in Diane Royer & Madelyn Detloff, ed. Virginia Woolf: Art, Education and Internationalism (Keynote at 17th Annual Virginia Woolf conference, June 2007) Clemson UP, 2008, 8-16.
http://www.clemson.edu/caah/cedp/cudp/pubs/vwcon/17.html
The Brooklyn Rail, September 30, 2011
http://www.brooklynrail.org/2011/09/theater/the-mindscape-of-septimus-and-clarissa-ripe-time-adapts-virginia-woolfs-mrs-dalloway
Saturday 26 March 2011
http://bloggingwoolf.wordpress.com/2011/03/26/review-of-room/
Editor’s Note: Patricia Laurence, Woolf scholar and professor of English at Brooklyn College, the City University of New York, attended the March 16 performance of Room and wrote this review.
Lauren "projecting a stillness of mind"
Imagine a string of pearls–“moments of being”–from Woolf’s A Room of One’s Own and A Sketch of the Past strung together in a dramatic adaptation. This is the experience of attending Room, an admirable production mounted by the New York Women’s Project, under the direction of Ann Bogart, and adapted from Woolf’s works by Jocelyn Clarke.
These “moments” are a part of Woolf’s philosophy that a great part of our everyday life is lived as “non-being,” or what she calls the “cotton wool” of ordinary experience. But “one’s life is not confined to one’s body and what one says and does,” asserts Woolf, and behind “the cotton wool” of the every day is a hidden pattern. This pattern is revealed in exceptional and infrequent “illuminations, matches struck in the dark,” moments of being.
It is these moments that are revisited in Room a praiseworthy effort to bring Virginia Woolf’s words and advice about writing and reading to broader audiences–though the night I attended, the words were addressed to, mostly, a room of women. Read more
2005, March/April, 26:3
“What Matters”: Virginia Woolf and the Raverats: A Different Kind of Friendship by William Pryor.
2004, March/April, 25:3
“A House of One’s Own,” Carlyle’s House and Other Sketches by Virginia Woolf.
2000, May/June, 21:4
“Still Life”: Sketches in Pen & Ink, A Bloomsbury Notebook by Vanessa Bell.
1993, August/September, 15:3
“The Representation of the Masculine”:Lawrence among the Women, Wavering Boundaries in Women’s Literary Traditions by Carol Siegel.
Virginia Woolf Miscellany 2009 REVIEW:
MRS. WOOLF AND THE SERVANTS: AN INTIMATE HISTORY OF DOMESTIC LIFE IN BLOOMSBURY
by Alison Light. New York: Bloomsbury Press, 2008.
358 pages. $30 cloth. $20 paper.
“It is much to be regretted that no lives of maids, from which a more fully documented account could be constructed, are to be found in the Dictionary of National Biography“ (Virginia Woolf, Three Guineas, 1939: Chapter 2, footnote 36).
Until Alison’s Light’s book, Mrs. Woolf and the Servants: An Intimate History of Domestic Life in Bloomsbury, most critics sympathetic to Woolf would sweep her views of servants under the carpet. Or deny their importance to understanding the literary work of modernism. But since the rise of the new historicism and cultural studies, information about the obscure lives of servants and Woolf’s views have been framed in terms of social change and power relations—“on or about December 1910 human nature changed”—signaling the rise of the cook and the maid.
Light’s interest in the topic of servants was piqued when she found Woolf’s diaries full of vicious remarks about her cook, Nellie Boxall, who lived with Leonard and Virginia Woolf for eighteen years, 1916-1934, despite frequent squabbles. It was a story, as Light said, “of mutual–and unequal–dependence” (xiv), but also about social differences and class feeling. How, she asks, do we align Woolf’s public sympathy with the lives of obscure women with her “private recoil” (203)? As Raymond Williams observes, those in Bloomsbury, like Virginia Woolf “were a true fraction of the existing English upper class. They were at once against its dominant ideas and values and still willingly, in all immediate ways, part of it. It is a very complex and delicate position….” (Williams, 236).
In this absorbing study, which weaves fiction, literary criticism and social history–reaching poetry, at times–Light illuminates not only the personal lives of servants working in Bloomsbury but the cultural history of servants in England between the wars. She offers fascinating information about domestic service that was largest single female occupation in England until 1945, orphans and charity girls being a large part of service.
