the waves by virginia woolf

 

"Who is to foretell the flight of a word?"  

Have you ever held an opinion or observation back not from a fear of betraying your own emotions but from a reluctance to share the words you have assigned the thing, the thought, the feeling? Held close to yourself, your thoughts have an objective reality to you, but thrust out into the world, you feel the sense of loss arrived at through acquired subjectivity. Have you ever arrived at that spot where you wish to guard this intimacy with language against the potential pitfalls of the diminishment of your thoughts to the collective consciousness? Or is your existence amplified, given depth and meaning through a group movement to a higher consciousness?

This is the crux of my thinking surrounding my fourth read of The Waves by Virginia Woolf, a novel, at least on the surface, about six people dealing with the death of a friend. As a younger reader, I focused almost entirely upon the play of language, the poetic elements of the work that Woolf called her "playpoem."  When Bernard comments early on, "We melt into each other with phrases.... We make an insubstantial territory," I imagined that a shared consciousness creates a linguistic adhesion of disparate experience. An artistic output. Much like the well known opening where each of the six individual voices of the book contributes their observations to what takes on the appearance of a poem.

“I see a ring,” said Bernard, “hanging above me. It quivers and hangs in a loop of light.” 

“I see a slab of pale yellow,” said Susan, “spreading away until it meets a purple stripe.” 

“I hear a sound,” said Rhoda, “cheep, chirp; cheep, chirp; going up and down.” 

“I see a globe,” said Neville, “hanging down in a drop against the enormous flanks of some hill.” 

“I see a crimson tassel,” said Jinny, “twisted with gold threads.” 

“I hear something stamping,” said Louis. “A great beast’s foot is chained. It stamps, and stamps, and stamps.”

 But now I see something else. Something that stands larger than the manipulation of language. The concept of self. The quote offered above goes on from there in a similar pattern, but what I see now is not the product their subjective detailing creates but the fact that each of their contributions begins with "I." As each interior monologue progresses, we see the six individuals write their lives but without satisfactory end. The definition of self is an illusive quest to capture a truth, an essence by virtue of language alone.

The writing here is transcendent, and it is easy to get lost in the poetry of the work. No matter how many times you have enjoyed it. It prompted personal questions of self as well as renewed admiration for the genius of Woolf's writing and her mind-boggling re-invention of the novel form. No one had done anything like this before, and to my mind, no one has since. It is a lovely way to end Woolf in Winter. I only wish I had more time and effort to devote here today but obligations call, and I felt a quick personal reflection was better than late to the game in this instance. Many thanks to all who have joined the conversation these past two months. It has gone way beyond any expectations I had for this shared read. And many thanks Emily, Sarah and Claire to who always go way beyond my expectations. And to close on a few favorite quotes from The Waves ...

"There was a star riding through clouds one night, & I said to the star, 'Consume me'." 

"Let us again pretend that life is a solid substance, shaped like a globe, which we turn about in our fingers. Let us pretend that we can make out a plain and logical story, so that when one matter is despatched—love for instance—we go on, in an orderly manner, to the next. " 

"And the poem, I think, is only your voice speaking."