Book
Review
Inside
the Lighthouse family
Jane
Stevenson
Woolf's
continuing status as a novelist is part of the reason why
biographers find it hard to let her alone, but it is also
true that hers is an iconic life. Good cheekbones, bisexuality,
genius and suicide are all claims to posthumous celebrity,
but it is as if Woolf's particular combination of talent,
beauty and vulnerability has acquired significance beyond
that of an individual story.
Her
important contributions to feminist writing in England are
an aspect of this, since the process of her thinking about
women in the world is carried forward in her novels, her essays
and even her suicide. Having invented the myth of Judith Shakespeare
(in A Room of One's Own), she brutally illustrated
the point that the world was not yet ready for a woman of
genius by choosing her heroine's fate of death by drowning.
Her tragedy, like that of Sylvia Plath, has therefore been
treated as a paradigm for creative women's experience in the
20th century.
Julia
Briggs's book is not quite a biography in the ordinary sense,
but a study of Virginia Woolf as a writer. It starts with
her lighting a cigarette and thinking about her first book.
Each chapter charts the progress from her first thoughts through
her drafting and redrafting to publication and how the result
was received, both at the time, and subsequently.
Due to
the vast battery of Bloomsbury letters and diaries, it is
possible to establish in detail what Woolf was reading, thinking
about and experiencing as she worked on each book. She was
highly self-conscious about the processes of writing and reading,
and profoundly interested in her own creative process, so
she has left abundant material with which to complete such
a project effectively.
This approach
has the enormous merit of sidelining the whole problem of
Woolf as victim and concomitant wrangles over precisely what
she was a victim of; whether bipolar syndrome, genius, anorexia,
hysteria, her father, stepbrother, her husband or patriarchy
in general. Instead, we see how a writer's experiences, good
and bad - nightmare memories of her father, falling in love
with Vita Sackville-West or discussing aesthetics with Roger
Fry - are put into the service of her work in progress with
the vacuum cleaner-like efficiency which marks the successful
novelist at work. (Briggs acutely observes this in action:
'The drunken woman singing in Kingsway, in chapter V, she
had noticed on her way home a couple of months previously...')
Briggs
shows how Woolf's developing feminism was often at odds with
her desire to earn money and please her friends; her self-censorship
in a world of largely male reviewers, commissioning editors
and publishers.
Woolf
writes eloquently and angrily about the compromises and disabilities
forced on women as writers and readers, but never quite faced
the fact that she was, for all that, a fully paid-up member
of London's literary mafia herself, an influential reviewer
and publisher of new fiction. Though she was, uniquely, in
a position to meet the problem of publishing experimental
novels by establishing her own press, unlike Lawrence or Joyce,
she was not prepared to follow her principles through to the
point where she risked alienating London's network of opinion
formers.
Thus,
as Briggs shows, clearly but with great charity, there were
occasional yawning gaps between Woolf's principles and her
life. She wrote in Three Guineas that women should
not commit 'adultery of the brain' by writing for money, but
as Queenie Leavis pointed out acidly, she never tried to answer
the question of how anyone without a private income was to
support themselves (nor was she indifferent to her earning
power).
She was
a lover of mankind in the abstract, whose intelligence, wit
and humanity shine forth in her essays for The Common Reader,
but who, in practice, could not endure the company of those
without a respectable academic and/or social pedigree: her
servants, for instance, and her inlaws; Leonard Woolf's sisters
and mother are not even in Briggs's index.
Woolf
outlined a loftily Utopian comic vision in a speech to a feminist
society of an enraged patriarch in some future post-liberation
moment, racing from room to room only to find his cook and
maids reading Plato or dashing off a mass in B flat; one fears
that if her own had shown the slightest desire to enrol at
Morley College, her reactions would have been crisply patrician.
Her occasional
failures of literary judgment are mostly class-related; egregiously,
she dismissed Ulysses as 'the book of a self-taught working
man' (though she was to argue that women's exclusion from
establishment education allowed them to develop independence
of mind). Woolf was repelled by Joyce and Lawrence. She could
only deal with those whose internal censors were well in place,
dimly aware of 'beastliness', perhaps, but never straightforwardly
sexual. She killed 'the Angel in the House', but she never
did in Sir Leslie Stephen's daughter.
Source:
The International Virginia Woolf Society
Copyright
(R) thedailystar.net 2005
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