Introduction: Legacies

Notes

1. I have coined this term as an echo to George Bernard Shaw’s ‘Bardolators’ (the ones who worship or idolise Shakespeare in a quasi- religious manner) to be found in the ‘Preface’ of his 1901 Three Plays for Puritans. 2. On the market value of Woolf’s name and face, see Silver, Virginia Woolf Icon 8– 10. 3. On Woolf’s rise to a household- name status, see Silver, Virginia Woolf Icon 102– 6. 4. Many active academic societies in the United States, Great Britain, France, Japan and Korea, and international scholarly journals such as Woolf Studies Annual and The Virginia Woolf Miscellany are devoted to the study of Virginia Woolf’s life, work, influences and milieu. 5. Woolf scholarship has expanded to include a great variety of interests and foci: historical and cultural studies; feminist and gender studies; postcolonial studies; language and genre studies; influence and intertextuality; modernism and postmodernism; work on manuscripts and variant editions. See Snaith. 6. Whitworth contends that ‘by the late 1990s Mrs Dalloway has displaced To the Lighthouse as the most significant work in Woolf’s oeuvre; and if not that, certainly as the work most attractive to creative interpreters’ (217). 7. The question of survival of only a few chosen books is voiced by Cunningham’s character, Richard Brown, who muses in The Hours: ‘There are, after all, so many books. Some of them, a handful, are good, and of that handful, only a few survive’ (225). 8. On 26 July 1922, Woolf wrote in her diary: ‘There’s no doubt in my mind that I have found out how to begin (at 40) to say something in my own voice’ (Diary 2: 186). 9. Ryan talks about ‘the sense of the pastness that pervades postmodern culture’ (386). 10. For the lexical spectrum related to the word ‘rewriting’, see Moraru, Rewriting 3– 21. After reviewing definitions from different theoretical perspectives (philological, historical, psychoanalytical, poststructuralist, anthropologi- cal), Moraru concludes that rewriting is not a literary genre, but an ‘archigenre’ or ‘hybrid practice’, an intertextual and ‘inter- discursive’ phenomenon (19). On definitions of ‘rewriting’, see also Rebei 45. The critic examines different meanings and concludes that rewriting ‘carries out two functions: one is that of writing the text again through a new inscription – thus remaking it and devising it anew – and the other is that of writing back to the original text’. 11. Since Antiquity, rewriting has been a ‘“motor” of literary history in the West’ (Moraru, Rewriting 7). This old phenomenon started with the Bible, and continued with Ovid, Chaucer, Shakespeare, Milton, Joyce, Eliot and

214 Notes to Introduction 215

so on, but the current postmodernist attitude consists in playing with the technique itself, using metafiction to reflect on it, devising and combining more sophisticated uses of pastiche, quotation, parody and other operations of textual transformation. 12. Several critics have addressed essential questions about the nature of rewriting as a distinctive feature of postmodernism, as a form of intertextuality, and as a proper genre. See Moraru, Rewriting 10– 21 and Bertens et al., eds, ‘Renovations and Innovations’, in International Postmodernism 177– 81. 13. I am here alluding to the title of Hillel Schwartz’s book, The Culture of the Copy: Striking Likeness, Unreasonable Facsimiles. 14. For Yarbrough, rewriting is a special form of ‘cultural recycling’ (60). 15. Moraru contends that postmodern discourses ‘are reprised, “remembered” and thus reenacted but not without alteration, as postmodernism spins its own stories, memoriously’ (Memorious 9, original emphasis). 16. In his 1919 essay ‘Tradition and the Individual Talent’, T. S. Eliot contends that ‘the past should be altered by the present as much as the present is directed by the past’ (15). For him, the poet must innovate while keeping an eye on what was written before and contribute to the value of earlier works. 17. Theories of influence have been voiced by many critics, among them T. S. Eliot (‘Tradition and the Individual Talent’), Harold Bloom (The Anatomy of Influence, The Anxiety of Influence) and Walter Jackson Bate (The Burden of the Past and the English Poet). Eliot proposes a pattern of influence that focuses on how the work of an individual writer fits within the preceding tradition, while Bloom proposes a pattern of influence that emphasises how the work of a later writer (usually a poet) surpasses the work of his precursors. While Eliot suggests continuity in the poetic tradition, Bloom argues for an attempted rupture. Eliot advocates a poet’s participation in and respect for the tradition. Conversely, Bloom has a revisionary view of poetry that privi- leges the individual who swerves away from the work of his predecessors. Both Bloom and Bate discuss the writer’s struggle with great writers who came before him and the effects of the illustrious predecessors on the writer’s creativity. A poet experiences Oedipal anxiety, that is to say a simultaneous need to imitate and to displace prior poets. In order to create his own work, he must surpass his father figure by revising him. Bloom’s Anxiety argues that a writer/newcomer (ephebe) feels a sense of anxiety when faced with the monumental, seemingly unsurpassable work of his precursor. ‘Strong’ poets must struggle against the overwhelming influence of their predecessors. The artist feels the pressure of being the successor of a great poet and experiences difficulties of being original when writing in the shadow of influential poets, which leads to a ‘loss of self- confidence’ for the successor ‘as he compares what he feels able to do with the rich heritage of the past art and literature’ (Bate 6– 7). For Bate, the cultural and literary legacy is regarded not as an asset, but as a burden, triggering an anxiety of influence. 18. The word tradition contains connotations of both continuity (inheritance handed down by a predecessor) and discontinuity (treason): ‘To traduce tradition is to affirm tradition: nothing is more traditional, in one sense of the word, than break of discontinuity, achieved by an act of treason’ (Pérez Firmat xvii). 216 Notes to Introduction

19. This idea is expressed by Borges in his 1941 short story ‘The Library of Babel’ when he states the ‘certainty that everything has already been written’ (470) or by Barth who speaks of the literature of our times as ‘the literature of exhaustion’: for him, a literary text can be nothing but an imitation of another literary text. 20. For a synthetic criticism of the current rewriting phenomenon, see Moraru, Rewriting 7. 21. Eliot was equally acutely aware of the pressures on the artist as a successor of a great poet who has seemingly created an art that excludes the possibility of originality in their heirs. ‘Not only’, Eliot argued, ‘every great poet, but every genuine, though lesser poet, fulfils once for all some possibility of the language, and so leaves one possibility less for his successors’ (‘What is a Classic’ 66). 22. Raymond Federman’s play- word in his 1976 novel Take It or Leave It. 23. In Anxiety, Bloom enumerates six revisionary ratios (clinamen, tessera, keno- sis, daemonization, askesis, apophrades) whereby the later poet, in order to become a great or canonical poet, travels through six phases in which s/he imitates, challenges, revises and eventually embraces his/her precursor by opening his/her work to that of the predecessor’s. During these phases of apprenticeship, the poet accepts and absorbs the precursor’s work and thus becomes a ‘strong’ poet (Bate 80), that is to say a canonical poet whose work stands the test of time. 24. I am here alluding to Edward Albee’s 1962 play, Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf? 25. See Genette’s argument that hypertextuality has the merit of bringing prior texts into a new circuit of meaning (Palimpsests 400). 26. See Cowart, Literary Symbiosis, in which the critic discusses recent trends in retelling that have made the act of borrowing more explicit, less veiled, and examines writers who ‘attach’ themselves to their sources in a symbiotic relationship that transforms ‘the monuments of literary history’ and makes them new. This generates a host– guest relationship between the two texts, which is an equivalent of Genette’s hypotext– hypertext bond. 27. This partial quote is taken from Woolf’s Between the Acts. My title here simply means that the authors I am considering in this book follow in their fore- runner’s footsteps. With Mrs Dalloway, Woolf broke the ice of conventional writing, has paved the way and opened new artistic possibilities for her successors. 28. According to Genette in his seminal study Palimpsests, hypertextuality is one of the five subcategories of transtextuality along with intertextuality, para- textuality, architextuality and metatextuality. Hypertextuality refers to any relationship uniting a text B (hypertext) to an earlier text A (hypotext), upon which it is grafted in a manner that is not that of commentary. Text B can evoke text A without necessarily mentioning it directly and can transform, modify, elaborate or extend text A by using various tools such as parody, spoof, sequel, translation and so on. 29. Artistic movements and trends are usually seen as competing for some time and eventually replacing and succeeding each other. Thus, postmodernism began to compete with modernism in the late 1950s and gained ascendancy over it in the 1960s (see especially Huyssen 188). Since then, postmodernism Notes to Introduction 217

has been a dominant, though not undisputed, force in art, literature, film, music, drama, architecture and philosophy. Salient features of postmodernism are normally thought to include the ironic play with styles, citations and narrative levels (see especially Hutcheon, A Poetics of Postmodernism 3– 21 and McHale), a metaphysical scepticism towards grand narratives of Western culture (see especially Lyotard), ontological interrogations and fundamental questionings of what the ‘real’ constitutes (see especially Baudrillard, Simulacra). A current growing feeling that postmodernism ‘has gone out of fashion’ (Potter and López 4), is reflected by new cultural and artistic developments and theoretical attempts to define new emerging trends and intellectual currents. 30. Bradford chooses to call Julian Barnes, Will Self, John Lanchester, Nicola Barker, Toby Litt and other contemporary British writers ‘new postmodern- ists’ (48). Their novels involve a ‘compromise between effects that we associ- ate with realism and avant- garde idiosyncrasies’ (49). In Modernist Futures, James considers the term ‘late modernists’ but explains why the term is imperfect: ‘it insinuates that [the authors] are sifting through the relics of high modernism and its residual goals’ (16). Pykett labels Jeanette Winterson a ‘post- Modernist’ rather than a ‘postmodernist’, as she finds it important to focus on Winterson’s roots in the original Modernism and her continuation of the modernist project, insofar as ‘the exactness of language’ (60) and the blurring of the boundary between prose and poetry are concerned. However, my term, ‘neomodernists’, indicates better that these authors continue a literary tradition initiated by the modernists themselves, renew it, revitalise it and prolong it in the present. 31. This constitutes an allusion to B. S. Johnson’s metaphor of the baton of innovation that is passed from one generation to another, in his ‘Introduction’ to Aren’t You Rather Young to be Writing Your Memoirs? 32. ‘I think a great deal of my future, and settle what book I am to write – how I shall re- form the novel and capture multitude of things at present fugitive, enclose the whole, and shape infinite strange shapes’ (Woolf, Letters 1: 356– 7). Woolf is also aware of her contemporaries’ urgent mission to revolutionise the art of fiction: ‘This generation must break its neck in order that the next may have smooth going’ (Letters 2: 597). 33. This is an allusion to the statement of the narrator in Barnes’s Flaubert’s Parrot: ‘There shall be no more novels which are really about other novels. No “modern versions,” reworkings, sequels or prequels [...] Instead, every writer is to be issued with a sampler in coloured wools to hang over the fireplace. It reads Knit Your Own Stuff’ (99). 34. Modernism’s chief characteristics are often thought to include an emphasis on ‘radical aesthetics, technical experimentation, spatial or rhythmic, rather than chronological form, [and] self- conscious reflexiveness’ (Childs 18). For further discussions of dominant characteristics of modernism in general, see, among others, Lodge, Modes; Levenson; Stevenson; Goldman, ‘Modernist Studies’. 35. Woolf, quoted in Henke 39. 36. See Hawthorn’s comments on the fluidity of Clarissa’s identity made of many alternative fragmented and unstable selves (9). 37. See Miller’s analysis of these psychological connections (‘Mrs Dalloway’ 177). 218 Notes to Chapter 1

38. For various theories and definitions of postmodernism from cultural, economic, aesthetic, philosophical, historical, temporal and political points of view, see Jameson, Postmodernism; Hutcheon, A Poetics of Postmodernism, and McHale. 39. In Art Objects, a defence of modernism (that ‘too many academics, critics and reviewers’ tend to present as ‘a kind of cul- de- sac, a literary bywater which produced a few brilliant names but which was errant to the true current of literature, deemed to flow, fiction- wise, from George Eliot to Anita Brookner’ [176]) and a manifesto of new modernism, Winterson urges her contemporaries to conciliate between continuity and originality.