The aim of the book is moral re-dress: “to give the servants back their dignity and the respect they deserve” (xvii). It is organized into four sections each focusing on the life of a particular servant in the context of Bloomsbury and the social history of domestics in England: Chapter 1 focuses on Sophie Farrell, “The Family Treasure,” who joined the Stephen family in 1886 when Woolf was four years old. She served for fifty years, knew Woolf’s mother and was a valued link with the past; Chapter 2, “Housemaid’s Souls,” is the story of Miss Sichel, a do-gooder, and the foundling, Lottie Hope, who became Woolf’s parlourmaid for about thirty years; Chapter 3, “The Question of Nellie” narrates the life of Nellie Boxall who served the Woolfs for eighteen years. Her altercations with them about her difficult domestic work, sometimes without water or electricity and dealing with unsavory sanitary conditions is described; Chapter 4, “Memoirs of a Lavatory Attendant,” deals with Woolf’s speculations about the life of a lavatory attendant, the shift in role illustrating how women who were once servants moved into the professions in the 1930s with the increasing democratization of British society.
In the context of British attitudes toward servants, Bloomsbury distinguished itself somewhat. Distinctions must be made and contradictions noted. Some, notably Leonard Woolf, were declared socialists with progressive social views; others in the group had feminist sympathies or held egalitarian principles. Virginia Woolf relates to her lower-class servants as “a matter of conscience: not in solidarity, nor in affiliation” (Williams 236). She benefited from their service yet blamed the “system” and her parents’ generation for creating it in her Diary. Like many of the female writers that Tillie Olsen highlights in Silences, she depended on other women to cook and clean so that she could write. Women’s independence was a plank in her platform of life and aesthetics but, as Light notes, it was Nellie who drew the curtains and cleaned the chamber pots.
Care giving, even today, is a complex relationship. There were times when Woolf was ill and needed a great deal of care. When Lottie Hope and Nellie Boxall arrived from Durbins in Feb. 1916…. Nellie was twenty-five and Lottie a year younger; their mistress ten years their senior but clearly still needing a great deal of care….The household revolved around the routines which made it possible for her to write and keep her mental equilibrium; regular meals, a rest after lunch, not too many visitors, no late nights. (134) Yet in later, healthier times, Woolf chafed at the presence of servants, particularly Nellie, debating the “cost”:
It is an absurdity, how much time L. & I have wasted in talking about servants. And it can never be done with because the fault lies in the system. How can an uneducated woman let herself in, alone, into our lives?—what happens is that she becomes a mongrel; and has no roots any where. (176)
Embarrassing racial overtones of half-breed and rubbish hover over Woolf’s inner struggle about integrating a servant of a different class into her and Leonard’s daily life.
Light asserts that the figure of the obscure workingwoman “haunts Woolf’s experiments in literary modernism” (xx). It is a social and literary issue that persists today as Nicholas Kristof and Sheryl WuDunn assert in their new book, Half the Sky. Western feminism, they claim, is haunted by the struggle for gender equality in the developing world. We observe this directly as nannies from Bhutan, Nepal and the Caribbean enter into service with Western families.
But what were the literary consequences of Woolf’s attitude toward servants? Is it true that Woolf’s lack of knowledge about the physical and inner lives of working women (that she acknowledges) and her shadowy representations “set a limit” (xx) to what she could achieve in her fiction, as Light asserts? Never one to proselytize about the “servant question” in art, she nevertheless presents a powerful, sympathetic and, sometimes, comic, literary image of a servant in Mrs. McNab in To the Lighthouse. For as Woolf notes in “Mr.Bennett and Mrs. Brown,” “on or about 1910,” the Georgian cook emerged like a Leviathan, the aroused mythical sea monster, into the drawing room and into middle-class Victorian consciousness. This was a consciousness reflected in Woolf’s honest and frequent examination of her feelings toward servants—unusual for her time—in her Diary. Apocalyptic images haunt the Time Passes section of her novel—like the Leviathan or blood, darkness, storm and fire—and suggest but never detail the actual lives and rebellion of the working class, the servants or miners. Mrs. McNab will emerge from the darkness of the Victorian house, end her “waiting” on others, and choose the new post-war options of education and access to factory work, waitress, chambermaid, florist, and beautician positions. New opportunities, household appliances and attitudes toward class, family, the education of women and domestic work would alter her role.
