Read

Unveiling Virginia Woolf: A Life Shaped by Memory, Rebellion, and the Written Word

We are all acquainted with Virginia Woolf as an emblematic figure of stream-of-consciousness literature. Indeed, she was also a resolute pedestrian and an indefatigable explorer who delved into ‘the marvels of the human condition.’

Biographer Lyndell Gordon delineated such a Woolf through Woolf’s novels, diaries, and letters. Her biography of Woolf eschews a traditional linear biographical narrative, instead tracing the unbroken current of memory and imagination throughout Woolf’s life as far as authenticity permits.

She also illustrates that this biographical approach is Woolf’s innovation, underpinned by a novel historical perspective that esteems the unknown.

01 the voice of the deceased, More palpable than the individuals surrounding me

Virginia Woolf once remarked, “If life has a foundation,” it is memory. Her life as a wordsmith is rooted in two enduring memories: the northern Cornish coast and her progenitors.

Reclining in the nursery of the family holiday retreat in the early hours of a summer dawn in St Ives, Virginia discerns “the tumult of waves crashing against the shore, one, two, one, two… behind the aureate shutters.” Whilst ensconced in the warm embrace of her bed, half-dreaming, she perceives the cadence of the waves, the zephyr billows the draperies ajar, she glimpses a fleeting luminescence, and experiences “the most profound rapture conceivable.”

Decades later, she aspired for the ebb and flow of the waves to suffuse her magnum opuses, “To the Lighthouse” and “The Waves.” The surge and rupture of the tide symbolize the myriad potentials of existence and culmination.

Virginia Woolf was christened Adeline Virginia Stephen in 1882, the third offspring of two remarkable Victorian luminaries, Julia and Leslie Stephen. Virginia herself could scarcely discern which parent was more extraordinary? The reminiscence of the waves likely lingered from very early on, yet the recollection of her progenitors was of a dissimilar ilk. It was not a sensory recollection but rather derived from reasoned analysis.

During Virginia’s formative years, from age eight to ten, her progenitors became the focal point of her scrutiny. Her father was an eccentric alpinist and erudite editor endowed with a tormented intellectual integrity that both unsettled the children and invigorated their intellects. Her mother’s vocation involved tending to the indigent and infirm, a demanding endeavor, yet she possessed pragmatic sagacity and tender empathy.

In a grainy antique daguerreotype snapped circa 1894, Julia Stephen engrosses herself in reading with her four juvenile offspring. Virginia’s countenance bespeaks reticence, her visage elongated and unassuming, her physique slight and delicate, her gaze penetrating, with the lower contours of her eyes as round as pomegranates. The progeny are attentive, and the photograph captures an exceedingly tranquil ambiance.

More than three decades later, Virginia Woolf recaptured a akin tableau in To the Lighthouse. Portrayed as a mother, Mrs. Ramsay reads aloud. She observes her son’s somber irises, witnesses her daughter captivated by the fanciful prose, and arrives at the deduction: “They shall never be happier than they are now.”
Julia Stephen is the paramount figure overlooked in the Victorian epoch that Virginia Woolf endeavored to reconstruct and conserve.

Julia succumbed in 1895, followed by her daughter Stella from her prior marriage in 1897, trailed by the demise of Leslie Stephen in 1904 and her son Toby in 1906. A decade-long succession of demises sealed Virginia’s youth, severing it from the continuum of her existence.

“All the anxieties of life are advancing afore one’s eyes.” The departed lingered within her imaginative realm, and until she attained the age of fifty, she continued to inscribe in her journal: “…the specters undergo curious metamorphoses within my psyche; akin to how Living individuals metamorphose as one learns of their exploits.”

As an authoress, Virginia Woolf clung to the bygone and to the ever more discernible voices of the deceased, conceivably more tangible to her than the living individuals encircling her. Undead voices assail her consciousness as they impel her toward the ethereal fortress, and once subdued, these voices transmute into the substance of fiction.

