially unhappiness. For example, person can be grateful for $5, yet still be unhappy that they only have $5. Laura Brown is grateful. She appreciates her husband and child, but she is not happy.

After reading the above passage, I feel like a person who has just had a conversation with someone they don’t entirely “get,” so they dismiss them. Perhaps later they realize that they should not have so eagerly thrown this person aside. So, this is my apology to Mrs. Brown: I thought you were all right, I thought your sorrows were ordinary ones. I had no idea.

Ms. Personality

While reading A Passage to India, the most shocking jaw dropping moment for me happened during Aziz’s trial. It wasn’t Miss Quested’s climatic testimony, but when a citizen in the crowd called her ugly (219)! The scene was hurtful, and it was shocking that someone publically declared such a thought. Miss Quested’s “aesthetically challengedness” hangs around in the background of the novel. Her appearance is mentioned by characters, mainly Aziz and Fielding. Aziz finds himself wondering “how God could have been so unkind to any female form” (68). Miss Quested also acknowledges her lack of beauty expressing that “she regretted that neither she nor Ronny had physical charm” (53). These comments, among others make me question why Miss Quested’s appearance is so important.

I think Miss Quested’s looks are a device used to clear Aziz in the minds of readers. The text refers to Aziz as a sexual snob who was “enraged that he had been accused by a woman who had no personal beauty” (241). It seems as if the narrator is implying that Miss Quested is not “rapeable,” at least by Aziz, because she is physically unattractive. Perhaps, I think, it would harder to believe Aziz’s innocence if the woman were physically attractive. It would be easier to assume a physically attractive woman could inspire such sexual desire. Forester is clearly in tune with human nature and uses his knowledge to construct a wonderful storyline. Still, it is unsettling that a heavy subject such as rape, becomes contingent upon female sexuality. Although she may be “so uglier than the gentlemen [Aziz],” Miss Quested doesn’t deserve such treatment (219).

Sadder Than Septimus

I would describe Leonard Woolf's "Pearls and Swine" as making me sadder than Septimus. And he made me sad. For some reason, attitudes such as those of the stock-jobber are extremely disheartening to me. Although I have encountered such opinions before, each time I become more and more unsettled.

Orientalism offers explanations for the unsettling opinions of the stock-jobber. The Western identity, as Orientalism describes, is shaped by the subaltern or otherness of the orient. Otherness permits the stock-jobber to make the statement, "I'm a white man, you're black, I’ll treat you well, give you courts and justice, but I'm the superior race" (31). He uses the presumed inferiority of the orient to define his superiority. This statement is ironic considering that race has been proven to be a societal construct and not biology. Though, during this time the stock-jobbers views were held as a general belief. Still, the irony is too perfect. The stock-jobber has placed himself in an authoritative position based on an arbitrary construction. Leonard was ahead of his time and probably didn't know it!

Woolf excellently highlights the insanity of the leadership from a man who has never been to India. The commissioner’s Tamil proverb shows how those who are of the land and lived there for many years do not know all there is to know about the country. Yet, the stock-jobber knows exactly enough about the country to solve all its problems. What is even more disheartening is how the stock-jobber behaves after hearing the commissioner’s story. As a means to conceal how the story affects him, the stock-jobber tries to “look bored” (42). Woolf conclusion does not offer hope for the future. Instead, he emphasizes the ignorance surrounding the ideals of empire with the Tamil proverb: “When the cat puts his head into a pot he thinks all is darkness” (42). Ah humanity!

Presentation

The Bloomsbury Group was an intellectual and artistic outlet. Familiar names such as Virginia and Leonard Woolf, Vanessa Bell, Clive Bell, and Lytton Strachey, represent this group of friends whose personal relationships were founded in a mutual passion for artistic expression and challenging society's norms. Their relationships, though very personal, are made public through the immortality of their writings, paintings, and letters. The Bloomsbury letters are in a distinct catergory. The letters, particulary those by Virginia Woolf and Lytton Strachey, contain a novelistic flair that deserves mention. To highlight the distinct qualities of Woolf and Strachey's letter to one another, I have conducted a brief outline of two letters. The first letter is from Strachey to Woolf and the second letter is Woolf's response.