Since “the imagination is largely the child of the flesh,” Woolf acknowledges that she cannot embody the knowledge or capture the inner life of working women in her writing: “because one’s body had never stood at the wash-tub; one’s hands had never wrung and scrubbed.” (LWKI, xxi). And so she does not come to a conclusion about “the true nature of women,” in general, and working-class women, in particular (AROO, 6). She does not risk patronizing or romanticizing them. They remain shadowy or blank as a kind of moral challenge to the reader, a reminder of the suffering beings not yet culturally or psychologically known or realized in life or fiction.
Patricia Laurence
Brooklyn College
Works Cited
Kristof, Nicholas D. & Sheryl WuDunn. Half the Sky: Turning Oppression into
Opportunity for Women Worldwide. New York: Knopf Doubleday, 2009.
Olsen, Tillie. Silences. New York: Delacorte Press, 1978.
Williams, Raymond. The Raymond Williams Reader, Ed. John Higgins. Oxford &
Malden: Blackwell, 2001.
Woolf, Virginia. Life as We Have Known It, Introductory Letter. By Cooperative
Working Women. Ed. Margaret Llewelyn Davies. London: Hogarth Press, 1931.
—–. A Room of One’s Own, New York: Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, 1929.
—–. To the Lighthouse. New York: Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, 1927.
One could almost visualize A Novel of Klass, by prolific novelist and translator, Curt Leviant, as a Chagall painting. People, books, paintings, Hebrew letters, Torahs, and tombstones float across the pages of this lively and sometimes exasperating book.
Its protagonist, Ayzik Klass, a Polish-Russian painter of Yiddish motifs and a survivor of the Holocaust, opens the book kvetching about his loss of a painting, Moonlight Shtetl, which has been stolen and put “into” the Jewish Museum. Figuring out how it got there is part of the caper. His wife, Griselda—anything but patient—is part of the mystery and one of the most annoying yentas in literature. She is a twisted joke and subverts his ends in painting and in life. Nevertheless, the men in the novel are initially charmed: “Although her face could stop a clock and her personality Big Ben, Breslauer thought, she had a body like the lush women that Matisse or Modigliani painted.”
Yiddish is front and center in this novel and Leviant captures its expressions, syntax, and sensibility with flair. We hear Klass addressing his friend, Mr. Breslauer, the gallery manager, early in the novel: “Mr. Breslauer, for your formation, although you maybe don’t think so, I understand ex-cel-lent-tish-ly . . . You speak a very simple Engahlish. Even a eedyot can understand.” Klass will go on to explain that most of his paintings are “converted melodies” of Yiddish style. “By using signs and motifs and vocabulary of East-European Jewish life. Just like Sholom Aleichem wrote Yiddish, with me it’s not the letters but the gossamer spirit that hovers around Hebrew letters.” This gossamer spirit also hovers about Leviant’s earlier works, Ladies and Gentlemen, the Original Music of the Hebrew Alphabet and Weekend in Mustara. The energy of his language emerges from the mystical traditions of the Kabbalah, Biblical commentary, Sholem Aleichem, Isaac Bashevis Singer, and, on a modern note, Borges and Calvino. Beneath the zaniness of this novel are images of loss. Not only Klass’s loss of his wife and children in the Holocaust, whom he obsessively stretches out his arms to in dreams and whom he paints, but also “skeletons . . . completely covered with musical notation, some with Hebrew letters, to represent the Yiddish language, the songs, the words, the books and the sacred texts that were also murdered.” Klass’s paintings then are also a kind of kaddish, a prayer for the dead, of a people and a culture whom he resurrects, as does Leviant in his novels. Is there an acceptable ending to this story? There are two at the end of this novel, one “real,” the other “true.”
Julian Bell, the nephew of Virginia Woolf, embodied the contradictions of his generation in 1930s England. During his short life, he was variously labeled a poet, teacher, libertine, pacifist, military strategist, activist and soldier. His identity, difficult in formation, was overshadowed by the talented and, sometimes, authoritarian circle of Bloomsbury. In 1935, he had urged the young men of his generation to resist war even if accused of being “unpatriotic”; in 1937, under the political force of Fascism, he and his generation found that their “peace mind” had grown into a “war mind.” He enlisted as an ambulance driver in the Spanish Civil war where he died at the age of twenty-nine, “a violent finish in hot blood.”
