I, __Drew Patrick Shannon______, Hereby Submit This Work As Part of the Requirements for the Degree Of: Ph.D
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UNIVERSITY OF CINCINNATI Date:_31 July 2007_______ I, __Drew Patrick Shannon_____________________________________, hereby submit this work as part of the requirements for the degree of: Ph.D. in: English and Comparative Literature It is entitled: The Deep Old Desk: The Diary of Virginia Woolf This work and its defense approved by: Chair: Tamar Heller___________________ Alison Rieke___________________ Michael Griffith________________ _______________________________ _______________________________ The Deep Old Desk: The Diary of Virginia Woolf by Drew Patrick Shannon, BA, MA A dissertation submitted in conformity with the requirements for the Degree of Doctor of Philosophy in the Department of English and Comparative Literature, College of Arts and Sciences, at the University of Cincinnati, 31 July 2007 Committee Chair: Dr. Tamar Heller 2 ABSTRACT Virginia Woolf’s diaries have traditionally been used by scholars to augment discussion of her “real” and “major” works—the fiction and non-fiction whose publication she supervised in her lifetime—with details of their genesis, composition, and production. But as Quentin Bell, Woolf’s nephew and biographer, suggests, the diary itself is a major work, able to stand alongside her fictional masterpieces To the Lighthouse and The Waves (D1 xiii). The diary has been available nearly in its entirety for over fifteen years, and yet it is almost never considered as a text on its own. Of all of Woolf’s work, the diary is at once her most traditional (in its reliance on the “plot” of her own life and its day-to-day form) and her most modern and experimental (in the ways in which she often shatters the traditional diary form, uses it to her own ends, and distances it from the published, grand, monolithic male diaries of the past). The six published volumes suggest broad questions about audience, authorial intention, issues of the body and embodiment, and the development of Woolf’s modernism, while allowing for an extended look at her development as a writer, reader, wife, sister, and thinker. This project provides a comprehensive reading of the diary, and examines certain issues and themes through a series of individual “lenses” which correspond to biographical and thematic elements. Woolf once likened her diary to a “deep old desk,” and this metaphor of the desk—that solid fixture with many drawers, cubbyholes, nooks and crannies—informs my work. Much as the desk is made of compartments, my project will look at discrete themes and topics from Woolf’s diary in separate chapters, while addressing in each several overarching concerns that inform the diary as a whole. 1 2 ACKNOWLEDGMENTS I would like to thank the following individuals for their support during the writing of this dissertation: I have been fortunate to work with three outstanding professors from the University of Cincinnati as my dissertation committee. Dr. Tamar Heller, my dissertation director, is, for me, a model of scholarship and devotion to reading and teaching. Her enthusiasm for Woolf and for my project was immeasurably helpful, as were her lucid, clear, concise comments and suggestions. Dr. Alison Rieke long ago instilled in me her belief that one should always trust one’s instincts and follow one’s academic interests, whether “fashionable” or not—the best advice that an incoming graduate student could have asked for. And Michael Griffith is a true gentleman scholar and writer, with whom I’ve worked on this and many other projects, always with extreme pleasure. For their friendship, love, encouragement, devotion, and conversational skills (hours and hours of talking about books!), I also wish to thank Kristin Czarnecki, Kirk Boyle, Rachel Zlatkin, Kelcey Parker, Elizabeth Gordon, Mark Hussey, James Schiff, Erin McGraw, Brad Payne, Max Seibert, Chad Davidson, Noah Soudrette, Michael Cunningham, Hank and Marian McCoy, my mother Sherry Baxter, Lee and Ernest Elliott, Bill Tiernan, Andy Bockhold, Michael Klaubunde, Michael Sontag, Elizabeth Bookser Barkley, Margaret McPeak, Joe Rouse, Michael Littig, Jason Cooney, and Christopher McLean. I am deeply grateful to you all. Finally, three people deserve special mention: Holly Alder, my favorite “partner in crime,” was always there to remind me—on those occasions when I forgot—why I love reading in the first place, and plied me with scores of children’s books and fantasy novels, which, as we both know, are the world’s best forms of escape. All that I know about telling a good story I learned from her. Though he was half a world away, Valerio Lanzani was a constant, daily source of love and friendship in final months of working on this project. I thank