The Chestnuts,
East Ilsley,
Berks.
Friday Nov. 8th 1912

I saw you for such as short time the other day: it was tantalizing. I should like to see you every day for hours. I have always wanted to. Why is it impossible? Why is everything that is satisfactory in this life impregnated with unsatisfactoriness? Alack! (as Mrs. Humphrey Ward’s characters all say—have you noticed it?) Why is London the only place to live in, and why must one have the strength of a cart-horse, or you, to be able to manage it? You are not to suppose from this that I am unhappy here. No, my hours pass in such a floating stream of purely self-regarding comfort that that’s impossible, only one does have regrets….Will you at any rate write to me? I hardly think so. You always say you love writing letters but you never do it. The inconsistency of you sex, I suppose. Yours would be more smoothing to read than George Meredith’s. What do you think? I opened that volume just before I left Belsize yesterday, and was so nauseated by the few sentences that met my eye that I shut it up, put it down, and deliberately left it behind, so if you want it you must ask them to send it you. Nothing will induce me to read another word the man wrote. Is it prejudice, do you think that makes us hate the Victorians, or is it the truth of the case? They seem to me a set of mouthing bungling hypocrites; but perhaps really there is a baroque charm about them which will be discovered by our great-great-grandchildren, as we have discovered the charm of Donne, who seemed intolerable to the 18th century. Only I don’t believe it. Thackeray and G. Meredith will go the way of Calprenède & Scudéry; they’ll be curious relics in 50 years. I should like to live for another 200 years (to be moderate). The literature of the future will, I clearly see, be amazing. At last it’ll tell the truth, and be indecent, and amusing, and romantic, and even (after about 100 years) be written well. Quelle joie!—To live in those days when books will pour out from the press reeking with all the filth of Petronius, all the frenzy of Dostoievsky, all the romance of the Arabian Nights, and all the exquisiteness of Voltaire! But it won’t only be the books that will be charming then.—The people!—The young men!...even the young women!...—But these vistas are too exacerbating.—
I’ve spent today trying to write in an unemphatic and yet forceful manner for the Edinburgh. It’s very difficult. How, oh how, do you avoid periods? My paragraphs will all wind themselves up to a crisis, and come down with a thump—it’s most distressing. I believe there’s some trick for getting round it, which I should be glad if you’ld tell me. Horace Walpole seems to avoid it. It’s some sort of whisk of the tail that one has to give but if one hasn’t a tail to whisk?—
Tell Leonard that I wrote a wild letter to his brothers the other day, and have had no answer. Are they enraged?
Also, talking of Victorians, did I enrage you by my rather curt remarks on ton père? I meant to imply the necessary reservations, but I’m afraid I didn’t. Of course I think qua man divine.