With each demise, her sentiments regarding the past intensified. Her novels are rejoinders to these departed individuals. “…the past is resplendent,” she articulated, “owing to its impossibility to apprehend an emotion in the present. It shall persist to extend across time, thus we may merely possess the most comprehensive perspective of the past, not the present emotions.”
The deceased are enlivened in recollection, assuming their ultimate guise; the living are disorderly, yet in the process of formation akin to herself, though this does not preclude her from molding them within her imagination. She metamorphoses those whom she holds dearest – progenitors, siblings, acquaintances, spouse – into personages with immutable notions that transcend temporality and endure in perpetuity.

In her zenith, she harbored no inclination to ruminate upon death itself, but rather to craft portraits that would endure for posterity. These portraits are not as verisimilar as daguerreotypes: she distorts the subjects so that personal recollections conform to some historical or universal motif.

The altruistic Mrs. Ramsay was fashioned by Virginia grounded upon her impression of maternity, yet she was transfigured into a quintessential figure of the Victorian era, and when engrossed in reading with her offspring, she epitomized maternal virtue. Thus, Virginia Woolf resurrected the deceased, immortalizing them on the page, just as the painter Lily Briscoe in To the Lighthouse immortalized a Victorian household on canvas.

02 life without a writer It has been completely recorded like this

In the early 1920s, the public impression of Virginia Woolf was one of distinct modernity. By the 1960s, this image had shifted towards another one-sided reality: a woman who supported the feminist movement. Feminist Virginia Woolf.

Although these images are visible across all of her work, including drafts, it is clear that her period as high priest of the modern novel was short-lived, and that her feminist polemics only attempted to rewrite rather than reject The ideal example of Victorian womanhood.

She looks back to the past to find prototypes for her characters. Part of her writing career is determined by memory and a strong sense of the past, especially connections to the nineteenth century. Another part may be related to her interest in “anonymity.” The desire to be relevant, which became more and more obvious towards the end of her writing career, meant that she abandoned the self-aware sense of superiority of modern writers and instead focused on the lives of the unknown masses, especially women, in whom, She seeks a “counter-history” that is radically different from the history of power and “emperors with golden teapots on their heads.”

Art is important, and so is women’s destiny, but her aesthetic experiments and political debates are only by-products of exploring the unknown.

“There seems to be a restless explorer inside me,” she once wrote in her diary. It was this spirit of exploration that led her to start writing. Yeats believed that everyone has “some scene, some adventure… which is the image that represents his secret life.”

A recurring image in Virginia Woolf’s mind is that of a voyage of discovery, or of some lurking form of fin hidden in the waves. “Why isn’t there an exploration in life?” she continued, “where one can reach out and touch it and say, ‘Is that it?’… I felt strongly and surprisingly that there was something there…” She would go out for long walks every afternoon, and London beckoned to her like an “untamed land.”

She is not floating on a self-absorbed stream of consciousness; she is a curious explorer, following in the footsteps of Elizabethan navigators or, say, Darwin, eager to understand what she calls “the wonders of the human condition.”

Virginia Woolf shaped and defended the modern novel. She left nearly 4,000 letters, 400 articles, and 30 volumes of diaries. No writer’s life has been so completely documented.

Yet this woman writer remains mysterious—and that must be the case, since the understanding of any life is never complete. As a leader of the Bloomsbury Avant-Garde Arts Group and a writer who loves letter-writing, she appears to different people in different ways.

“How strange,” she admits, “that I have so many selves.” However, she always kept her novelist self hidden. She once told a friend: “In order to write, I must be private and secret. I want to be as anonymous as possible and hide myself.”

Virginia Woolf’s remarkable life in Bloomsbury, her celebrated eccentricities, her isolation during illness, and the story of a sickly lady, a cold body and a distant Various legends about real-world and artificial aesthetes are constantly repeated by the world.

Yet it is the hidden events that shape her work: childhood memories, a fragmented education, volcanic madness, an unusual marriage.