1 ‘The Dressing-rooms, the Workshops, the Sculleries, the Bubbling Cauldrons’

1. The partial quote in the chapter title from Woolf’s essay ‘Lives of the Obscure’ (140) is here meant to indicate the bubbling process of creation behind any artistic creation, which is not generally witnessed by the spectator who does not have access to it, but is fully lived by the writer in the smithy of her manuscripts where her prose is gradually forged. 2. Mrs Dalloway started with the composition of two short stories that gave birth to it; subsequently the novel birthed another batch of six short stories. 3. A signature has certain consistent patterns and a unique identity; it is a sin- gular event, but is also repeated or reproduced with accuracy. The signature is supposed to look like itself but it is not supposed to be a copy. See Derrida’s term in ‘Signature’ 20. 4. In ‘The Brown Stocking’, Auerbach (536) enumerates the characteristics of Woolf’s style: multipersonal representation of consciousness, the polyphonic and multi- layered representation of time, the discovery of significance in the random occurrence and minor happenings of everyday life, a close approach to objective reality by means of numerous subjective impressions and so on. 5. See Rabaté, Poétiques de la voix, in which ‘voice’ is defined as a set of subjective enunciative strategies, particular, idiosyncratic dictions and prose modalities. 6. See Evans’s study of Woolf’s technical artistry ( 71– 100). 7. I have extended the definition of Chatman’s term (274) beyond the verbal, punctuation and syntactic characteristics to include other stylistic, thematic and narrative qualities, ingredients, features or templates which intrinsically define Woolf’s text, such as the typical flux and rhythm of the prose, motifs, verbal patterns, fluidity and flexibility of the narrative voice, multiplicity of subjective views, shifts in perspective, piercing through different time strata and alternating interior/exterior events, themes accentu- ated by Woolf throughout the process of creation (doubles, sanity/insanity, life/death), creation of powerful moments of being and so on. All these elements are used, imitated, extended, transformed or updated by authors who write in the wake of Virginia Woolf and whose prose is recognisably Dalloway- esque. 8. As Woolf finished Mrs Dalloway, she jotted down some notes in a small notebook labelled ‘Notes for Writing’: ‘This book will consist of the stories of Notes to Chapter 1 219

people at Mrs D’s party. My idea is that these sketches will be a corridor lead- ing from Mrs Dalloway to a new book’ (quoted in Dick 45). The short stories were finished by May 1925 but collected, edited and published together as a book in 1973 by Stella McNichol under the title Mrs Dalloway’s Party: A Short Story Sequence. 9. On the four notebooks owned by the Berg Collection that contain Mrs Dalloway material, see Wussow x and Appendix 2: 410– 87, Jacqueline Latham 98 and Hoffmann 172. 10. Woolf left one of her manuscripts to Vita Sackville- West with instructions for Leonard to choose it (see Wussow xii– xiii). Leonard sent Vita the manuscript of Mrs Dalloway on 29 May 1941. This manuscript was eventually purchased by the British Museum. Wussow’s transcription of this manuscript, which reproduces Woolf’s creative process in great detail, showing every revision and emendation, contains only the material pertaining to the novel, without the essays and reviews also to be found in the three notebooks. 11. The first notebook is dated 27 June 1923; the second is dated 18 April 1924, and the last one is dated 31 July 1924. 12. The use of ‘The Hours’ as a working title for Mrs Dalloway, from June 1923 to October 1924, suggests the importance of its structure. 13. This title is suggested by Woolf’s own metaphor of writing as digging up unexpected treasures: ‘I’m working at The Hours, & think it a very interesting attempt; I may have found my mine this time I think. I may get all my gold out [...] To get it I must forge ahead, stoop & grope. But it is gold of a kind I think’ (Diary 2: 292). 14. ‘the idea started as the oyster starts or the snail to secrete a house for itself. And this it did without any conscious direction’ (Woolf, ‘Introduction’ viii). 15. For an analysis of the short story, see Reynier 41– 2 and Skrbic 152– 3. 16. Clarissa is originally devised as a frivolous, loquacious, upper- class snob with high artistic tastes, looking down upon people who do not belong to her class. She is ‘more verbally deft, well- read, and acerbic’ than the Clarissa who migrates to other texts; she is ‘a different character who simply happens to share the name of another, nonidentical figure’ (Richardson 528). Despite a different personality from the character in the eponymous 1925 novel, some ‘diagnostic properties’ (Eco, Confessions 105) begin to appear, mainly concerning her physical aspect. 17. Wussow’s conventions for the transcription of the British Museum Manuscript of Mrs Dalloway are the following: example = cancellation; = insertion; = cancelled insertion; [example?] = uncertain reading; [example?] = uncertain cancellation; [ ] = illegible; [ ] = illegible cancellation; {example} = enclosed in square brackets by Woolf. 18. On the novel’s time structure, see Richter, ‘The Canonical Hours’. 19. Woolf uses numerous present participles after ‘she thought’ (‘looking’, ‘remembering’, ‘walking on’, etc.). Co- occurring thoughts and actions are thus presented concomitantly: thinking is not interrupted by the action, but internal thinking continues into external action. Woolf expresses her awareness of and annoyance with this tick: ‘It is a disgrace that I write nothing, or if I write, write sloppily, using nothing but present participles’ (Diary 2: 312). 20. On the use of deictics in Mrs Dalloway’s Party, see Skrbic 153– 4. 21. On the free indirect speech in Mrs Dalloway, see, among others, Jones. 220 Notes to Chapter 1

22. Evans suggests that by tying together multiple sentences with different stylistic tools (asyndeton, anaphora, epistrophe, etc.), Woolf articulates unin- terrupted flows of thought, which give a smooth texture to her text. 23. The illusion and obsession of being persecuted by psychiatrists is drawn from her experience and transferred to the character of Septimus. In 1922 the doctor in Harley Street advised her to practise ‘equanimity’; in the same way in ‘The Hours’ and Mrs Dalloway, Dr Bradshaw advises Septimus to try to attain ‘proportion’. On a discussion of how Woolf’s attack on the profession in the novel is based on her own medical experience, see Lee, Virginia Woolf 449, Briggs 147 and Leonard Woolf, Beginning Again 51. 24. For an analysis of ‘structures of balance’ in Mrs Dalloway, see Evans 75– 82. 25. The relevant entries corresponding to the composition of ‘The Hours’ from this notebook, which is kept at the Berg Collection of the New York Public Library, is transcribed in Appendix 2 of Helen Wussow’s edition of ‘The Hours’. 26. Woolf’s longing for London and the entertainment it provided while living in suburban Richmond find their ways into the novel she is writing. See Lee, Virginia Woolf 453 and 460. 27. A discarded draft of the short story was published for the first time in 1989 as Appendix B of The Complete Shorter Fiction of Virginia Woolf edited by Susan Dick. 28. This is a constant feature in Woolf’s writing: ‘I meant to write about death, only life came breaking in as usual’ (Diary 2: 167). 29. Genetic criticism has identified two basic compositional methods or mechanisms known as ‘programme writing’ and ‘process writing’. Programme writing has a prospective and controlled character and requires a succession of plans, programmed strategies and preparatory phases. On the other hand, process writing ignores planning details and consists of a succession of writing and revision phases until the writer stabilises his/her manuscript and decides to publish it. See Hay, La littérature 74– 5. When charting Woolf’s pro- gress during the composition of Mrs Dalloway we realise that her rigid plans and strict schedules (she is constantly referring to her ‘work scheme’ [Diary 2: 241]; ‘programme’ [Diary 2: 301]) sometimes give way to process writing. The idealistic plan is followed until her prose escapes the intended, calculated trajectory and follows a different path. Some scenes or episodes are carefully planned, but spontaneous ideas, thoughts and imagination take over: ‘But how entirely I live in my imagination; how completely dependent upon spurts of thought, coming as I walk, as I sit; things churning up my mind & so making a perpetual pageant, which is to me happiness’ (Diary 2: 315). In her work notebooks she records her rigorous plans but also expresses the desire to escape the restrictions she imposes on herself: ‘a delicious idea comes to me that I will write anything I want to write’ (quoted in Wussow 147). 30. For a discussion of the three versions of the opening passages of the British Museum notebooks, see Hoffmann 177– 8. 31. On the echoes of the symbolic adjective ‘solemn’, associated with water images, see Brower. 32. This idea is amply discussed by Hoffmann 179. 33. By ‘chorus’ Woolf means a component in plays of classical Greece, that is to say someone who is anonymous or a collective voice that provides comment Notes to Chapter 1 221

and acts as a shifter in point of view on the following character or scene. The role of such choruses in Greek plays is to help the audience follow the performance, and to link disjointed parts; also, the chorus expresses to the audience what the main characters cannot say. It thus provides external information on the character and completes the character’s own insight. 34. The visionary Septimus sees the trees alive, their leaves ‘being connected by millions of fibres with his own body’ (‘The Hours’ 280; Mrs Dalloway 19). 35. Many critical studies of Mrs Dalloway focus on Clarissa and Septimus as doubles, doppelganger or Gemini figures. See, among others, Guth; Richter, Virginia Woolf 227–8; and Page. 36. Letter from Raverat to Woolf, September 1924. Quoted in Bell 106. 37. Woolf gives particular attention to the creation of dialogues in her fiction; she ‘weighs’ and ‘sharpens’ each remark: ‘How can one weigh and sharpen dialogue till each sentence tears its way like a harpoon and grapples with the shingles at the bottom of the reader’s soul?’ (Letters 3: 36). 38. Hoffmann read and transcribed this word as ‘hour’ (183). 39. ‘Modern Novels’, an essay published in the Times Literary Supplement on 10 April 1919, was reprinted as ‘Modern Fiction’ in The Common Reader (1925). 40. The novel was described by Miller as ‘a novel of the resurrection of the past into the actual present of the characters’ lives’ (‘Virginia Woolf’s All Soul’s Day’ 113). 41. I am here borrowing Chatman’s expression (274). 42. In 1904, when Woolf suffered a breakdown, she thought that ‘the birds were singing Greek choruses’ to her as she lay in bed. See Lee, Virginia Woolf 188– 94, Briggs 147, Harris 88 and Leonard Woolf, Beginning Again 164. On the way, Woolf ‘set about exorcising her experience through the creation of Septimus’, see Briggs 142 and 146. 43. ‘[Lytton] thinks [I] cover [Mrs Dalloway], very remarkably, with myself’ (Diary 3: 32). 44. ‘As an experience, madness is terrific I can assure you, and not to be sniffed at; and in its lava I still find most of the things I write about. It shoots out of one everything shaped, final, not in mere driblets, as sanity does’ (Letters 4: 180); ‘These curious intervals in life – I’ve had many – are the most fruitful artistically; one becomes fertilised – think of my madness at Hogarth – and all the little illness.’ 45. On this subject, see Briggs 145– 6. 46. The strenuous process of composition and revision of ‘The Hours’ is interrupted by the spontaneously forming itinerary of a short story, ‘Nurse Lugton’s Golden Thimble’. 47. ‘Moments of being’ are moments in which an individual experiences a sense of reality, in contrast to the states of ‘non- being’ that dominate most of an individual’s conscious life, in which they are separated from reality by a protective covering. Such ‘moments of being’ could be the result of instances of shock, discovery or revelation. In ‘A Sketch of the Past’ Woolf describes her most powerful and memorable earliest memories or ‘moments of being’ and the acute awareness of those intense moments and sensations she experienced. On a discussion of how the ‘cotton wool’ of habit and routine is central to Woolf’s modernism, see Olson, ‘Virginia Woolf’, Jensen and Beja. 222 Notes to Chapter 2

48. Many scholars underlined the poetic quality of Woolf’s novels. See, among others, Freedman 192, Daiches 75– 6 and Beja 112– 47. 49. To give just an example of such repetitions that compose the fabric of Woolf’s haunting prose, the song of the old woman outside Regent’s Park Station is conceived in ‘The Hours’ 101 and repeated three times in Mrs Dalloway 69– 70. On the use of devices of repetition in Mrs Dalloway, see Miller, ‘Mrs Dalloway’. 50. Woolf may have found some of the new techniques she was looking for in the works of Joyce. See Richter, ‘The Ulysses Connection’ and Hoff. 51. During the process of composition of Mrs Dalloway, Woolf typeset Eliot’s poem for publication with the Hogarth Press. The themes of alienation and fragmentation appear in both Mrs Dalloway and The Waste Land. 52. See the concept of transfictionality proposed by Saint- Gelais. This covers practices that expand fiction beyond the boundaries of a given work: sequels and continuations, return of the protagonists, biographies of characters, cycles and series, etc. 53. The author’s special relationship with the text takes us to a pre- Barthesian critical position: the author gives birth and nourishes his text, ‘which is to say that he exists before it, thinks, suffers, lives for it, is in the same relation of antecedence to his work as a father to his child’ (Barthes, ‘Death’ 145). Woolf and Mrs Dalloway are thus to be viewed as a mother– daughter relationship. In her private papers, Woolf sometimes employs metaphors of giving birth to talk about her writing. See Letters 1: 348. 54. ‘Poioumenon’, or the ‘narrative of the making of a work of art’ (Fowler 123), is a term used for the metafictional process of telling a story about the process of creation. 55. For a discussion of these terms in the context of biography and fiction, see Lee, Nose 37.