Your
Lytton


13 Cliffords Inn
Nov. 16 [1912]

Really, if you go on writing, you will vitiate John Bailey’s stock phrase “the art of letter writing is dying out—“Of course my objection to letters is that they were all written in the 18th Century, an age I find unlovable. Still, there seems no reason why we shouldn’t write letters ever upon the 16th of
November—anyhow why you shouldn’t. Of course for a wife and a woman the case is different. Do the race horses champ beneath you? I dreamt of race horses all night which is partly why I take up the pen—when I ought to be reading and reviewing. Isn’t it damnable to have begun that again? And yet it’s rather inspiriting. I feel like a child switching off the heads of poppies—it’s such a joke now, writing reviews, and I once took it seriously. Poor old Desmond was here again yesterday, with his dispatch box in which was a half-written review of George Trevelyan’s edition of Meredith’s poetry—Out it came and we went through it with a pencil. “Now please suggest some alternative for ‘reveling in romance’—I don’t like ‘revelling in romance’—‘exalting in magnificence?’ No—that’s not quite it—However, let’s go on.” On we went, defining youth, poetry and what precisely is meant by optimism. It was awfully gloomy—this poor man searching about in the roots of things at 2 guineas a column, and sweating and grunting and saying “If I had time, of course, I could do something better than this” and yet it was stiff with thought. He seemed to me altogether dismal. Starting for Biarritz where he is to help Paley with a book on Political Economy. The kind of thing they debate is whether to call Disraeli Lord Beaconsfield, the late Mr. Disraeli, or Disraeli pure and simple, which Desmond advises, provided the sentence will stand it. Our great event has been that Arnold has taken Leonard’s novel with great praise. Of course he makes it a condition that certain passages are to go out—which, we don’t yet know. It’s triumphant to have made a complete outsider believe in one’s figments. I don’t suppose I altogether agree about the 19th century. It’s a good deal hotter in the head than the 18th. But you didn’t shock my feelings as a daughter. The difference probably is that I attach more importance to his divinity “qua man” even in his books than you do. It always seems to me to count considerably. But my feeling for literature is by no means pure.
Ottoline has been seen by several observers—not by me—passing through on her way South again, the gold streamers pendent from each ear, and trailing on the ground, amid a myriad of pointed foxes tails—So Leonard, who’s not given to exaggeration, describes her.
We are sitting over the fire, in complete quiet, save for an occasional van down Fetter Lane—L. Half way through an immense Blue Book on Divorce, upon which he has to write an article for that oozing officious man, Haynes.
London is Very nice—a trifle to rackety I agree—but we are off, thank God, tomorrow to Asheham, where we shall discuss the shepherd’s morals—he’s had a child at 60, and this gives rise to talk with Mrs. Funnell.

Yr.
V. W.

Is this letter written upon Bumf? It looks like it. Isn’t it a shame that Marjorie is not going to be a publisher? We urged it all we could.

The bold parts of the letters highligt the features of Bloomsbury letters that I discovered from my research. The features are presented in the order they appear in the text:
-INTERPRETATION DEPENDS ON THE THE TONE: The beginning of the letter could be misconstrued as having possible sexual connotations, but because we know it is Lytton Strachey the tone of the letter is not sexual but playful
-ARGUMENT: Lytton Strachey uses detail and description to explain why he dislikes Victorians
-COMPLEX LINGUISTIC CONFIGURATION SUCH AS SIMILES: Virginia Woolf's comparison of writing reviews to be like a child switching off heads of poppies
-USE OF PERSONAL CONVERSATIONS: Mainly characterized in Virginia's letters. In this case she uses a conversation she has had with Desmond McCarthy (a Bloomsbury writer)
-PRESENTATION OF CHARACTERS, DESCRIPTION, AND HUMOR: All these aspects are featured in her description of Lady Ottoline and her dress

Works Cited

Briggs, Julia. Virginia Woolf: An Inner Life. New York: Harcourt Inc., 2005.

Caine, Barbara. "Bloomsbury Frinendships and its Victorian Antecedents." Literature and History. 17.1 (2008): 48-61. Academic Search Complete. Mary Couts Burnett Lib., Texas Christian University. 27 Sep. 2009 http://lib.tcu.edu/PURL/EZproxy_link.asp?url=http://searchebscohost.com/login.spx?direct=true&db=a9h&AN=41556270&site=ehost-live"Bloomsbury Friendship and its Victorian Antecedents>.

Hall, Sarah M. The Bedside, Bathtub and Armchair Companion to Virginia Woolf and Bloomsbury. London: Continuum, 2007.

Holroyd, Michael. Lytton Strachey: The New Biography. New York: Farrar, Strauss and Giroux, 1994.

Rosenbaum, S.P. Aspects of Bloomsbury: Studies in Modern English Literary and Intellectual History. New York: St. Martins Press Inc., 1998.

Sellers, Susan. "Virginia Woolf's Diaries and Letters." The Cambridge Companion to Virginia Woolf. Eds. Sue Roe and Susan Sellers. Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press, 2000.