Piecing together these rich memories is to find irrefutable evidence of a private life that was distinct yet parallel to the public life she was known for. When she herself interpreted a writer’s life in a draft of “The Waves,” she wrote that between the public and private selves—”between the outside and the inside”—”there is a certain inevitable rift “.

Virginia Woolf once said that only writing can constitute “the whole of my life.”

She wrote every day for about thirty-five years. Much of her work—including notes, drafts, unfinished essays, early diaries, and even reading plans—has survived, but in order to accurately define the nature of her writing career, we must combine these documents with her formal works Taken together.

She escapes conventional categorization, and because of this, the popular press tends to dismiss her work by labeling her conveniently as “madwoman” or “pretentious.” My purpose is not to introduce each of her works, but to show the overall outline of her writing career. To see a coherent thread, I will trace the underlying view of life in Virginia Woolf’s novels.

She repeatedly pointed out in the novel that the important moments of life are not nodes in traditional concepts such as birth, marriage and death, but ordinary events hidden in ordinary days. In her diary in 1921, she recalled an ordinary summer day in August 1890, recalling the sound of the waves and the children in the garden. She determined that her life was “rooted here and penetrated by this: after all, To what extent, I can never tell.”
Yeats once spoke of a writer’s growth through art, which he called “the birth of a new race,” and this also applies to Virginia Woolf as the new woman.

She once told a friend that she had been “trained to be silent.” Later, although she dominated London’s intellectual circles with her free and intelligent speech, she retained an aspect of fiction that was all her own.

The death of the eccentric and eager-to-explore Rachel in “The Voyage” and the suicide of the crazy, past-hungry Septimus in “Mrs. Dalloway” are all part of Virginia Woolf. The self as it is represented in fiction—it is full of creative potential, but it can also be distorted, and it is always under threat of destruction. Her self-restraint made publishing her work excruciatingly painful.

03 Writing is an activity that is easily accessible to women; but still not fully applauded

The “roots” of memory, the “moment of being”, female silence: these clues lead us to Virginia Woolf’s unique writing career. However, she was also influenced by the outdated customs and social mores of a previous era, and her biographical theory would be incomplete without these “invisible presences,” as she calls them.

Kensington in the 1880s and 1890s, the prevailing ideal of womanhood, the hidden sexual desires of well-bred men, the educational privileges reserved only for her brothers: Virginia’s rebellion against the Victorian social milieu At the same time, it is also shaped by them.

Her biggest struggle was against the typical image of women in the Victorian era, and that stereotype has stuck with her, perhaps longer than other women of her generation. When she was in her fifties, Duncan Grant was suffering from a cold wind, and she discovered to her chagrin that she and her sister were unconsciously acting as “angels of mercy.”

In a 1931 speech to working women, she said:
“Those of you of the younger, happier generation may not have heard of the ‘angel in the house.’ She was compassionate, charismatic, and unselfish… There was such an angel in almost every respectable Victorian home. . As I begin to write… the shadows of her wings fall across my pages and I hear her skirts rustling around the room. But this species… has never been truly alive. She – it’s much harder to deal with – is just a figment of the imagination, a fictional entity. She is a nightmare, a ghost…”

This angel whispered into the ear of the young girl who was writing an opinion piece for the first time, telling her that she must obey if she wanted to succeed. “I turned to the angel and grabbed her by the throat. I killed her with all my strength… If I didn’t kill her, she would kill me – me as a writer.”

Another kind of resistance is aimed at the closed life of girls in the Victorian era. What she resists is not only the physical confinement and restraint, but also the kind of ignorance and emotional inertia suppression.

Stephen’s family lived at 22 Hyde Park Gate, Kensington. Their house faced a cul-de-sac, where it was quiet and boring. The only sounds they could hear were the distant sounds of wheels and stables on the road leading to Kensington Park. The sound of horse hooves. They looked out and saw only old Mrs. Redgrave in her wheelchair, looking like a museum display case on wheels.