Read an excerpt:
Virginia Woolf stands upon a bridge that connects not only the private and public worlds of women, but also the developing aesthetics of writers of different countries. This expansive view of Woolf as influencing international modernist developments is not popular in some circles today as Bloomsbury-bashing critics charge that the principle upon which modernism fashioned itself was exclusion and snobbery about intellectual and cultural differences (John Carey). But it is time to shift the critical terms and locate Woolf outside this narrow ideological scope declaring her a modernist with an open–not a closed–poetics. In reading her diary, letters, essays and novels, we find that Woolf crosses cultural and class boundaries with her insistence upon the importance of the “gift of self” in women’s friendship (See Caws, Hawkes, Trautmann), and the importance of where the accent falls in the poetic language and literary expressions of foreign authors. Realizing that modernism is an international movement, she was drawn to the variety of ways in which the legendary Mrs. Brown might be described depending upon the age, country and temperament of the writer. Therefore, Woolf makes up “the foreign” and “woman” in her writings: “made up as one makes up the better part of life” (Mrs. Dalloway). In announcing this stance, Woolf casts off outworn cultural and aesthetic molds.
The East, then, is both a place and a metaphor that she invents, and as Haun Saussy suggests, “China has always been and still is in the process of being invented.”
The time will come when we mount the long wind, break the turbulent waves
Hoist our sails straight into the clouds, and cross the deep, deep sea. (Li Bai)
Leo Ou-Fan Lee has written of the importance of textbooks in modern China in his recent work Shanghai Modern. Upon the founding of the Republic, new textbooks embodying emergent ideas of modernity were written and promoted to clear the “beclouded” minds of students and to cultivate “enlightenment.” This process continues today as educators, administrators, publishers and the government of China shape the content of textbooks to reflect ideas emerging now in history, literature, science, and technology in a more globally-engaged China.
In America, similar re-considerations of the content of secondary school and college anthologies and textbooks were promoted in American high schools an colleges in the late 1980s. The question of “the canon” was raised: what list of representative writes and works should be taught in literature and history courses? And who chooses what students read and why? Teachers and scholars still debate whether there is a list of representative works that could be considered “universal” and “transcendent” of different cultures or whether the canon is always “relative” and shaped by contemporary social, cultural, and religious communities or current political movements and moods…..The debate continues and affects our teaching practices as there is a close relationship between widely-used anthologies or textbooks and teaching practices and curriculum development in history and literature. We begin our inaugural edition of Long Wind: History, Literature and Modernity in China and America with a discussion of these issues.
Lily Briscoe’s Chinese Eyes traces the romance of Julian Bell, nephew of Virginia Woolf, and Ling Shuhua, a writer and painter Bell met while teaching at Wuhan University in China in 1935. Relying on a wide selection of previously unpublished writings, Patricia Laurence places Ling, often referred to as the Chinese Katherine Mansfield, squarely in the Bloomsbury constellation.
Read more
I want to write a novel about Silence…the things people don’t say. But the difficulty is immense,” says a character in Virginia Woolf’s first novel, announcing Woolf’s life-long preoccupation with silence and the barrier between the sayable and the unsayable.
In reading Woolf’s many silences–psychological, social, historical, philosophical–through a study of her narrative techniques, this book establishes a new rhetoric of silence. It infuses the silences of women with a new psychic and narrative life. In her novels, Woolf makes distinctions between what is left “unsaid,” something one might feel but not say; the “unspoken,” something not yet formulated in voiced words; and the “unsayable,” something ineffable or contrary to propriety.
The author advances the powerful strategy of privileging, as Woolf does, the “presence” of silent, observing and thinking women in her texts. Until now, post-structuralist and feminist critics have concentrated on explicating the role of the “speaking subject” in texts, ignoring those who are marginal and “silent.” When the subject, usually a woman or an observer (minorities, colonials, servants, children) does not speak in a text, such criticism has tended to read such positions as “absence.”
The author shows how Woolf challenges this notion and extends the genre of the novel by valuing and representing the inner lives of women, in particular, through a lexicon of silence, a punctuation of suspension, and metaphors and structures of silence. In the process, the author recognizes the connection of Woolf’s interest in silence with the tradition of English fiction. She examines silence as a ritual of truth for women in novels by Jane Austen and Charlotte Bronte, and as “absence” in a sample of male novelists–Samuel Richardson, Charles Dickens, George Meredith and Thomas Hardy.
This study does not view the silence of women solely as a sign of oppression. American feminist critics see women as oppressed by sexism, and their voices unheard in the culture; French critics see women as repressed in culture, and not represented in language. In contrast, the author presents silence as a cultural and narrative space in which women observe, think, dream, resist: a vital space that we as readers are learning to read.