2 Ventriloquists: Between Debt and Homage

1. This is a reference to Cunningham’s statement: ‘I ripped off Virginia Woolf in so many ways’ (Lackey 95). 2. On a discussion of the oxymoronic expression ‘original rewriting’, see Aimone 159. 3. Lend Me Your Character is a collection of short stories written by Dubravka Ugresic. 4. On the ‘tremendous’ research Cunningham did to create his fictional Woolf that ‘wasn’t, could never be, Woolf herself’, see his interview with Lackey 92. See also Cunningham’s interview with Spring: ‘what I’ve done is write about a fictional character named Virginia Woolf whose life very closely resembles that of the real Virginia Woolf’ (79). 5. See Cunningham’s ‘A Note on Sources’, The Hours 229– 30. 6. The image of digging ore is to be found in both Woolf’s Diary and Cunningham’s The Hours: ‘I’m working at The Hours, & think it a very interesting attempt; I may have found my mine this time I think. I may get all my gold out [...] And my vein of gold lies so deep, in such bent channels. To get it I must forge ahead, stoop & grope. But it is gold of a kind I think’ (Diary 2: 292). Notes to Chapter 2 223

This echoes Cunningham’s Woolf’s attempt to ‘reach the gold’: ‘This morning she may penetrate the obfuscation, the clogged pipes, to reach the gold’ (The Hours 34). 7. On Cunningham’s discussion on how his stories and characters ‘illuminate something about Mrs Dalloway’, see his interview with Lackey 95. 8. An epigraph ‘constitutes a claim of lineage, an assertion of kinship, of genealogy’ (Gutleben 17). It corresponds to the initial voice of authority ‘which gives the tuning’. ‘To begin a novel in someone else’s voice means to acknowledge its eminence and precedence’ (Gutleben 18). 9. Laurence argues that The Hours is ‘a book about translation’: ‘Cunningham translates the story of a 1920s London society hostess, Mrs Dalloway, into an American context in 1990’ (372). 10. On the way Cunningham’s characters mirror Woolf’s, see Young 37– 9. 11. Young states that ‘[i]n adopting Woolf’s narrative template, metaphors and motifs, Cunningham suggests that social changes do not lead to significant differences in emotional experience’ (41). 12. The name Vaughan refers to Woolf’s cousin Madge Vaughan. 13. For a discussion on the parallel representations of London’s Westminster and New York’s West Village, see Young 60– 2. 14. Peter Walsh himself is transformed into Louis Waters, Richard’s lover. 15. The character of Richard, ‘in whom most of the roads meet’, ‘while parallel- ing Virginia, Laura, and Clarissa, also carries features of Richard Dalloway, Septimus Smith, and Peter Walsh’ (Alley 412). 16. On the representation of the relationship between creativity and insanity, see Young 62– 6. 17. On the way the central image of the plunge in Mrs Dalloway is echoed in The Hours, see Hughes 350– 3. 18. Richard thus performs his mother’s suicidal impulses and reduplicates both Septimus’s and Woolf’s (character and real figure) gestures. 19. On Richard’s confusion of time, the way he seems to be living in a perpetual present, thus embodying the condition of postmodernity, see Young 47. 20. The circularity of influences is noteworthy: Woolf’s own emotions and experiences are used for her characters Clarissa and Septimus in Mrs Dalloway. In turn, Cunningham conflates their features and creates characters resem- bling Clarissa, Septimus and Woolf herself: ‘the biographical strand of Cunningham’s novel works by a circular process: it takes elements from the writer’s published works, and inserts them in fictitious scenes from the writer’s life; it then encourages the reader to see the works as echoes of the life’ (Whitworth 220). 21. For example, details such as the ‘chance encounter with an old friend, whom she invites on the spur of the moment to the party, her walk past various shops, her desire to buy a present for her daughter and the violent explosion that she hears once inside the florist’s’ (Pillière 132). 22. On character equivalents in Mrs Dalloway and The Hours, see Chatman 272– 3. 23. On the creation of this ‘villain’ character, see Cunningham’s interview with Lackey: ‘Woolf scholars tend to feel unusually possessive of her. They tend to insist on one single aspect of her life as explaining the whole thing: Woolf as incest survivor, Woolf as repressed lesbian, Woolf as this, Woolf as that. And 224 Notes to Chapter 2

yes, I did let Mary Krull stand in for a kind of miniaturizing, overly- focused approach to Woolf that I’m aware of in some academics’ ( 97– 8). 24. The character’s first name, Laura, is derived from Woolf’s half- sister’s (see Schiff, ‘Interview’ 118) and the surname is clearly a hint at the well- known Woolfian character from ‘Mr Bennett and Mrs Brown’, which embodies Woolf’s modernist principles of characterisation in modernist fiction. 25. The first ‘Mrs Woolf’ section ends with Virginia Woolf writing the incipit of Mrs Dalloway, ‘Mrs Dalloway said she would buy the flowers herself’, while the following ‘Mrs Brown’ section begins with Laura Brown reading this very sentence. 26. On Laura Brown’s reading experience, see Schiff, ‘Rewriting’: ‘Brown is, among other things, Woolf’s “common reader”. Through her presence, Cunningham creates a metafictional experience for his own reader, who, in effect, is invited into the pages of The Hours’ (369). 27. Spring comments on Mrs Brown’s and Mrs Woolf’s intellectual preoccupations of reading and writing ‘as a palliative for the excruciating difficulty of simply being conscious on a daily basis, from hour to hour’ (80). 28. On the ambivalent meaning of the hotel room both as an attempt to find a room of one’s own, a symbol of freedom, and a recurrent simile for suicide, see Whitworth 221 and Spring 78. 29. In his autobiography, Leonard Woolf notes his wife’s constant contempla- tion of death: ‘Death, I think, was always very near the surface of Virginia’s mind [...] It was part of the deep imbalance of her mind. She was “half in love with easeful Death”’ (The Journey 73). 30. Schiff asserts that ‘almost every technique, trope, motif, and theme derives from Woolf (e.g., Cunningham’s appropriation of such motifs as flowers, mirrors, and kisses, and his thematic preoccupation with suicide, art, and identity)’ (‘Rewriting’ 370). See also Pillière’s article on the multiple parallels between Mrs Dalloway and The Hours. 31. Laurence calls Cunningham’s mise en abyme of the reading process a ‘hall of mirrors’ (370). 32. On the way Cunningham ‘mass- produces’ the Woolfian kiss, replicating it ‘in multiple configurations and circumstances’ ‘in nearly every major scene’, see Schiff, ‘Rewriting’ 370. 33. On interpretations of the Clarissa– Sally kiss in Mrs Dalloway and Cunningham’s three variations on it in The Hours, see Haffey. 34. The awareness of the impossibility of reaching perfection is signalled in a passage from Borges’s The Other Tiger that constitutes The Hours’ second epigraph. On an analysis of the theme of failure in The Hours, see Leavenworth 517– 20. 35. Constantly haunted by self- doubt, Virginia Woolf considered herself a failure as a writer. This distressing thought is repeatedly voiced in her diary, especially towards the end of her life: ‘Then, being at a low ebb with my book – the death of Septimus – and I begin to count myself a failure’ (Diary 2: 308); ‘Well, you see, I’m a failure as a writer’ (Diary 2: 106); ‘On Saturday for instance: there I was, faced with complete failure: and yet the book is being printed’ (Diary 5: 17). 36. For both Laura and Virginia, the failure of producing the perfect cake and perfect prose is metonymically indicative of the grander failure of matri- mony and maternity. Notes to Chapter 2 225

37. The portmanteau word ‘biofiction’ indicates that reality and fiction, likeness and imagination, blend together in literary works. It reveals the transfers that are operated from biography to fiction and the cross- over genre which fuses two opposed poles when narrating the imaginary lives of people who really existed. This phenomenon is part of the current postmodern cultural and literary practice that manipulates the real and plays with different lay- ers of truths and pluralism of realities. On the various portrayals of Virginia Woolf in fiction, see Monica Latham, ‘Serv[ing] under two masters’. 38. I am here alluding to the letter received by Woolf from a young man after the publication of Mrs Dalloway. She recorded the content of this letter in her diary: ‘this time you have done it – you have caught life & put it in a book’ (Diary 3: 21). 39. Critics have pointed out the way Cunningham portrays his character Virginia Woolf in a somewhat stereotyped way, drawing on ‘exhausted stories concerning her madness and suicide’: ‘Cunningham resurrects the familiar cliché in which madness and genius are inextricably linked and mutually enhancing’ (Newman 9). Her life and creation fall into the shadow of death and madness: ‘by beginning the novel with Woolf’s death, Cunningham makes her a suicide first, and a writer second’ (Whitworth 219). Angry Woolfians and admirers of Woolf’s work attacked Cunningham’s portrayal of Woolf, especially after the release of the film. Thus, Rubenstein speaks of a ‘Virginia Woolf lite’ (3) representation of the author; for Alvarez, Cunningham ‘perpetuates one stereotype of Woolf’ (Maria Alvarez, ‘Woolf at Our Door’, www.theage.com.au/articles/ 2003/01/29/1043804404038.html [accessed August 2014]); and for Marcus, The Hours is ‘a tiny, insignificant spin- off from a great book’ (Jane Marcus quoted in Lee, Nose 60). 40. Cunningham discusses the freedom, as a novelist, ‘to imagine entering [Woolf’s] mind in a way that Hermione Lee, great as her biography of Woolf is, wasn’t able to do’; ‘The novelist adds texture and grain and nuance to the historical record’ (Lackey 93– 5). 41. On a detailed analysis of the interplay between the biographical and fiction in Cunningham’s ‘Prologue’, see Girard, ‘Virginia Woolf’s Suicide Notes’. 42. In his ‘Note on Sources’ (The Hours 229), Cunningham acknowledges the sources of his biographical information: Virginia Woolf: A Biography by Quentin Bell and Virginia Woolf by Hermione Lee. 43. Allusion to Lytton Strachey’s remark recorded by Woolf in her Diary 3: 32. 44. See Barthes’s notion of biographeme in Roland Barthes as kernels of truth or biographical shortcuts that condense a whole life. 45. On the cinematic effects of the ‘Prologue, see Olk 204– 6. 46. In her biography of Virginia Woolf, Lee reproduced the letter ‘as it looked on [Woolf’s] page, almost like a poem. Cunningham reprinted it in the same way in his novel’ (Lee, Nose 40– 1). 47. See Baudrillard’s discussion of ‘simulation’, ‘simulacra’, ‘hyperreal’ in Simulacra 1– 2. 48. My statement is an allusion to Barthes’s ‘Death of the Author’: ‘the voice loses its origin, the author enters his own death, writing begins’ (142). 49. Many reviewers have noted the similitudes between Woolf’s and Cunningham’s novels: Cunningham has managed to reproduce ‘gorgeous, 226 Notes to Chapter 2

Woolfian, shimmering, perfectly- observed prose’ (Kirkus Review, 1 September 1998, www.literati.net/Cunningham/CunninghamReviews.htm [accessed August 2014]), and he is ‘eerily fluent in Woolf’s exquisitely orchestrated elucidation of the torrent of thoughts, memories, longings, and regrets that surges ceaselessly through the mind’ (Booklist, 15 September 1998, www.literati.net/Cunningham/CunninghamReviews.htm [accessed August 2014]). However, the critics’ expertly formulated remarks remain vague on the specificities of the Woolfian style. For a stylistic analysis of The Hours, see Young 39– 41 and Chatman 274– 80. 50. Woolf said that ‘style is a very simple matter; it is all rhythm. Once you get that, you can’t use the wrong words’ (Letters 3: 242). 51. Intertextuality has been a much defined and employed term since Kristeva’s first introduction of the word in her 1969 essay ‘Word, Dialogue, and Novel’. The basic concept of intertextuality as a diachronic phenomenon is that there is no text that is original or unique in itself; it is rather a palimpsestic tissue or a mosaic of references to, and quotations from, other texts: ‘any text is the absorption and transformation of another’ (66). On other definitions of intertextuality, see Barthes, ‘Theory of the Text’: ‘Any text is a new tissue of past citations’ (39) and Genette, Palimpsests 8, where he provides a more restrictive definition, intertextuality (quotation, plagiarism and allusion) being one of the five subcategories of transtextuality. 52. As pointed out by several critics, Cunningham’s method of entering his characters’ minds and rendering their thoughts is different from Woolf’s technique which consists in minimising the narrator’s vantage and embed- ding external views into the consciousnesses of minor characters or ‘choruses’ that observe or reflect on the main characters. In Cunningham’s novel, ‘the reader receives insights into the characters’ thoughts, but does not gain immediate access to their minds’ (Spengler 69). Chatman seems to assume that Cunningham’s aim was to closely replicate Woolf’s Dalloway- esque style and therefore his creative endeavour is not entirely successful: ‘But there are important nuances of Mrs Dalloway’s style which Cunningham seems to miss or ignore. Their absence affects the degree and nature of our immersion in his characters’ psyches’ (275); the author ‘features his protagonist’s occupations at the expense of her preoccupations’ (276). Although criticised for his more traditional, rigid narrative voice that does not espouse the characters’ thoughts in detail and does not own Woolf’s fluidity and its seamless quality of stringing together so many different perspectives, Cunningham clearly stated that his intention was not to imitate Woolf’s style: ‘I tried to write the prose in my own way, having been deeply immersed in Virginia Woolf. I didn’t want to parody her style. I didn’t want to duplicate it, I couldn’t. It would have made me look like a fool. I just tried to be as influenced by her as I possibly could, and then stop reading anything written about her or written by her, and start to write on my own’ (Spring 80). Chatman’s criticism, who believes Cunningham missed or ignored certain features, is of little relevance here as Cunningham’s aim is not to systematically duplicate every feature of Mrs Dalloway, which would be an impossible and sterile literary exercise. Cunningham can be said to have transferred the spirit of Woolf’s Mrs Dalloway, not to have mechanically cloned or aped the pre- existing text. Notes to Chapter 2 227