Of course, closely related to this closed life is a deep-rooted concept of respectability, which makes Virginia and her sister Vanessa’s resistance so persistent and so silent.

When Virginia was fifteen years old, she heard an old man murmur obscenely one night, only to be told the next morning that it was just a cat. Her lifelong dislike of her two half-brothers was a legitimate reaction to their repressed sexual desires.

When Virginia was about six years old, her adult half-brother, Gerald Duckworth, lifted her onto a table and touched her private parts. She was bewildered that she had been forced to participate in this sneaky operation, but she also knew instinctively that this was something too shameful to say. “I still tremble with shame when I think of it,” she confessed to a friend in 1941.

In Notes from the Past, Virginia Woolf recalled how she and her sister were taught to “sit quietly and watch the Victorian men perform the circus hoop of cleverness.”

To the Lighthouse takes a hilariously dry look at the administrators and academic staff of the British Empire, positions that her upper-middle-class family approved of. Quentin Bell explained that the men in his family had always worked for a living, but never in the kind of work that used their hands. They do not belong to the leisure class or the hereditary ruling class, nor do they engage in any commercial activities. They are “experts.”

Their children and grandchildren received a strict education because success depended on their own efforts. This family has contributed many professional talents in the last century. Virginia’s mother’s family has trained many officials of the East India Company, while the Stephen family has lawyers, judges, school and university principals. Virginia observed with annoyance and jealousy the game of hoops reserved only for the boys of the house, at which they invariably seemed to excel.

She wrote: “All my male relatives were good at playing the game, knowing the rules and attaching importance to them. My father placed special emphasis on such things as principal’s reports, scholarships, honorary degree examinations, and college positions. Fisher The boys in the family received almost every award, honor and degree.”

Speeches that prevent women from being educated are “as solid as tree roots and as invisible as sea fog.” Men who have received a strict education long for a family flower that is as simple, sweet, loyal and gentle as a girl. If a woman were asked to learn Latin or Greek, these flowers might wither.

There was a Victorian mother who agreed to send her daughter to Girton College, Cambridge, on the condition that she return home “as if nothing had happened.”

Among various literary and artistic activities, writing is the easiest for women to enter, but it is still not fully praised. Fanny Burney burned “a great deal” of her early works out of her own shame—not (Virginia thought) her stepmother’s compulsion.

“Literature cannot be a woman’s life’s work,” Robert Southey once wrote in a letter to Charlotte Bronte. Brontë assured him that her daily workload as a governess left her “no time to dream.”

She continued: “I admit that I often meditate at night, but I never bother others with my thoughts. I carefully hide my preoccupied or eccentric appearance to prevent people who live with me from discovering my appearance. Hobbies… I not only have to diligently fulfill all the duties of a woman, but I also have to try to be interested in them. I can’t always do it, because when I am teaching or doing needlework, I prefer to read Or writing; but I try to restrain myself…”

04 These scattered memories, Forms the basis of “To the Lighthouse”

However much Virginia criticized the ideas of the Victorian era, she still felt nostalgic for the manners of the people of that time.

In Night and Day, Virginia Woolf contrasts the Victorians with her own generation as Catherine looks through family albums with her mother, Lady Hilbury. Lady Hilbury was based on Thackeray’s daughter Anne Rich, sister of Leslie Stephen’s first wife.

Mrs. Hilbury looked through the photos of her old friends. To her, people in the Victorian era were “like ships, like magnificent ships, constantly moving forward, not scrambling, and not always troubled by trivial things like us.” . They are like ships with white sails, walking their own way.”

And in “The Years,” Peggy, a disillusioned doctor living in the 1930s, has the only person she admires: her old Victorian aunt, who admires the power of her words, “as if She still believed passionately—she, old Eleanor—in what humanity had destroyed. An incredible generation, she thought. People who believed…”

As a young woman, Virginia had heard old Mrs. Strachey read aloud the play. She only has one good eye, but she can read for two and a half hours at a time and play every role in the play.