Woolf, Leonard, and James Strachey, eds. Virginia Woolf and Lytton Strachey: Letters. New York: Harcourt, Brace, and Company, 1956.

Image:

http://newsimg.bbc.co.uk/media/images/46316000/jpg_46316168_jex_3242_de27.jpg

Fused and Fashioned

"The artistic problem is the problem of making a match between an emotional experience and a form that has been conceived but not created" --Clive Bell, "The Artistic Problem" page 104

Clive Bell's "The Artistic Problem," not only outlines a problem faced by artist, but also, debunks stereotypes. Generalizations can lead to the assumption that artist and the act of creating art, is a process free of all inhibitions or standards. Bell exposes the dirty secret: being an artist is not a free-wheeling, free-feeling, abstract act of throwing paint on a canvas, but an act requiring scrupulous effort.

As outlined by Bell, "the artistic problem" seems to be founded in the authoritative legacies of great artists like Raphael, hover over artist like a master over an apprentice. Yet, the content of Bell's piece does portray the urgency or duress implied by the word "problem." Bell could have easily title the work "The Artistic Annoyance" or "The Artistic Inconvenience," that more accurately describes the tone of the piece. Bell seeks to illustrate the artistic problem by creating fictional angst for Shakespeare at the thought of having to put all his feelings inside the boundaries of the ABAB form of a sonnet. This is not a good example. Even within the set form of a sonnet, Shakespeare created beautiful sonnets. Thus proving that innovation is a hallmark of any discipline. Not only did Shakespeare follow the formulaic style, through innovation made the sonnet unique to his own style. Bell negates his own argument

The lack of urgency or duress missing from a piece with the word "problem" in its title, may be associated with the author's own status as an artist. Bell may have struggled with the "artistic problem," but the seems as if the concept is reserved for those artist who sought the recognition that comes from having one's work be labeled as "art." The irony of the essay is that Bell is an artist, yet he distances himself from a concept he created. For example, a few of his descriptions of an artist, are prefaced with the phrase, "an artist, I imagine, is" (103). He speaks as if he is not an artist. Perhaps, there is a method to his madness. In outlining the artistic problem, Bell's ulterior motive may be to distinguish himself as an artist. The Bloomsberries were artists, but they created for the sake of creation. Bloomsberries were not motivated by money or recognition, and they were not focused on specific styles or forms. I do not think Bell or other Bloomsberries were as concerned with the problems laid out in Bell's essay. Bell constructed this argument as a critique of artist who become worked up over the definition of what constitutes art. Individual genius is birthed through the act of creating just for the sake of creation. Bell offers advice to artist along these lines stating "he [the artist] cannot exude form: he must set himself to make a particular form" (106). I think Shakespeare would second that notion.

Viva Virginia!

I am currently in Las Vegas as a part of a cousin's bridal party. As wandered through Vegas, I thought about how Virginia Woolf and Vegas are similar. With that said, shall I compare her to a Vegas night?

Vegas is a city of extreme untruths. There's an Eiffel Tower and Statue of Liberty on the same street. Although Vegas represents extreme falsities, the city has no pretense. Nothing here is supposed to be real. It's all sensory overload, and everybody knows it's only here to create intrigue and for aesthetic appeal. Vegas is completely honest in the fact that it is dishonest. It is

a very genuine city.

Like Vegas, Virginia Woolf is also genuine. The most compelling aspect of her authenticity is apparent in E.M. Forester's piece. Forester notes that Virginia "was a lady, by birth and upbringing, and it was no use being cowardly about it, and pretending that her mother had turned a mangle, or that Sir Leslie had been a plasterer's mate" (216). I like the phrase "no use being cowardly." I wonder if he had heard Virginia say this phrase before because it seems as if "no use being cowardly"could have been her mantra. She was a woman who had the courage to be her self and she was also a feminist. I can see her thinking of this phrase before composing a A Room of One's Own:"No use being cowardly, so I'll challenge patriarchy!"