53. On repetition of images and motifs in Mrs Dalloway, see Novak 115 and Miller, ‘Mrs Dalloway’. On repetition of images and motifs in The Hours, see Pillière. 54. www.powells.com/authors/cunningham.html (accessed August 2014). On the idea that rewriting is tied to reading and rereading, see Calinescu, Rereading, especially Part III, ‘Play’. He argues that the repeated reading of certain classics over time generates the idea of rewriting them. Scholes also declares that reading is a ‘constructive activity, a kind of rewriting’ (10). 55. www.pbs.org/newshour/bb/entertainment/ jan- june99/pulitzer_4- 13.html (accessed August 2014). 56. ‘Driving Mrs Dalloway’, The Guardian, 13 November 1999. www.guardian. co.uk/print/0,3858, 3929771- 103405,00.html (accessed August 2014). 57. ‘What I wanted to do was more akin to music, to jazz, where a musician will play improvisations on an existing piece of great music from the past – not to reinvent it, not to lay any kind of direct claim to it, but to both honor it and try to make other art out of an existing work of art’ (Schiff, ‘Interview’ 113). 58. ‘I felt wedded to Mrs Dalloway in a way I’ve never felt about any other book. I finally, finally, finally, grew up and wrote The Hours, in which I tried to take an existing work of great art and make another work of art out if it, the way a jazz musician might play improvisations on a great piece of music’ (Cunningham, ‘First Love’ 137). 59. www.thehoya.com/guide/011703/guide3.cfm (accessed August 2014). 60. www.thehoya.com/guide/011703/guide3.cfm (accessed August 2014). 61. On Cunningham’s originality to create a world that ‘feels surprisingly vast, inclusive, and interconnected’, see Schiff, ‘Rewriting’ 370. 62. I am here making reference to Winterson’s following statement: ‘Every generation needs its own living art, connected to what has gone before it, but not a copy of what has gone before it’ (‘Foreword’ vii), as well as Moraru’s argument that ‘many postmodern rewrites do not “copycat” even when they give this impression’ (Rewriting 13). 63. In Mrs Dalloway, Clarissa’s identity is defined through the marital and patriarchal dependence on her husband: ‘this being Mrs Dalloway; not even Clarissa any more, this being Mrs Richard Dalloway’ (9). My title here suggests that Mr Dalloway’s literary identity is defined through the close hypertextual relationship with Woolf’s character. It is noteworthy that Lippincott chose as an epigraph the following quotation by Harold Bloom: ‘Literary character is always an invention, and inventions generally are indebted to prior inventions’ (‘The Analysis of Character’, Major Literary Characters: Clarissa Dalloway). Mr Dalloway’s ‘life’ as a character therefore depends on, and is indebted to, Clarissa Dalloway’s existence as a character in a parallel fictional world. 64. I am here quoting Lippincott’s own words: ‘The inherent risk of writing Mr Dalloway, of course, is that it will be compared to Woolf’s novel and come up short. She had genius; I do not. But I do think that Mr Dalloway is a viable work of fiction which offers many pleasures to the reader.’ (www.sara bandebooks.org/sarabande/Authors/Robin%20Lippincott/998399056436/ readers_guide/interview.html [accessed August 2104]). 65. For Genette, this hypertextual category is labelled ‘forgery’: ‘forgery is an imitation in a serious mode whose dominant function is the pursuit or the 228 Notes to Chapter 2

extension of a pre- existent literary achievement’ (Palimpsests 85). Forgery is different from the fake: unlike the forgery, the fake aims to pass for an authentic work. While the forger is motivated by respect and admiration for his model, and is honest with his audience, the faker uses his model to deceive his audience, usurping a status to which his work, if it were presented as his, would have no social right. Forgery, despite the negative or illicit connotation attached to the word in English, does not mean ‘fal- sification’ or ‘fake’, but ‘that which is wrought or crafted’, an equivalent of the French ‘forgerie’. The purpose of a forgery is not to ridicule the model; on the contrary, because the forger chose the hypotext as his model and devoted a considerable amount of effort to mastering its most minute pecu- liarities, he implicitly indicates that this model is worthy of being imitated. Besides, the forgery aims to pursue or extend a pre- existent text, not to dis- tort or exaggerate its features: a good forgery is stylistically indistinguishable from its model, not a caricature. 66. The rewriting of a text from the perspective of a marginal character. See Genette, Palimpsests 292. 67. A sequel takes the work ‘beyond what was initially considered to be its end- ing’ (Genette, Palimpsests 206). The allographic sequel is written by a different author who proceeds by imitation, as opposed to autographic sequels written by the same author. Whitworth argues that the trend of ‘prequelling and sequelling’ (224) is part of a late twentieth- century trend. 68. Letter from Woolf to Philip Morrell, 27 July 1925, Letters 3: 195. 69. According to Genette, the paratext ‘controls’ our whole reading of the text. It is a zone of ‘transition’ and ‘transaction’: ‘a privileged place of pragmatics and a strategy, of an influence on the public, an influence that [...] is at the service of a better reception for the text and a more pertinent reading of it’ (Paratexts 1). 70. Eco argues that some characters escape the limits of their original role, migrate from text to text and become a ‘fluctuating entity’ (Eco, Confessions 96). Thus, Clarissa Dalloway comes to ‘live outside [her] original score’ (96) and becomes independent from the original text and the possible world in which she was born. Readers make an emotional investment in such individuals and are acquainted with them, even if they have not read the original score: such characters become part of the collective imagination and are endowed with an almost mythical aura. 71. Clarissa and Richard Dalloway appear briefly in The Voyage Out, Chapters III– VI. 72. Interview at: www.sarabandebooks.org/sarabande/Authors/Robin%20 Lippincott/998399056436/readers_guide/interview.html (accessed August 2014). 73. Alley discusses the ‘crucified shadow’ (405) of Oscar Wilde that hovers over Mr Dalloway and suggests the hostile, aggressive homophobia of the period. 74. Interview at: www.sarabandebooks.org/sarabande/Authors/Robin%20 Lippincott/998399056436/readers_guide/interview.html (accessed August 2014). 75. For instance, Lippincott gives Miss Kilman a ‘postmortem makeover’ (Hutchings 367): she is no longer a grotesque religious zealot, but has been rehabilitated into a feminist who encouraged Elizabeth to pursue her career in veterinary medicine, telling her that ‘every profession was open to women of her generation’ (Mr Dalloway 24). Notes to Chapter 2 229

76. See Genette’s definitions of peritext (elements ‘inside’ the confines of a bound volume) and epitext (elements ‘outside’ the bound volume: public or private elements such as interviews, reviews, correspondence, diaries) in Paratexts 344. 77. After Richard’s announcement of the train’s destination, Clarissa reflects on the ‘marvellous idea’ of ‘blending’ the personal, ‘their thirtieth wedding anniversary’, and the historical or cosmic event, ‘a total eclipse of the sun’ (172). 78. On a comparison between the narrative stance in Woolf’s Mrs Dalloway, Lippincott’s Mr Dalloway and Cunningham’s The Hours, see Alley 411– 13. 79. After four years, Richard, no longer a Member of Parliament, is writing a history of Lady Bruton’s family; Elizabeth is now in veterinary school in Liverpool; Peter Walsh and his wife have returned to India. Doris Kilman, Elizabeth’s history tutor, is now dead from pneumonia. 80. Clarissa, Richard and Elizabeth Dalloway, Sally Seton or Lady Rosseter, Hugh Whitbread, Lady Bruton, Doris Kilman, the dog (Grizzle), Peter Walsh, Lucy, Miss Pym and so on, are all characters borrowed from Mrs Dalloway. Other characters are borrowed from short stories written during or immediately after Mrs Dalloway: Prickett Ellis and Miss O’Keefe (‘The Man Who Loved his Kind’), Lily Everit, Bob Brinsley (‘The Introduction’), Mrs Vallance, Jack Renshaw (‘The Ancestors’), Ruth Anning, Roderick Serle, Mira Cartwright (‘Together and Apart’), Mabel Waring, Rose Shaw, Charles Burt, Robert Haydon, Miss Milan (‘The New Dress’), Bertram Pritchard (‘A Summing Up’). Characters from these short stories, present at Clarissa’s previous party, cross diegetic boundaries and mingle in Mr Dalloway. 81. The new cast of characters includes the Sapphist couple Katherine Truelock and Eleanor Gibson, as well as Sasha Richardson and Robbie. 82. Richard buys a copy of Virginia Woolf’s new novel, To the Lighthouse, as a gift for Clarissa, imparting the book a metafictional twist, and Vita Sackville- West, Virginia and Leonard Woolf make cameo appearances in the novel when they come to see the 1927 eclipse. 83. The author also connects Richard’s loss to that of Clarissa’s counterpart, Septimus, who experiences hallucinations about Evans, his friend who died in the war; similarly, Richard hears the voice of his dead brother and feels his ‘spectral presence’ (38) several times during the day. 84. On the representation of London in Woolf’s Mrs Dalloway and Lippincott’s Mr Dalloway, see Girard, ‘Mr Dalloway’. 85. Woolf describes this event and her experience in Diary 3: 142– 4. 86. See Monica Latham’s article ‘Serv[ing] under two masters’ in which she discusses Virginia Woolf’s afterlives portrayed by four contemporary authors: Robin Lippincott (Mr Dalloway), Michael Cunningham (The Hours), Sigrid Nunez (Mitz: The Marmoset of Bloomsbury) and Susan Sellers (Vanessa and Virginia). 87. The phenomenon which resides in transforming a historical figure into a character in fiction is a common writing practice on the current literary scene. The most successful biografictions (for a definition of the term, see Saunders 7, 216– 18) or biofictions (Buisine 7– 13) are those which com- bine a savvy ‘amalgamation of poetic license and documentary evidence’ (Young 50), plausibility and imagination, ‘no more than a pinch of’ ‘the truth of real life and the truth of fiction’ (Woolf, ‘The New Biography’ 477). 230 Notes to Chapter 2

