‘Mrs. Dalloway’, a name known to every literature enthusiast, frequent cause of heated debates between scholars, and the magnum opus of Virginia Woolf. But is that all there is to ‘Mrs. Dalloway’? A novel unlike any other until its inception? Not for me. I see ‘Mrs. Dalloway’ as a story beyond the confines of a novel. It is the character Clarissa Dalloway, it is the entity that was once known as ‘The Hours’, it is the being ‘Mrs. Dalloway’. Set in on a certain day in June 1923, London, we follow through Woolf’s eyes- Clarissa Dalloway, moving through the day buying flowers and running errands as she prepares to host an evening party. This seemingly simple task for a socialite like Clarissa, becomes a vivid mural recording the present events and past memories. Future finds no place here. As a product of the early 20th century, when Europe had just gone through the devastation of World War I, a time when survival till even the next day hung in doubt, it is no surprise that ‘Mrs. Dalloway’ is set in a single day. A day when Clarissa Dalloway was alive and hosting a party later on the same day. She knew not for certain what the day itself would hold, let alone the next.
Virginia Woolf is known for pioneering the ‘Stream of Consciousness’ style of writing in England. For the inexperienced reader, this style is confusing and exhausting. Initially, that is. But as one reads further, (or listens) one finds a familiarity woven twixt words. It is a reflection of our own mind. The seamless shift from present to memory is perhaps one of the most difficult things to capture and display on paper. But I believe that Woolf has managed to do so successfully. Her style remains as the prime example of the usage of ‘Stream of Consciousness’ and a famed work even a century later. Her focus on characters, on the individual instead of the society is what endeared the work to me. Clarissa is a wise woman, she chose stability over passion years ago in a society that had barely left the Romantic Era a few decades ago. But all the wisdom in the world cannot be exchanged for a heart with no regrets. To be human is to regret and Clarissa Dalloway is at the end of the day, a human. While her intellect is content with the stable and safe space that Richard has provided her with, her love longs to argue with Peter Walsh.
“Peter did, that he had no heart, no brain, nothing but the manners and breeding of an English gentleman, that was only her dear Peter at his worst; and he could be intolerable; he could be impossible; but adorable to walk with on a morning like this.”
What I find very interesting about the stream of consciousness is that it can transport one faster than the speed of light. Time and space hold no meaning for the mind, Heaven and Earth allow it to journey the lands however it wants. Millions of thoughts pass through our mind in a day. A word overheard plays a fondly forgotten melody, a colour reminds us of a life yet to be lived, and the flutter of a butterfly’s wings reverberates us to a brilliant and bright daydream. It is no short of a Herculean task to record these ceaselessly photons flashing from one neuron to another, and sparking from cardiomyocyte to cardiomyocyte. And time. What of Time? How do I hold these sands in my hand long enough to count all the grains, individual and homogenous. Dalloway too, with time has sealed a part of herself away to achieve the stability she so wishes for. But, Peter Walsh’s reappearance in her life led to an overlap of her lives, past and present and unlocked a side of her that was nothing but an acquaintance from days gone by for her.
To add to Clarissa’s worries, Septimus Warren Smith jumps fatally right before her party. Repulsed and raged, that is what her initial reaction to the news seemed to me. But her gladness to know he had done it, that he had chosen to throw his life away rather than let his self be sullied by society, it resonates with me on levels beyond those of literature and intellect. It connects not with mind, nor with heart. But it strikes a note on the chords of the soul’s lyre. It is like a windborne bard singing for the moon, a breeze that blows away fetters like dandelion seeds. It is a storm that rages across calm waters and turns with them into a mighty tempest. Clarissa knows better than not to be content with her marriage with Richard. But space cannot replace the intimacy shared in glances across the kitchen And what makes your heart race faster than bantering with your beloved? But Richard gave her quiet. He gave her peace. She knew better than not to choose them. She knew better than to choose the volatile life Peter Walsh had to offer her. That did not stop her heart. It never did. How could it ever? On moonless nights, and in corners of her mind hidden from her sight, she reminisced about herself when she was with Peter.
“That was her self—there, outside; gone, her self. She had often had the feeling of being nothing; of being tattered and unsubstantial as a ghost. He [Peter] was always so definite. But even now, she had to meet Peter somehow; and she waited, feeling herself rather like a faded flower, dry and stiff, but still preserving a certain shape.”
And neither does Peter forget Clarissa.
“What is this terror? What is this ecstasy? he thought to himself. What is it that fills me with extraordinary excitement? It is Clarissa, he said. For there she was.”
To be entwined with someone to this extent and still, not have them at your side. It is indescribable agony, a personal brand of torture and the most poignant wine there could be. There are unanswered questions; why? There will always be questions; why? Because all the books in the world cannot buy all the answers. Because to ask, is to not have a perfect answer. For, to be human is to regret; why?
LITERATI SXCJ 