him for being there. Se non fosse stato per Virginia, avremmo potuto non incontrarci mai, e questo lavoro è il minimo che possa fare per ripagarla dell’averci fatto conoscere. And all of this work—indeed, life itself—would have been impossible without my partner, John McCoy. “But, looking for a phrase, I found none to stand beside your name.” This is for you. 3 TABLE OF CONTENTS Introduction 5 Chapter One: “What sort of diary should I like mine to be?”: Questions of Audience and Intention 17 Chapter Two: “Doing my scales”: A Writer’s Diary 46 Chapter Three: “Stay this moment”: The Diary of Virginia Woolf as a Modernist Text 141 Chapter Four: A Portable Room of One’s Own: A Woman’s Diary 174 Conclusion 203 Bibliography 207 4 Introduction: “My casual half hours after tea” As for many children, my first experience of a diary was when I was given one as a gift for Christmas when I was eight years old. It was brown, with the word “Diary” embossed in gold on its cover, the pages edged in gold all around, and a thin metal lock, which, in retrospect, I see could have been pried open with the flimsiest of butter knives. I began it on New Year’s day, the first blank dated page, and wrote down what I did, who I saw, where I played. Remarkably, I kept this up nearly daily until the end of August, just after my birthday, when I must have grown tired of filling in the extremely narrow lines with the same daily drudgery. I look through it now, and read of playing Star Wars with Tommy Knox, of my grandparents’ visit to Texas from Kentucky, of the end of the school year, of swimming. What I do not read is how I idolized Tommy Knox, how my parents argued bitterly over the grandparents’ visit (my mother wanted it, my father did not), how that summer there was a partial eclipse of the sun, which we observed through folded photographic negatives, after which I worried that I’d damaged my eyesight, how it was the hottest summer in years in Austin, when eggs would fry when cracked onto the sidewalk. I remember these things, but I cannot read about them. Writing them was beyond my capacity at the age of eight, and yet when I look at the pages of the diary, I long for some better way to transport myself back there, and I resent the empty pages after August, though as I remember, the days to December continued much as the days to August had, but for a change of weather. By the time I reached college, my interest in diaries had progressed to the point that I began reading those that had been published. Again, like many, the first published diary I read was The Diary of Anaïs Nin, spurred by the release of the film Henry and 5 June, the first NC-17-rated movie, where I was forced to show proof of age before entering, though I was past twenty-one. I was intrigued by Nin’s voice, and found that my own diaries, which I began to keep seriously at that time in order to make sense of a failed relationship, began to be less a record of events and more a delving into my own psychology, into my own emotional territory, into fantasy. I was dismayed soon after to learn that Nin’s diaries were heavily revised, and written with publication in mind; later I was pleased that Elizabeth Podnieks, in Daily Modernism: The Literary Diaries of Virginia Woolf, Antonia White, Elizabeth Smart, and Anaïs Nin (2000), reveals that she too was “dampened by some classroom discussion which castigated Nin for being a confessional poseur, for giving us a diary which was, after all, a fake—crafted, revised, and edited for the benefit of her audience” (3). But, I began to wonder, does this matter? Does the fact of revision, of the writing being done with one eye on the audience, affect my pleasure in Nin’s arch, melodramatic, often randy voice? As a senior in college, I took a course on “life-writing,” and studied Tristine Rainer’s The New Diary (1978). Rainer, a protégé of Nin, argues that “[t]he diary is the only form of writing that encourages total freedom of expression. Because of its very private nature, it has remained immune to any formal rules of content, structure, or style. As a result, the diary can come closest to reproducing how people really think and how consciousness evolves” (11). While I agreed with Rainer’s premise, I found the course itself to be something of a contradiction, for while the teacher encouraged total honesty and no self-censorship, she collected our journals, read them, and graded them. If there was something we did not wish her to read, we were to put a large red X, in pencil, across the page—she would not, she assured us, read such marked pages. Not surprisingly, there were nevertheless a 6 number of things I did not write about in that diary, nor was I able to formulate any ideas of why I might be continuing to keep my own “real” diary, the one I kept away from the classroom.