Biographical fiction relies on biographemes which lend verisimilitude to the character’s life story and create a ‘reality effect’ (see Barthes, ‘L’effet de réel’), but also explores the ‘swarm of possibilities’ (Henry James, ‘James Russell Lowell’, Atlantic Monthly, February 1882, quoted in Edel 29) usually rejected by conventional biographies. 88. By ‘possible worlds’ I here designate the potential rhizomatic constellation of parallel, independent, counterpart worlds ascribed to the original one, that is to say hypertexts which branch out from a hypotext and maintain close relationships with it. Clarissa Dalloway and the other Dalloway- esque characters evolving around her in Mr Dalloway or The Hours, for example, inhabit distinct possible worlds. Chatman suggests that the two texts ‘do not continue the lives of the original characters, but rather use them as patterns for new characters whose experience is somehow parallel’ (Chatman 271). 89. See McHale’s discussion on strange loops and tangled hierarchies in Postmodernist Fiction 119– 21. 90. In Narrative Discourse (234– 5) Genette calls the contamination or violation of narrative levels ‘metalepsis’. 91. Parentheses are mainly used to contain external action, while the main flux of the sentence is devoted to recording the inner stream of consciousness. 92. However, Whitworth argues that this discourse is ‘occasionally flawed by implausibly American idioms’ (225). 93. For instance, the nominal clause follows the verb: ‘go she supposed she must’; ‘go she would’ (8). 94. For example: ‘what was his name?’; ‘when was it?’ (5); ‘how many years?’ (5). The ‘self- questioning tic’ (Chatman 275) is also prominent in Woolf’s Diary. 95. Other scenes from Mrs Dalloway are transformed and given an ironic twist. For instance, the plane in the sky becomes a fly buzzing near Richard’s ear. 96. The external view on Richard is embedded in the consciousness of the character of Stella Bowles, ‘a walk- on, a personage who, despite [...] her irrelevance to the plot, could function as “chorus”’ (Chatman 275). 97. For example, in Mrs Dalloway, Clarissa hears ‘[t]he cook whistl[ing] in the kitchen; [...] for Mrs Walker was Irish and whistled all day long’ (Mrs Dalloway 25) when she gets home from buying flowers. So does Richard: ‘Mrs Walker whistling, as she did, day in, day out, for Clarissa said she was Irish’ (Mr Dalloway 35); Miss Kilman’s clumsiness and unattractive- ness portrayed in Mrs Dalloway is also alluded to in Mr Dalloway: ‘she was clumsy; she gobbled her food; she glared at people; and she was untidy – wearing the same green mackintosh year in, year out’ (Mr Dalloway 65, original emphasis). 98. See the definition of Genette’s terms in Palimpsests 28– 30. 99. ‘I wanted my book to have its own life, not to be just an annex to Woolf’s’ (interview, The New York Times, 20 April 1999). 100. Pillière argues against applying this term to Cunningham’s The Hours since pastiche implies the imitation or mimicry of a style, not merely echoes of scene and characters. 101. Keeling affirms that ‘the goal for both writers is not authority or originality so much as it is relationship’ (157). Notes to Chapter 2 231

102. On ‘literary parasitism’, see Cowart 4– 5. The critic discusses the host/guest dependence and defines terms such as ‘guest text’ (hypertext) and host text (hypotext). Like Bloom’s ‘ephebe’, the guest author is seen as a ‘latecomer’. 103. This idea is also supported by Chatman, who contends that the ‘popular- ity of the derivative and imitative text’ ‘characterizes the postmodern era’ (269). 104. For a discussion of the etymology of the word and its different meanings, see Rose, Parody 72– 6. On pastiche as a mimetic and analytic type of writing that can be faithful to the original or only approximative or allusive, see Aron, Histoire du pastiche. In the first chapter of Pastiche, Dyer identifies the different types of imitation, concealed (plagiarism, fake, forgery, hoax) or unconcealed (emulation, homage, travesty, burlesque, mock epic, parody) and provides definitions for these terms. 105. On a discussion of the second- hand nature of this imitative practice, see Gutleben 25. Hassan defines pastiche as a ‘form of mutant replication of genres’ (‘Pluralism’ 507). 106. Laurence contends that Lippincott and Cunningham have created two ‘shadow’ novels (375). 107. See Schneider’s Voleurs de mots, in which he reflects on questions of borrowing and playing with other writers’ works (plagiarism, palimpsest, pastiche). 108. See Dee’s article in the June 1999 issue of Harper’s. Dee deplores the trend of contemporary writers towards resuscitating dead historical figures or literary icons, taking these practitioners to task for ‘impersonating geniuses – ostensibly as an act of homage’ while in fact capitalising on their ‘genuine cachet’ and the mystique their works perpetuate. At the very least, he argues, using novelistic techniques in a biography or borrowing the point of view of historical figures in a novel has forced a dumbing down of literature. At worst it has made novels ‘a kind of Cliff Notes to history’. Abel also states that Cunningham is ‘siphoning off of Virginia Woolf’s cultural capital in his novel The Hours’ (‘Mania’ 338). 109. I would argue that Lippincott’s and Cunningham’s daring rewritings of Woolf’s Mrs Dalloway are not so much about taking ‘little risks’ (in the case of Lippincott, see Schiff’s argument in ‘Rewriting’) or missing and ignoring important Woolfian features (in the case of Cunningham, see Chatman 275), but about creating special, original, tighter (in Lippincott’s case) or looser (in Cunningham’s case) hypertextual links, both involving equally creative dexterity. 110. For a definition of this notion, see Cowart. The term is derived from James Joyce’s Finnegans Wake and implies that storytelling is in reality ‘stolentelling’, namely art always involves some kind of ‘theft’ or borrowing. 111. See Derrida’s notion of hauntology, intended as a pun on the homophone ontology, which is pronounced in the same way in French. The term, first coined in Spectres, describes unstable ontology and indicates the state between being and non- being, existence and death, presence and absence. Wood stated that ‘The Hours is haunted by Mrs Dalloway – appropriately, because its theme is the haunting of present lives by memories and books, by distant pasts and missed futures, by novels and poems to be read and written’ (6). See also Bastrios, ‘Qui a peur du fantôme de Virginia Woolf?’ and Foster’s notion of ‘shadowing’ in Design 134. 232 Notes to Chapter 2

112. Aron defines pastiche as imitation of a style, which functions in certain cases as a homage and implies the pastiche writer is endowed with a ‘solid culture and a high virtuosity’ (‘Pastiche’ 442). 113. Genette comments on the recycling practice that consists of making something new from old material, which entails some degree of ‘tinkering’ (in French, bricolage). See Palimpsests 398. See also Lévi- Strauss’s notion of the bricoleur developed in The Savage Mind: the bricoleur creates improvised structures and new arrangements by appropriating pre- existing materials that are ready- to-hand. See also Derrida, who extends this notion to any discourse: ‘If one calls bricolage the necessity of borrowing one’s concept from the text of a heritage which is more or less coherent or ruined, it must be said that every discourse is bricoleur’ (‘Structure’ 285). 114. I am here borrowing T. S. Eliot’s famous remark on Joyce’s writing method in Ulysses: ‘It is simply a way of controlling, of ordering, of giving a shape and a significance to the immense panorama of futility and anarchy which is contemporary history’ (‘Ulysses’ 177). 115. See also Barrett’s article ‘Unmasking’, in which she sees Septimus as ‘haunted by his love for his comrade Evans’ (152). 116. This is ‘a subject that has even a greater currency within a contemporary world actively and openly exploring gender construction’ (Schiff, ‘Rewriting’ 364). 117. Cunningham ‘treats bisexuality as the normal condition of life’ (Lee, Nose 54). 118. On Cunningham’s updated version of some of the big events Woolf addressed, see Aimone 160– 3. The critic identifies three main thematic pairs: ‘the First World War and the AIDS epidemic, the new social order in the 1920s and in the 1990s, and the attitudes toward sexuality at the beginning and at the end of the twentieth century’ (161). 119. Many characters are affected by AIDS: Richard is dying from AIDS, Walter Hardy’s partner has HIV but is surviving on a cocktail of drugs, and one of Clarissa’s guests cannot come to the party because his partner’s AIDS has developed into leukaemia. Cunningham himself has commented on this issue: ‘Mrs Dalloway is very much a book about the aftermath of World War One, but it’s entirely centered on the effects of World War One, just as my character, Richard, in The Hours, is destroyed by AIDS. It’s about the effects that AIDS has on this particular person’ (Lackey 96). 120. Among the critics who question the practice of writing such books, castigating the lack of creativity of authors who engage their efforts in this genre which relies on other works and appropriates historical figures, see Dee. After analysing ten recent novels by Michael Cunningham, J. M. Coetzee, Norman Mailer, Don DeLillo, etc., that employ flesh- and- blood people who become characters, he concludes on the ‘veritable epidemic’ which has spread ‘in the last twenty- five years or so’ (77). 121. On ‘recontextualising’ and ‘reconstructing’ Woolf, see Whitworth 192– 226. 122. www.sarabandebooks.org/sarabande/Authors/Robin%20Lippincott/ 998399056436/readers_guide/interview.html (accessed August 2014). 123. On the accessibility of such ‘sophisticated bestsellers’, Calinescu states that ‘[m]any postmodern authors, no longer ashamed of best- sellerdom, want to achieve a large readership for their fiction’ (‘Rewriting’ 247). Notes to Chapter 3 233

124. This demonstrates that it is not a parasitic relationship, as both host text (hypotext) and guest text (hypertext) benefit from it. Cowart calls this phenomenon ‘literary mutualism’: ‘both host and guest seem to gain (in meaning or significance)’ (5). 125. Both authors have clearly affirmed their admiration for Woolf’s Mrs Dalloway: ‘I wrote the book out of nothing but respect and admiration for her’ (Cunningham, see Spring 79); ‘I offer [Mr Dalloway] as a token, however meagre, of my admiration – the kind of admiration only one writer can have for another’ (Lippincott, Mr Dalloway 220).

3 Parodic Games: Textual Assassinations and Canonical Resurrection

1. Written by a British journalist and two American undergraduate students at the University of Chicago, the first two texts have probably been considered unworthy of academic interest, as not a single scholarly essay has been devoted to these parodies. However, besides the debatable successful parodic skills these authors display (depending on their literary training), and their literary interest in the various forms of hypertextual relationships, these texts are produced and read in a specific cultural environment and have a social dimension. As such, questions raised by these apparently insignificant productions are nevertheless of paramount importance. On the other hand, Lodge’s The British Museum, considered a more serious literary endeavour, having been written by an academic and literary critic who fuses fiction writing with insightful comments on the art of writing, has naturally received more critical attention. 2. From the eighteenth century onwards there has been a proliferation of definitions of parody and critics have discussed the relationships or dialogism between two texts. For the etymology, origins and definitions of pastiche and parody, classifications into subcategories and the terminology used by different literary and cultural theorists, see Rose, Parody 5– 99. 3. The six hypertextual practices (any relationship uniting a text B – hypertext – to an earlier text A – hypotext – are: playful transformation (parody), satirical transformation (travesty), serious transformation (transposition), playful imitation (pastiche), satirical imitation (caricature) and serious imitation (forgery). See Genette, Palimpsests 28. 4. In Palimpsests, Genette points out the imitator’s necessary knowledge of the hypotext’s idiosyncrasies that are being reproduced: ‘in order to imitate a text, it is inevitably necessary to acquire at least a partial mastery of it, a mastery of that specific quality which one has chosen to imitate’ (6). 5. Other critics deemed it necessary to enlarge the definition of parody; for instance, in his essay on parody, Sangsue pushes the boundaries of parody beyond Genette’s ‘playful’ mode to comprise other texts with a comic or satiric intent. Hutcheon’s broad and pragmatic definition of parody embraces even wider scopes: modern parodic art can be defined as ‘imitation with critical distance’ or as ‘repetition with difference’ (Parody 36, 32). These definitions, however, seem to be too inclusive, embracing a wide range of intertextual phenomena and forms of rewriting. The definition of parody 234 Notes to Chapter 3

largely depends on theorists’ visions of such artistic phenomena and, more generally, of cultural practices. 6. Morace states that ‘Lodge is able to carnivalize so adroitly because he can- nibalizes so well’ (135). 7. Lodge dealt with this matter in his criticism, especially in his essay ‘The Novelist at the Crossroads’ and ‘The Novelist Today: Still at the Crossroads?’ in which he discussed the possibilities in the innovation of novel writing. 8. For a definition of micro fiction and other lexical variants such as micro narrative, nano fiction, sudden fiction, postcard fiction or short short story, see www.macmillandictionary.com/buzzword/entries/ flash- fiction.html (accessed March 2014). All these terms can be referred to by the umbrella term ‘flash fiction’. This expression emerged in the early 1990s and, since then, many literary magazines have commissioned this genre of fiction. 9. Crace’s definition of ‘classics’ is books with both a literary and a socio- cultural value. The books he condenses are said to reflect a ‘consensual’ view of the Western literary canon; they are works having ‘stylistic brilliance’, or pioneering a new genre, or yet constituting a ‘cultural phenomenon’ (2). 10. A term which covers the two notions is the neologism ‘parostiche’ created by Jacques Espagnon and developed by Paul Aron. See Aron, ‘Formes’ 255. 11. In Parody, Hutcheon comments on the signals included in the text that guide our interpretation: ‘parody is indeed in the eye of the beholder. But beholders need something to behold; we need signals from the text to guide our interpretation, and the degree of visibility of these signals determines their potential for assisting us’ (xvi). 12. Crace has commented on his method of digesting classics: ‘I read every word of every book I digest, scribbling notes on the pages as I go along. I can’t afford not to because if I get something wrong, I’m stuffed. So you could argue that I show rather more respect for the integrity of an author’s work than a reviewer who gives a book the thumbs up after a skim read.’ www.theguardian.com/ books/2010/feb/19/ digested- read- crace- ten- years (accessed March 2014). 13. In both her essays and her diary Woolf expresses her belief that characters must be left deliberately sketchy: ‘Characters are to be merely views: personality must be avoided at all costs [...] Directly you specify hair, age, etc. something frivolous, or irrelevant gets in the book’ (Diary 2: 265); characters should only be ‘splinters & mosaics; not, as they used to hold, immaculate, monolithic, consistent wholes’ (Diary 2: 314). 14. This is in keeping with Woolf’s own theoretical preoccupations with the conventions of novel and character creation, expressed especially in ‘Modern Fiction’ and ‘Mr Bennett and Mrs Brown’. While the author criticises the ‘material’ solidity of the narrative fabric of her ‘materialist’ contemporaries, she creates a sketchy, fragmentary character and weaves a looser, ‘spiritual’ fabric with a much greater focus on the ‘dark places of psychology’ (‘Modern Fiction’ 162) and inner voice. Clarissa lives differently now: a series of small moments ‘reveal[s] the flickerings of that innermost flame which flashes its myriad messages through the brain’ (161). 15. For instance, ‘Out it boomed’ (91). 16. Free indirect speech alternates with shallow dialogue in direct speech (‘how interesting’, ‘splendid’), a risible characteristic of the Woolfian characters’ upper- class detachment. Notes to Chapter 3 235

