Mrs Dalloway by Virginia Woolf
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

Of Life and Death, Verbs and Nouns

I expected this novel to be difficult. However, it wasn't difficult at all. It was an enormous pleasure.

I was struck by the preponderance of
  verbs

.

The novel might happen in the head of Clarissa Dalloway or the other characters, but they are observing activity and their thoughts reflect it.

It is more dynamic than passive or self-conscious or self-reflective.

It was less a stream of consciousness, than a consciousness of life as a stream or a number of streams, rolling and tumbling and flowing in the direction of some great expanse, the ocean, an ocean of possibilities, perhaps even a party.

The word "life" is a noun, but in my opinion, the Life we live is a bundle of verbs. Life is the vitality and vibrancy of the verbs we inject into it. Life is what you "do" during the course of your time on earth. All the large and little things you do.

Life is Eros, a life force, which can be juxtaposed in Freudian terms with Death (the absence of life) or Thanatos.

Perhaps Clarissa Dalloway represents the vitality of Eros, while her "double", Septimus, represents Thanatos.

Whatever, the two coexist in the novel and in each of us.

How our lives turn out depends on how we accommodate their coexistence.

We can let them fight or allow them to dance.

"A Dance to the Music of Time"

Ultimately, Virginia Woolf's novel felt to me like a dance, a progressive waltz, perhaps between Life and Death, Eros and Thanatos.

It seemed to be even more worthy of the description "A Dance to the Music of Time" than Anthony Powell's work.

Here is a description of the Poussin painting of that name from the first novel in the sequence, "A Question of Upbringing", part of which could apply to "Mrs Dalloway":

"These classical projections, and something from the fire, suddenly suggested Poussin's scene in which the Seasons, hand in hand and facing outward, tread in rhythm to the notes of the lyre that the winged and naked greybeard plays.

"The image of Time brought thoughts of mortality: of human beings, facing outward like the Seasons, moving hand in hand in intricate measure, stepping slowly, methodically sometimes a trifle awkwardly, in evolutions that take recognisable shape: or breaking into seemingly meaningless gyrations, while partners disappear only to reappear again, once more giving pattern to the spectacle: unable to control the melody, unable, perhaps, to control the steps of the dance."



I started to gyrate as I read on, then unable to control the melody, unable to control the steps of the dance, I grew dizzy, and slowly I started to remember something that happened a long, long time ago...



The Call of Duty

Each long table in the dining room seated 20 people, ten aside facing each other, as you'd expect, just like the year before, only now there would be some faces gone and some new faces expected, you wouldn’t really know who until everybody had returned from the end of term vacation and taken their position, some sitting in the same place, some moving to fill the gaps, some leaving a space to be filled by someone new.

There were a dozen or so at their usual table by the time Ian arrived for dinner, he looked up and down the table, until he saw six familiar faces, a hint of recognition on his face, his friends were all towards one end of the table, away from the front doors, although nobody occupied the two end seats, they had been left for latecomers.

To the left of his friends, a group of first year students were sitting in the middle of the table, not yet known or identified by names, so Ian pulled out a seat at the end of the table and prepared to sit down, gently lifting his chair so as not to make a sound and disturb the conversation that was in progress, chatter, chatter, talk, talk, this is what I did on my holidays, Keith had obtained work as a legal clerk, Ginny had spent the whole time at her parents’ beach house on the South Coast, Becky had returned to Switzerland and worked in a strawberry jam factory, making tiny woodchips that were supposed to replace the seeds that dissolved in the acidic process of making the jam.

An olive, almost dark, complexioned woman walked up and asked if she could sit on the chair opposite Ian, he nodded yes, not knowing who she was or whether she already knew his friends, she had not been in college last year, while everybody else reacted enthusiastically, yes, sure, of course, thanks for joining us, Judy, Becky said, have you met everybody here, this is Ian, she said, I’ve heard so much about this Ian, Judy replied with a smile, in her Eastern European accent, he couldn’t work out where it was from, though it was not as guttural as German, he stood and shook Judy’s hand, almost chivalrously, although there was no need for chivalry yet, at least, nothing to be chivalrous about, these days, apart of course from the presence of this charming woman, which was more than enough, but Ian was already smiling, he liked this new Judy.