Virginia was deeply attracted to this Victorian noblewoman—”versatile, energetic, inquiring, and progressive”—who resisted time and disaster tenaciously, and pursued the noble and poetic with passion and vitality. To Virginia, there was beauty in the conduct of this Victorian lady, a beauty based on self-control, compassion, selflessness—all the virtues of civilization.

Her own mother was the perfect embodiment of Victorian femininity: all men adored her, and she was undoubtedly a selfless woman. Behind her beautiful and playful appearance, she is a tireless nurse; behind her generous and emotional appearance, she has strict standards of judgment. Her gait betrays determination and courage.

She holds her black umbrella upright and approaches you with “an air of indescribable expectancy,” her head slightly raised so that her eyes can look directly at you. To her husband, she personified Wordsworth’s ideal, a woman who reminded, comforted, and guided others with noble intentions.

Virginia remembered that every night, her mother would write letters to provide advice and warnings to others and to express sympathy for them. “Her brows shone with wisdom, and her eyes were as deep as torches… She had experienced the world, suffered hardships, but was haggard. There is no trace of sadness on his face.” Her efforts are well-aimed and almost never go to waste. Because of this, the imprint she leaves on others’ hearts is “indelible, like a brand.”

In a sense, the “modernity” for which Virginia Woolf was celebrated—the effort to escape the past and create new forms of the contemporary—is untenable.

The nineteenth century profoundly influenced her polite manners, her reticence, her desire for education and freedom, her concern for the less well known (like Wordsworth and Hardy), and, above all, , influenced her emphasis on sublime moments, which brought her into contact with the Romantic poets.

The summer days of her childhood in St Ives were etched in her memory as a lost paradise. Waves, walks, seaside gardens awaken a “feeling of the sublime”. What Cornwall brought to Virginia was what the Lake District brought to Wordsworth, an emotional reality in nature that no experience could surpass in the rest of life.

In the spring of 1882, just after Virginia was born, Leslie Stephen was walking in Cornwall as usual, and he happened to walk on “the most beautiful walk imaginable.” He saw gently sloping fields covered with gorse, interspersed with patches of primrose and bluebells, with the bay of St Ives and the sand dunes visible in the distance. A sweet breeze blew across the vast fields, and he described the air as soft as silk, with “the sweetness of freshly squeezed milk.”

On impulse, he went to check out Talland House, which was up for rent.

The house was built by the Great Western Railway in the 1840s or 1850s, but the line was only extended to St Ives in the early 1880s. At that time, this large, boxy house was located on a hill outside the city. The upstairs rooms had no furniture and no water pipes were installed. However, it had an excellent view, opposite the bay and Godrej. lighthouse.

Leslie Stephen spent a night there and told his wife that he opened the curtains and lay in bed just so he could “see the kids playing on the beach.” There was a smooth path leading down to the sandy cove below, “which the children could easily follow,” he wrote.

So, every year from mid-July to mid-September, Stephen’s family would move here to live for a period of time. At that time, St. Ives had not yet been destroyed, and still maintained its sixteenth-century appearance: houses like a pile of shellfish, oysters and clams, cluttered on the steep hillside. The walls of these white granite stone houses are built thickly to withstand erosion from waves and strong winds. St Ives was a rugged, windy fishing village with narrow streets – a natural world away from their drab and stifling London home, where they barely saw the light of day for the other ten months of the year.

Whenever Virginia recalls Talland House, she always thinks of the children in the garden.

The one- or two-acre garden consists of a dozen small lawns separated by hedgerows that run down the slope toward the sea. Every corner, every lawn has its own name: coffee garden, cricket pitch, kitchen garden, pond. There are slopes for children to slide on, tangled gooseberry bushes, springs, distant potato and pea beds, and all kinds of summer fruits: strawberries, grapes, peaches.