17. Crace’s characters, just as Woolf’s, are constant prey to doubts, interrogations and self- examination: ‘What was it he had said?’ (91); ‘Had not Peter once loved Clarissa?’ (92). 18. Such interruptions of the flow of thought are often marked by dashes, which enable a character or the narrator to retrieve a memory, express uncertainty or add clarifications: ‘The violent explosion that so shocked Clarissa – or was it Mrs Richard? – Dalloway came from a motor car’ (Crace 91). This specific sentence echoes the passage in Mrs Dalloway where Clarissa thinks about her loss of identity, being ‘invisible, unseen; unknown’; ‘this being Mrs Dalloway; not even Clarissa any more; this being Mrs Richard Dalloway’ (Mrs Dalloway 9); ‘The doorbell rang. It was Sally Seton – or Lady Rosseter as she was now called’ (Crace 93). Both interruptions here constitute criticism of patriarchal domination, as the onomastically signalled marital statuses of the two women indicate their belonging to their husbands’ spheres. Like the sudden intrusion of the aside thought, Clarissa feels her husband invading her identity and imposing his instead; and the fresh, spontaneous, unconventional, carefree Sally Seton is now part of the bourgeoisie, a social background that comes along with her husband. 19. On metatextuality as a form of transtextual relationship or discourse in which one text makes critical commentary on another, see Genette, Palimpsests 4. The complexity of metatextuality in Crace’s parodic exercise resides in the fact that in a text that parodies a model (a parody in itself already criticises a hypotext), the metafictional discourse inserted in the diegesis comes to explicitly complement the criticism inherent in the parodic enterprise. The metafictional dimension spells out the fundamental message of the parody itself. The metafictional comments (pronounced either by characters or by narrator) are both derisive and self- derisive. 20. Among the critics who devote attention to this aspect, see Sue Thomas. 21. For a synthetic overview of the critical reception of Mrs Dalloway see Hussey and Kuhlken. 22. Numerous critics have examined the aeroplane skywriting episode and have raised issues about reading and interpretation. Dalgarno argues that the scene reveals ‘the heuristic gap between Septimus and other readers of signs’ (75); for her, the skywriting ‘draws the reader’s attention to the process of signifying’ (76); Holmesland states that the hidden message of the aeroplane skywriting ‘calls for a more intellectual engagement with words, on the part of the characters as well as the reader’ (36); Goldman affirms that this episode constitutes ‘a metafictional moment of textual self- consciousness where the reader joins the characters in spelling out the letters on the page’ (‘Mrs Dalloway’ 57); finally, Valentine Cunningham asserts that ‘[t]he skywriting scene has rightly become one of the great exemplary representations of modernist doubt about reading’ (xx). 23. Among the critics who devote attention to this aspect, see Schlack and Abel, ‘Between the Acts’ and ‘Narrative Structure(s)’. 24. On the phallic symbols in Mrs Dalloway, such as the knife, pocketknife, nee- dle, parasol, tower, pinnacle, pole and so on, see Richter, Virginia Woolf 318. 25. Woolf’s writing was championed by pioneering feminist writers in the 1970s, who made her an icon of the women’s movement. Recent attention has been devoted to sexual orientation and gender in Woolf studies, the focus being 236 Notes to Chapter 3

on lesbianism. Kuhlken states that ‘[b]y 1983 Clarissa is an emergent lesbian, according to second- wave feminist critics in Jane Marcus’s New Feminist Essays on Virginia Woolf. And by the 1990s, she is a thwarted lesbian’ (74). See Barrett, ed. Virginia Woolf in which more than a dozen critics demonstrate how central lesbianism was to her life and work. 26. For critics’ arguments about Septimus’s homosexuality, see especially Barrett. 27. The readings of a text are inevitably shaped by systems of thought and knowledge (epistemes): the cultural, social, historical and political environment in which they are analysed and valued. Its meanings are in continual flux and evolve with the Zeitgeist. A vast and complex set of institutional and discursive influences inform critical responses at a certain point in time. See Foucault’s L’archéologie. On the way attention to context informs and affects readings of Woolf’s work, see also Randall and Goldman. 28. Crace insists on the playful and comic aspect of literary criticism when he states that ‘literary criticism does not have to be dull to be serious’. www. guardian.co.uk/books/2010/feb/19/digested- read- crace- ten- years (accessed March 2014). 29. Among critics who argue for this function of parody, see Hutcheon, Parody 51. W. H. Auden, in his 1962 essay ‘The Poet and the City’, listed a cur- riculum for his ‘daydream College for Bards’. Point number three reads as follows: ‘The library would contain no works of literary criticism, and the only critical exercise required of students would be the writing of parodies’ (77). 30. www.guardian.co.uk/books/2010/feb/19/ digested- read- crace- ten- years (accessed March 2014). 31. By popular culture I simply mean ‘culture liked by many people’ (Storey 157), or accessible works which can be considered as an enjoyable and easy read for a wide audience. 32. For a critical survey on competing theories of postmodernism and the attention given to the value of popular cultural practices (television, film, music, advertising), see Storey. 33. This is how The Guardian describes its readers’ profile: ‘The Guardian and Observer deliver a very affluent audience, 85% of whom are ABC1, and they are more than twice as likely to be of AB social grade. Our print reader’s average household income is £59,764, that’s 53% higher than the average GB family income. The Guardian and Observer readers are also a well edu- cated audience; 57% have a degree or doctorate qualification and they are 2.5 times more likely to.’ www.theguardian.com/advertising/downloadable- audience- info and www.theguardian.com/advertising/guardian- circulation- readership-statistics (accessed March 2014). See the National Readership Survey for an explanation of these demographic socio- economic categories. www.abc1demographic.co.uk/ (accessed March 2014). 34. Although the term ‘elitist’ carries obvious negative connotations, I would simply argue here that elitist texts are aimed at a specific reading audience who can appreciate and take pleasure in reading these texts. 35. This is an allusion to Gripsrud’s following quotes: ‘certain theorists of culture now want us to believe that “knowing Aristotle, Shakespeare, Marx, Foucault and Godard means nothing, we’re all equal”’ (537). Readers with a ‘cultural capital’, that is to say ‘people with access to high culture’s texts and Notes to Chapter 3 237

discourses’ (540) are more likely to appreciate an author’s parodic craftsman- ship thanks to their critical and reading tools. 36. A micro narrative is usually a text of extreme brevity, usually below three hundred words. In Twitterature, the texts are divided into small portions ( mini-bite tweets) for the reader to consume it quickly, hence my term ‘ finger- food literature’. 37. This genre of fiction has been encouraged by the demands of the internet for short pieces that are easily read on a screen. 38. See examples of such short short stories online: http://micro- fiction.blogs pot.com/, www.onlineflashfiction.com/ (accessed March 2014) or collected into several volumes, edited by Stern and James Thomas and Shapard. 39. The last stage of reducing micro fiction is nano fiction (narratives up to 55 words). 40. For a discussion of the self- reflexivity of parody, see Rose, Parody/ Meta- Fiction 66. Also, Aciman stated that much of their book is intended to mock the ‘narcissistic’ format of Twitter. See http://arts.uchicago.edu/article/students’- book- transforms- classics-‘tweets’ (accessed March 2014). Twitterature thus verges on satire and aims at criticising something outside the text, that is to say our present- day communication habits and obsessions. 41. ‘we give you the means to absorb the strong voices, valuable lessons and stylistic innovations of the Greats without the burdensome duty of hours spent reading’. The authors also promise to offer the reader the works’ ‘most essential elements’ (Aciman and Rensin xiii). 42. See Rose’s discussion of burlesque as a form of parody as well as the definitions of the term throughout the ages and according to different theorists in Parody/ Meta- Fiction 40 and Parody 60. 43. Presented in an anachronistic undignified way, Clarissa does not seem to fit in this role. There is a strong clash between her original role in Woolf’s novel and the new reductive genre (micro fiction) in which she is recast and in which she is portrayed with caricatural tools (burlesque). 44. @FlowerGirl is constantly ‘connected’ to her social network. Internet could be said to be the modern- day equivalent of Woolf creating invisible connections among characters, and Twitter, a twenty- first- century ‘tunnelling process’. 45. One critic contends that the authors have created a ‘loo book’. See www.inde pendent.co.uk/life- style/ gadgets- and- tech/features/twitlit- the- twitterature- revolution- 1841758.html (accessed March 2014). 46. http://mashable.com/2009/06/23/twitterature/ (accessed March 2014). 47. www.huffingtonpost.com/ emmett- rensin/ twitterature- university- o_b_414752.html (accessed March 2014). 48. I argued that Crace’s digested column could be seen as humorous Cliff’s Notes for the busy reader; in this case, Twitterature is certainly the Cliff’s Notes of Cliff’s Notes. See also Froula’s interrogations about Twitterature and the change in human character between 1910 and our postmodern condition (11). 49. www.penguin.com.au/products/9780141047713/twitterature- world- s- greatest- books- retold- through- twitter/61886/note- editor (accessed March 2014). 50. A more common publishing phenomenon consists in collecting previously tweeted material and publishing it in book form. In Twitterature’s case, the tweets have never actually been tweeted: they are in reality ‘fake’ tweets. 238 Notes to Chapter 3

51. See the Guardian’s article ‘US students hope to bring Twitterature to the masses’. www.theguardian.com/technology/2009/jun/24/ twitter- literature- twitterature (accessed March 2014). 52. As the two previous genres whose brevity has great potentiality of parody, this specific generic mould, the campus novel, also agrees with the inherent features of parody. 53. ‘There are ten passages of parody or pastiche in the novel, mimicking (in alphabetical order, not the order of their appearance in the text) Joseph Conrad, Graham Greene, Ernest Hemingway, Henry James, James Joyce, Franz Kafka, D. H. Lawrence, Fr. Rolfe (Baron Corvo, author of Hadrian VII), C. P. Snow, and Virginia Woolf’ (Lodge, British Museum 168). 54. For the stream- of- consciousness technique in Mrs Dalloway, see, among others, Prudente, Cohn, Naremore, Dowling and of course Lodge’s own critical insight in ‘The Stream of Consciousness’. 55. ‘plonge l’espace d’un instant dans une rêverie dans le style de V. Woolf’ (Lodge, La chute 13). 56. As a critic, Lodge is aware of the mechanisms and functioning of this technique: ‘It has been said that the stream- of- consciousness novel is the literary expression of solipsism, the philosophical doctrine that nothing is certainly real except one’s own existence’ (‘The Stream of Consciousness’ 42). Hence his parody of interrogations and doubts expressed in free indirect speech and integrated into Adam’s thoughts. 57. See Lodge’s Modes. 58. Lodge emerges from a specific critical tradition. Firstly, his work was influenced by structuralist and poststructuralist theories, especially concerning the death of the author as the authoritative producer or originator of meaning. However, unlike Barthes, who challenges the traditional view according to which ‘[t]he Author is thought to nourish the book, which is to say that he exists before it, thinks, suffers, lives for it, is in the same relation of antecedence to his work as a father to his child’ (Barthes, ‘Death’ 145), Lodge embraces this conventional idea. Secondly, Bakhtin’s theory of narrative dialogism is an essential notion for Lodge’s vision of parody and dialogic novels. Lodge explains that Bakhtin’s theory of the novel – seen as essentially dialogic or polyphonic in its verbal texture, as various types of discourse are woven into it – also inspired his own vision of the novel. See Lodge, Consciousness and After Bakhtin. 59. Gripsrud comments on the literary critic’s professional training and experience to judge literature better than any other reader: ‘it is not improbable that a literary scholar’s judgement about a piece of literature is in some sense more qualified than that of any individual reader without the critic’s training and experience. This is more or less equivalent to saying that a carpenter (or a designer, or someone professionally teaching carpenters and designers) is in some sense the best judge of carpentry. The possibility that individual readers’ experience of the piece in question may differ completely from the scholar’s does not contradict this principle, no more than my appreciation of a piece of furniture which a carpenter regards with contempt. The parallel between texts and furniture should of course not be taken too far, but the element of experience and knowledge in a critic’s work should not be completely disregarded either. Pretending that years of specialized training in criticism has not taught us anything about how to distinguish a well- done Notes to Chapter 4 239