She answered Ian’s many eager questions politely, until finally he had ascertained that she was Hungarian, and that her father was the Hungarian Ambassador, from Communist Hungary, as it was then, she was moving into college for her second last year while she worked on her honours thesis in French Literature and wanted to be closer to the French Department and away from the temptations of diplomatic parties and constant socializing, as if college life would be any less demanding, even though she loved that life, she was diligent in her studies, she wanted to be a writer, a publisher or a diplomat herself, and Ian had found all of this out while he deftly worked away at his roast lamb and three vegetables, it was a Sunday night before the first day of the new term, and there was always a roast of some sort.

Some of their friends finished their meals and left during the conversation, though Ian continually brought the chit chat back to Judy, as if they were the only ones present, you could tell he was infatuated already, well, Becky could, she was more alert to these things, her father was the Australian Ambassador to Switzerland, it wasn’t a big deal, Switzerland was only a small country anyway, it wasn’t even discussed amongst their friends, but they had nevertheless gravitated towards each other, informally forming a group of diplomatic children, Ian being the odd one out, the son of a banker, though his ambition was to be a diplomat, and if unsuccessful in that ambition, to at least get a few foreign affairs under his belt, he had a taste for the exotic, almost as if he was seeking a life raft upon which to escape from the routine life that awaited him in Australia in those days.

Judy was the first one of the remaining group to rise from the table, but as she did so, she reached into her handbag and took out four small envelopes, they contained invitations, each of them inscribed with someone’s name in neat blue fountain pen, though not the script that was familiar to Australians at the time, even her writing was exotic, she gave three to Ian’s remaining friends, and then, looking Ian in the eyes, handed him one, too, I would be delighted if you would come to my room for drinks on Tuesday night, any time between 8 and 11, Ian looked at the envelope and saw that it already bore his name, Ian Graye, he still has that envelope somewhere, with his other love letters and curios, Judy said, I knew I would meet you sooner or later, so I took the liberty of making out an invitation for you, what if you hadn’t liked me, he asked, well, in that case, I would have wasted an envelope and some writing paper, she said, not a great loss, but I didn’t think there was much chance of that.

No sooner were the envelopes circulated than Judy left to return to her room, Ian rising almost immediately afterwards, looking at his watch and saying, well, duty calls, Becky spotted the glint in his eye and laughed, you mean, Judy calls, and she laughed again, as if she had just read his fortune in a teacup.

The next two days, Ian didn’t see Judy or Becky or Keith or Virginia, because other friends saw him enter the dining room and asked him to join them, each time introducing him to first year students that they had just met, so Tuesday night came around quickly, although first he had to have some drinks in the Union Bar with some other students from his Political Science class, he had intended to finish up around 10pm and return to college for the last hour of the party, but it was 10:30 when he looked at his watch and realised he was going to be late, it was totally dark when he got outside, there was no moon and the stars were obscured by clouds, he walked quickly, anxiously, embarrassed, the crushed granite surface of the footpath crunching underfoot, his heart started to beat faster and a droplet of sweat formed on his temple, he was almost out of breath by the time he arrived at Judy’s door, giving the impression that he had hurried to be there, even though he was close to three hours late and had nearly, rudely, missed the party altogether, still as Judy was farewelling some of her other guests, she greeted Ian with a kiss on either cheek in the European fashion, and he wished that it had been his lips, I didn’t think you were going to attend my party, she said, half reproachful, half delighted that he had actually turned up, he said, there was no way I would have missed it, I’m sorry that another duty called, she poured him a glass of Bulls Blood, Egri Bikaver, and sat him on the chair next to her writing desk, by this time they were the only ones left in the room, and she sat on her bed, from this time on, she said, I expect to be your first duty, Ian placed his glass on the desk, having had only one sip, not that it was his first and only drink of the night, and he went and sat on the bed next to her and, perhaps too boldly, he passed his right hand under her black bob, and then their lips touched, for the first, but not the last, time.

A moment later, she pulled back, not by way of rebuff, by any means, and commanded him gently, but still firmly, tell me, what is the name of your most important duty now?

It is Judy, he said.

And there she was.



SOUNDTRACK:

Jimmy Smith - "Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf"

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CG0r80...

Herbie Hancock - "Watermelon Man"

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=p4ASTM...

Bill Lee [Composer] - "Mo' Better Blues"

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jJTKCm...

That's Denzel Washington lip-synching the trumpet in the Spike Lee film of the same name.

The band comprises trumpeter Terence Blanchard, Branford Marsalis on tenor and soprano, pianist Kenny Kirkland, bassist Robert Hurst, and drummer Jeff "Tain" Watts.

Di Ienno, Di Bella, Mori Trio - "Mo' Better Blues"

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_ahH2I...

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