“All in all,” Leslie Stephen wrote in 1884, “it’s a little paradise here…”

Every day, the children were treated to a large plate of Cornish cream tea sprinkled with caramel. They walked with their father to Mount Trencrom every Sunday. From the hill you can see the coast on both sides of Cornwall, with St Michael’s Mount on one side and St Ives Bay on the other. The path to the top is hidden among the heather. “Our legs were scratched while climbing; the gorse flowers were yellow and had a sweet, nutty smell.”
It is these scattered memories rather than formal events that form the “foundation” of “To the Lighthouse”.
Virginia could not forget the journey to Godrej Lighthouse in September 1892, and how her brother was dejected because he could not move forward. These were recorded in the children’s own newspaper, the Hyde Park Gate News.

“To the Lighthouse” leaves behind Virginia’s memory of Julia Stephen: sitting in the hallway watching her children play cricket on a hot afternoon. Virginia remembered how dirty and shabby Talland House was, and how bustling with guests: the chain-smoking Mr. Wolstenholme, the indie poet Mr. Carmichael in “To the Lighthouse,” sat in a honeycomb chair. the prototype; and Kitty Lushington, the prototype for the conservative Minta Doyle. Kitty followed Mrs. Stephen’s advice and accepted another guest’s proposal under a clematis bush. The children immediately named the place “Love Corner.”

In addition, there are some local residents here: Alice Curnow, leaning forward and trudging down the driveway with a full laundry basket; Jenny Berryman cleaning the house – they are all here It occupies a place in the child’s steadfast memory and lives on in her novels.

The idyllic life at Talland House lasted for ten years, until the summer of 1893, when a “hell’s hotel” was built in front of the house, and Stephen’s family foresaw the commercialization of St. Ives.

“Never has a place haunted me so much,” Leslie Stephen wrote to his wife. “It is almost painful for me to look at the cricket ground there and think of all the people who have sat there… “After another summer, they gave up on the house.

Eleven years later, Virginia’s parents had passed away, and the brothers and sisters returned to their hometown and saw many solid white buildings rising from the ground. In 1894, there was only a heather bush there, and there was once only a walking path. There are also wide roads paved next to the wilderness.

For Virginia, the return trip to St Ives in 1905 was nothing short of a pilgrimage (a word that appeared frequently in her Cornish diary). The diary of August 11th is deliberately written in an elegiac style. It records how the four brothers and sisters were filled with hope as they boarded the train on the Great Western Railway.

In this little corner of England, “we will find the sealed past, as if it has been carefully guarded and treasured during this period, just waiting for us to go back, to return to that day… Oh, what a feeling it is. It’s wonderful to see the familiar outlines of land and sea appearing before my eyes again…those silent but tangible outlines that for more than ten years could only appear in dreams or in waking visions.” Again they saw the brown rocks of the cliffs cascading into the sea; the curves of the bay “seemed to surround themselves with a great mass of liquid mist”; and there the headlands of the islands shone with tufts of light.

At dusk, they took the branch railway to the seaside. As they walked out of the train station, they imagined that they were just on their way home after a long day out. When they reached Talland House, they would fling open the door and find themselves in a familiar scene.

They crossed the carriage drive, climbed the pitted steps, and peered through gaps in the bushes: “We saw the house… The stone urns stood against the tall flowers; what we saw now was as if it were today We have just left this place in the morning. But we also know that we cannot go any further; if we go one step further, the spell will be broken. The lights are not our lights, and the voices are those of strangers.”

They linger here, fantasizing about being able to approach the living room window—the scene that frames the first part of To the Lighthouse—but they are forced to keep their distance. “We lingered like ghosts in the shadows of the hedge until we heard footsteps and turned away.”

Years later, Virginia Woolf returned here again. In May 1936, when she was on the verge of collapse because of “The Years”, she quietly returned to the garden of Talland House. At dusk, the fifty-four-year-old woman peered into the house through the first-floor window, trying to rediscover the long-gone Victorian summer.

error: Content is protected !!