piece of “art” from a not- so- well- done one, is futile’ (539); ‘The academic critic’s conclusions about a text are supposedly based on some sort of analysis of the text in question, an interpretative effort aimed at bringing to the fore dimensions of the text not necessarily consciously accessible through the normal, once- over reading’ (539). 60. Briggs affirms that ‘[s]ince the success of Daldry’s film, The Hours, [Mrs Dalloway] has become the most popular of Woolf’s novels’ (157). 61. Capturing an author’s idiosyncratic voice lies at the very heart of the practice of parody: ‘One would suppose that any writer who’s any good has a distinctive voice – distinctive features of syntax or vocabulary or something – which could be seized on by the parodist’ (Lodge, ‘Conversation’ 284). 62. On this aspect, see Hutcheon’s interrogations: ‘Can the producer of parody today assume enough of a cultural background on the part of the audience to make parody anything but a limited or, as some would say, elitist literary genre today?’ (Parody 88). 63. This concept is also a contemporary pop- music phenomenon: new compo- sitions are created by blending seamlessly two or more pre- existing songs, each with their own vocal signature. 64. See Jameson’s discussion of the emergence of new formal features in culture correlated with ‘the emergence of a new type of social life and a new economic order – what is often euphemistically called modernization, postindustrial or consumer society, the society of the media or the spectacle, or multina- tional capitalism’ (‘Postmodernism’ 112). See also Todd’s ‘Introduction’ to Consuming Fictions in which he argues that his book is anchored in a period in which ‘Western consumerism, the place of goods (including fiction as a pur- chasable, consumable commodity), has begun to be formulated as a subject worth attention’ (3). 65. Hutcheon sees the practice of parody as a postmodern solution to come to terms with the burden of the overwhelming tradition: ‘Parody [...] is one of the ways in which modern artists have managed to come to terms with the weight of the past’ (Parody 29). 66. These forms of ‘artistic recycling’ (Rabinowitz 241) are seen as ‘peripheral and parasitic’ (Stierle 19– 20) as they feed on pre- existent forms and build upon other artistic precedents. Are these forms useless repetitions of the past, ‘speech in a dead language’; ‘the failure of the new, the imprisonment in the past’ (Jameson, ‘Postmodernism’ 113), or are they ‘capable of trans- formative power in creating new synthesis’ (Hutcheon, Parody 20)? 67. The idea that the guts of the living contain and transform the words of dead authors is to be found in W. H. Auden’s poem ‘In Memory of W. B. Yeats’: ‘The words of a dead man / Are modified in the guts of the living.’ Also, the verb ‘digest’ used by Crace has obvious connotations of eating, ingesting and transforming the substance that is absorbed.

4 Virginia Woolf’s Neomodernist Heirs: Nostalgic Innovators

1. The prefix comes from the Greek ‘neos’ (‘new’). Neomodernism thus denotes a modern, recent, slightly different form of modernism from its original manifestations at the beginning of the twentieth century. 240 Notes to Chapter 4

2. From the Latin ‘retro’ (‘backward’), this prefix denotes something associated with or revived from the past. 3. On modernism’s ‘persistence and recrudescence in contemporary fiction’ (7), on ‘how and why modernist commitments, principles and aesthetics continue to inform the contemporary novel’ (1), see James. 4. I am here alluding to Bloom’s famous statement: ‘The dead may or may not return, but their voice comes alive, paradoxically never by mere imitation, but in the agonistic misprision performed upon powerful forerunners by only the most gifted of their successors’ (Anxiety xxiv). 5. On definitions of modernism, characteristics of Woolfian modernism in general and Mrs Dalloway’s modernism in particular, see my Introduction, ‘Modernism then and now’. 6. On the etymology of the word ‘circadian’, the difference between the ‘circadian’ and ‘one- day’ novel, and discussions on this form as the ‘quintessential expression of the time- consciousness of this century’ (60), see Higdon 58– 60. 7. In his article ‘Rewriting’, Schiff gives several examples of women reworking male texts and masculine traditions (365). 8. While numerous studies focus on A Single Man as a founding text of modern gay literature which problematises homosexuality and the homosexual identity (see, among others, Carr, Berg and Freeman), there is no scholarly in- depth analysis of parallels between Woolf’s Mrs Dalloway and Isherwood’s A Single Man. 9. Woolf and Isherwood were quite familiar with one another’s work. For example, the Hogarth Press published Isherwood’s novels The Memorial (1932), Lions and Shadows (1938) and Goodbye to Berlin (1939). Furthermore, Woolf and Isherwood met several times. According to Lehmann, Isherwood was ‘utterly fascinated by [Woolf]’ (33) and very familiar with her writings. Isherwood mentions in a 1973 interview that he had Woolf’s Mrs Dalloway in mind while writing A Single Man (see Kaplan 123). 10. Coined by Robertson (29), ‘glocally’ is a portmanteau that signals the inter- permeation of the spheres of the global and the local, the private and the public, the individual and the collective. For a discussion of Saturday’s ‘glo- cal’ dimension, see Schoene 61. 11. See, among others, Schiff, ‘Mrs Dalloway’; Bainville; Kakutani, ‘A Hero’; Tait; Currie, About Time 129– 30; Groes 106– 8; Head 192; Schoene 63; Brown 86; Kemp 42; Marcus, ‘McEwan’s Modernist Time’ 95– 7; Girard, ‘Virginia Woolf’s Mrs Dalloway’. 12. Like Septimus, the disturbed Baxter acts as a foil to the sane Henry. Marco Roth states that ‘the neurologically abnormal are foils more than actual characters’. See https://nplusonemag.com/issue- 8/essays/the- rise- of- the- neuronovel (accessed May 2014). 13. Courtney discusses McEwan’s interest in ‘the cognitive warping of time’: ‘an important event would feel weightier, and thus lengthier, and it is this experience that McEwan has attempted to convey through expanded duration of narrative time’ (179). 14. On Perowne’s absence of agency as a spectator, see Michael 32– 3. 15. Knapp discusses this ‘curious and vivid hyperrealism’ that she refers to as ‘ over- specification’ (125): ‘the semantic domains of the novel are consist- ently over- specified – the techniques of neurosurgery, particular London Notes to Chapter 4 241

streets and squares, shots on the squash court, ingredients for Perowne’s special fish stew, technical terms for Bach’s keyboard pieces and for his son Theo’s guitar riffs, and many more’ (126). 16. The stigma of the Great War is inscribed in human mind and life – particularly in the mental breakdown of Septimus. The here- and- now is always interwo- ven with history or people’s memory of the past. See DeMeester’s interpretation of Mrs Dalloway as a representation of a historical trauma ‘that sabotages faith in traditional value systems and the cultural order, undermines our sense of safety and stability, [and] erodes identity and self- esteem’ (78). 17. This has prompted critics to describe Saturday as an ‘allegory of the post- 9/11 world’ (Dirda T01) and Henry Perowne as an ‘everyman of the post- 9/11 world’ (Root 60). See also Tew. 18. For Caruth, ‘the soldier faced with sudden and massive death around him’ (11) is a classic example of trauma, in keeping with Freud’s theory of repetition compulsion articulated after the First World War, when soldiers came back home suffering from what was then diagnosed as shell shock. ‘Unable to come to terms with what they saw and experienced on the front, soldiers found its horrors returning to them later, after they had left the actual fight- ing.’ It is the task of trauma theory, developed in the 1990s, to analyse the ‘vexed, and often impossible, difficulties associated with remembering and understanding [traumatic] events’ (Buse 174– 5). 19. Interview with Ian McEwan: http://dir.salon.com/story/books/int/ 2005/04/09/mcewan/index.html?pn=1 (accessed May 2014). 20. On the representation of London in Saturday, see Girard, ‘Mr Dalloway and Saturday’, McLeod and Groes. 21. The concept of ‘monumental time’ coined by Ricoeur for his analysis of Mrs Dalloway could be applied to Saturday, too: ‘the complex apparatus of public history, collective experience and authority that constitutes the backdrop against which the private thoughts and actions of the characters are staged’ (Currie, About Time 129). McEwan anchors his novel in the ‘tradition of time- oriented narratives’ (Courtney 181). 22. ‘the home invasion functions as a sort of micro version of a large scale ter- rorist act’ (Michael 48). 23. ‘Among the Perowne children, “pigeon feeder” is a term synonymous with mentally deficient’ (Saturday 61– 2). 24. Several critics have commented on the role of intertextuality in Saturday. Groes distinguishes three types of intertextual practices in the novel: direct citation and the borrowing of voice; the construction of parallels; echo and allusions. Ulysses, ‘The Dead’ and Mrs Dalloway are the most prominent intertexts quoted by critics in relation to Saturday. See also Arizti 245, Groes 101– 14, Marcus ‘Legacies’ 87– 8. 25. Interview with Ian McEwan: www.salon.com/2005/04/09/mcewan_5/ (accessed May 2014). 26. On McEwan’s handling of time in Saturday, see Knapp 130– 6 and Marcus, ‘McEwan’s Modernist Time’ 95– 8. 27. Courtney argues that McEwan’s character’s thought exploration is quite traditional and resembles that of Austen, James and Flaubert ‘with one- but- weighty difference’: ‘McEwan’s moments occur in scene (not on the margins of scenes) in the moving, timed moment’ (180, original emphasis). 242 Notes to Chapter 4

28. On the different forms of trauma in McEwan’s novel, see Arizti. 29. Critics have shown the correlation between violence in the streets of London and violence in the domestic sphere in Saturday: ‘the interconnections between ordinary, privileged existence and the violence or threat of violence that hovers over it’ (Michael 28); ‘the tremulous atmosphere of violence that has hung over London all day invades the seemingly cloistered world of Perowne’s domestic environment’ (McLeod 256). McEwan’s technique consisted in ‘introduc[ing] a cataclysmic disaster into a mildly complacent English bourgeois domestic situation’ (Waugh, ‘Contemporary’ 128). 30. Quoted in Arizti 244. What McEwan says about Atonement’s indebtedness to modernist writers equally describes what happens in Saturday: ‘Atonement could not have been written without all the experiments in fiction and reflections on point of view. And tricks with those and that sense drawn from modernism and postmodernism of having other writing, other texts, the spirits of other writers, moving through your pages as if they, too, were as much a part of the real world as forests and cities and oceans’ (Roberts 155). 31. See the Wall Street Journal’s praise for McEwan’s The Child in Time: www.randomhouse.com/book/111393/the- child- intime- by- ian mcewan#praise&award (accessed May 2014). 32. On the combination of realist narrative (as Saturday reproduces templates of the Victorian ‘condition of England’ subgenre) and the intertextual, poetical and modernist dimension of the novel, see Root 67– 73 and Ross 75– 93. 33. For some critics, the ‘neuronovel’ is deceptively modernist. In his article ‘The Rise of the Neuronovel’, Roth discusses writers who are abandoning the mind in favour of the brain, moving from psychological investigation to bio- medical models of behaviour. He suggests that novelists today can be experimental only if they focus on characters who are neurologically or psychologically disturbed and are thus endowed with ‘special perceptions’ and ‘heightened language’. James contends that ‘as a genre, [neuronovels] are deceptive because they seem to be partaking of the modernist fascina- tion with felt impressions, when in fact they are using descriptions of sensory experience as a way of drawing pathological conclusions’ (156, original emphasis). On the neuronovel, see also Salisbury 884 and Waugh, ‘Thinking’. 34. Head argues that the use of the present tense contributes to the suspense of the novel (192). On McEwan’s mode of narration in Saturday, the use of a more authoritative limited omniscient third- person narrator, and a comparison with Woolf’s stream of consciousness, see also Groes 105. On the revival of omniscience in contemporary fiction, see Dawson. 35. For some critics, this amounts to a contradiction between style and content (see James 156). 36. On how McEwan’s novel ‘actively solicits a political reading’ (36), see Ryle. 37. Brooks defines plot as ‘the organizing line and intention of narrative, [...] conceived as an activity, a structuring operation elicited in the reader trying to make sense of those meanings that develop only through textual and temporal succession’. Plot ‘is the key component of that “passion of (for) meaning” that, Barthes says, lights us afire when we read. We can, then, con- ceive the reading of plot as a form of desire that carries us forward, onward, through the text’ (37). Notes to Chapter 4 243

38. Interview with James Hynes: www.jsonline.com/entertainment/9614 7609.html (accessed May 2014). Woolf combines the private and public life of the protagonist by seamlessly switching from Clarissa’s private thoughts to her mundane activity in a single sentence. See, for example, the following sentence: ‘Such fools we are, she thought, crossing Victoria Street’ (Mrs Dalloway 4). 39. Currie’s analysis about Saturday’s reports of TV news and their ability to transform clock time into monumental time could be applied to Next. Currie argues that ‘the rolling events of TV and radio news’ function as a form of clock for Perowne (About Time 130). 40. Numerous critics have commented on this primordial aspect of Woolf’s fiction: ‘In Virginia Woolf’s case the exterior events have actually lost their hegemony, they serve to release and interpret inner events’ (Auerbach 538); ‘the external event is significant primarily for the way it triggers and releases the inner life’ (Showalter xx); ‘because the external action is quotidian and largely unexceptional, the writer of the single- day novel is compelled to focus on the internal life’ (Schiff, ‘Rewriting’ 363). 41. What Courtney states about Henry Perowne in Saturday can very well apply to Kevin Quinn in Next. During such a moment of crisis, the moment is distended in narrative time and the character’s ‘mind is frantically racing through a multitude of complex thoughts within a short space of time’ (182). 42. On the difference between story time and narrative time, see Genette’s theory in Narrative. 43. ‘Let us not take it for granted that life exists more fully in what is commonly thought big than in what is commonly thought small’ (Woolf, ‘Modern Fiction’ 161). 44. Interview with James Hynes: http://tirbd.com/2010/05/monday- interview- james-hynes (accessed May 2014). 45. Interview with James Hynes: http://bombmagazine.org/article/4432/down- and-out- in- austin- tx (accessed May 2014). 46. ‘It’s a tricky book to talk about, because not much happens in it, but everything does, if you catch my drift. I’ve also described it as being like Mrs Dalloway, only funnier – though given that Virginia Woolf wasn’t much of a laffmeister, that may not be saying much.’ See Hynes’s interview at: john. purplestateofmind.com/?p=1396 (accessed May 2014). 47. Interview with James Hynes: http://tirbd.com/2010/05/monday- interview- james-hynes (accessed May 2014). 48. ‘[Woolf’s] work is packed with wit and sophistication, but it’s through movie adaptations that her mainstream reputation seems to shine.’ See http:// blogs.spectator.co.uk/books/2011/01/is- modernism- boring/ (accessed May 2014). 49. I am here quoting the interviewer’s words: john.purplestateofmind. com/?p=1396 (accessed May 2014). 50. Interview at: john.purplestateofmind.com/?p=1396 (accessed May 2014). 51. john.purplestateofmind.com/?p=1396 (accessed May 2014). 52. Interviewer’s words: http://tirbd.com/2010/05/monday- interview- james- hynes (accessed May 2014). 53. The title is a hint to Rhys Tranter’s article ‘Is Modernism Boring’, and more specifically to the following statement: ‘All of this begs the question: should 244 Notes to Chapter 4

we bother with modernism at all? Is it suited to our bedside table, or should it be exiled to obscurity on some distant library shelf?’ Available at: http://blogs. spectator.co.uk/books/2011/01/is- modernism- boring (accessed May 2014). 54. Schiff argues that ‘[i]n responding to Woolf’s Mrs Dalloway, Lanchester ostensibly has class issues in mind. His protagonist is not an upper- class hostess strolling through a pastoral and glorious London, planning her even- ing party that will be attended by the Prime Minister. Instead he is a solidly middle- class accountant with a mortgage, conservative financial habits, and currently, no job’ (‘Rewriting’ 377). 55. Though its title and location (London) derive from Woolf, the wanderings, musings and observations of Mr Phillips could also be linked to Leopold Bloom and Stephen Dedalus as they move through Dublin. 56. According to Schiff, the titles of the two novels, Mrs Dalloway and Mr Phillips, ‘highlight the bourgeois and domestic role of their protagonists’ (‘Rewriting’ 378). 57. For discussions of the representations of the ordinary, the banal, the quotidian, the ‘ infra- ordinary’ at the expense of the extraordinary, the sensational, the tragic, see Perec, Duperray and Viviès, Sami- Ali and Olson, Modernism. 58. In reality, age has taken its unforgiving toll on Mr Phillips’s body, exactly as it has done for Clarissa Dalloway, Henry Perowne and Kevin Quinn: ‘Now, at fifty, Mr Phillips finds that his body – which has served him very well in some respects, causing him to miss only three days of work in his entire adult life – is, if not revolting, then at least acting like a rebellious province, tired of being ignored by distant authority’ (30). 59. At some point during the day he even calculates the ‘free or nothing time’, the ‘blank space’ people waste in one lifespan: ‘an average of 16.375 percent, or 2.62 hours, or 2 hours and 37 minutes per day’ (150). 60. What Woolf said about Henry James being ‘much at present in the air’ could be applied to Woolf’s legacy itself and the way modernism, albeit in altered forms, remains pertinent in contemporary fiction: it ‘loom[s] large and unde- fined in the consciousness of writers, to some an oppression, to others an obsession, but undeniably present to all’ (‘The Method of Henry James’ 346). 61. Many of the novels discussed in this chapter have been nominated for pres- tigious prizes, the aim of which is to reward readable ‘serious literary fiction’. On this phenomenon, see Todd 1– 21. 62. Lodge suggested that ‘the novelist is constantly divided between two imperatives – to create and to invent freely, and to observe a degree of realistic decorum’ (‘Towards a Poetics’ 66). 63. See Lodge, The Novelist at the Crossroads and ‘The Novelist Today: Still at the Crossroads?’ Lodge suggests that new fiction is ‘a new synthesis of preexist- ing narrative traditions, rather than a continuation of one of them or an entirely unprecedented phenomenon’ (‘The Novelist at the Crosswords’ 4). 64. This is what Ian McEwan wrote on the occasion of Saul Bellow’s death in 2005: ‘He set himself, and succeeding generations, free from the formal trap- pings of modernism, which by the mid- 20th century had begun to seem a heavy constraint’ (Guardian G2: 2, 7 November 2005). 65. Here is Todd’s definition of the ‘general reader’: ‘a reasonably sophisticated, largely but not exclusively professional readership with an interest in, but not unlimited time for, the leisured consumption of full- length fiction’ (3). Notes to Chapter 5 245

66. McCarthy qualified the contemporary fiction as ‘nineteenth- century novel[s] with a few Joycean knobs on’. Quoted in Dugale 5. 67. In Bloom’s seminal Anxiety, see the critic’s famous image of the Covering Cherub as a symbol of the anxiety of influence, and his idea that only strong and gifted poets can overcome it.

5 The Artful Ornament of Ordinariness

1. For a full discussion on Woolf’s Dalloway- esque influence on Cusk’s Arlington Park, see Latham, ‘Variations’. Parey contends that while Cusk’s Arlington Park is modernist in narrative style, it is deliberately Victorian in the choice of themes and treatment of women characters. 2. ‘A woman stood there with a large suitcase. “Solly Curly?” she said. “Kerr- Leigh,” Solly automatically amended’ (123). 3. In The New York Times Book Review, Lucy Ellmann wrote: ‘There are some great moments, but [Cusk] tends to over- egg the pudding with metaphor, simile, and melodramatic hyperbole when all she’s describing is a set of materially advantaged women getting through the day.’ See http://query. nytimes.com/gst/fullpage.html?res=9407E0D71130F93BA15752C0A9619 C8B63 (accessed May 2014). 4. On ‘clock time’ and ‘psychological time’ in Mrs Dalloway, see Whitworth 120– 4. 5. ‘Any number of writers manage the big moments beautifully; few do as much with what it feels to live through an ordinary hour on a usual day’ (Michael Cunningham, ‘Introduction’ xx). 6. Woolf uses different metaphors in her novels to describe these moments: ‘little daily miracles, illuminations, matches struck unexpectedly in the dark’ (To the Lighthouse 218); ‘an illumination; a match burning in a crocus; an inner meaning almost expressed’ (Mrs Dalloway 27). See Jensen. 7. Woolf asserts that ‘[a]ll great writers are great colourists, just as they are musicians into the bargain; they always contrive to make their scenes glow and darken and change to the eye’ (‘Walter Sickert’ 23). 8. When compared to Woolf in the way she uses language as a craft in itself, Cusk gladly acknowledges the similarity but she also states her originality and complexity that stems from her own experience:

ELLE: People often compare you to Virginia Woolf. To me, you have a similar desire to use language as a thing in itself. Rachel Cusk: Absolutely. But there are lots of differences. My connection to life is much more, well, closer and more troubled. I am trying to work out my own experience in my writing, and that’s a very particular thing – it’s not a particularly Woolfian thing.

Interview at: www.elle.com/Pop- Culture/Movies- TV- Music- Books/Book- Release- A- Life- s- Work- On- Becoming- a- Mother- by- Rachel- Cusk/ The- British- author- on- her- controversial- new-memoir (accessed May 2014). 9. Cusk discusses the readers’ taste for ‘important subjects’ and provides an explanation for it: ‘that way, representations of private life can be 246 Notes to Chapter 5

camouflaged’. See Cusk’s essay on book clubs, ‘The Outsider’, which can be considered Cusk’s manifesto on contemporary British fiction. www.guard ian.co.uk/books/2005/aug/20/featuresreviews.guardianreview2 (accessed May 2014). 10. This kind of fiction celebrating the subjective private self could be described as what French academics called ‘la fiction de l’intime’ (the fiction of inti- macy). See Salado et al. and Pouzoulet. 11. Woolf’s essay ‘Mr Bennett and Mrs Brown’ was written as a response to Bennett’s attacks. 12. ‘Speaking crudely, football and sport are “important”; the worship of fashion, the buying of clothes “trivial”. And these values are inevitably transferred from life to fiction. This is an important book, the critic assumes, because it deals with war. This is an insignificant book because it deals with the feelings of women in a drawing- room. A scene in a battle- field is more important than a scene in a shop – everywhere and much more subtly the difference of value persists’ (A Room of One’s Own 74). See also Cusk’s article ‘Shakespeare’s Daughters’ published in The Guardian on 12 December 2009 in which she argues that the same masculine system of values prevails today. www.guardian.co.uk/books/2009/dec/12/rachel- cusk- women- writing- review (accessed May 2014) 13. See David Lodge’s distinction between metaphoric and metonymic modes of discourse in Modes. 14. In S/Z Barthes distinguishes between two types of texts: ‘readerly’ (‘lisible’) and ‘writerly’ (‘scriptible’). The readerly text is a conventional text that does not disturb the reader’s expectations. The writerly text is more challenging and involves the reader in its production. 15. I am here borrowing New York Times reviewer Michiko Kakutani’s comments about Ian McEwan’s Atonement. 16. McGregor has confirmed in an interview that he intended his novel to be set on the same day as the death of Princess Diana, noting that the event was the ‘sparking point’ for the novel. However, he wanted to focus on other ordinary, anonymous, seemingly unremarkable deaths that have the same kind of emotional impact and shatter other people’s lives. See: www.the guardian.com/books/2002/aug/20/artsfeatures.bookerprize2002 (accessed June 2014). 17. McGregor confessed in another interview that the city in which his story is set is the city in which he used to live, Bradford: ‘it would be fair to say that while I’ve always insisted that the setting for the book could be “any town in northern England”, it is essentially set in Bradford.’ Interview at: www.jonmcgregor.com/books/ if- nobody- speaks- of- remarkable- things/back ground (accessed June 2014). 18. The urban portion of McGregor’s street is comprised between house numbers 11 and 27 ‘which delimit the topographical scope of the novel’ (Schoene 156). 19. According to Nathalia Wright (248), there are 116 minor characters men- tioned in Mrs Dalloway. The Woolfian ‘chorus’ made of numerous anonymous characters also has specific narrative functions of prompting shifts in points of view and binding the folds of her prose together. Woolf conceives Notes to Chapter 5 247

these characters as narrative and structural agents, part and parcel of the internal design of the novel. 20. McGregor studied filmmaking as part of his Media Technology and Production Degree at the University of Bradford. On the filmic style of his narration, see Butter 213. 21. Letter from Virginia Woolf to Clive Bell in which she details her intentions to create a specific atmosphere in The Voyage Out. Quoted in Bell 211. 22. On modernism and ordinariness, see Ophir. On Woolf’s exploration of the ordinary as a central concern in her writing, see Sim. On the ordinary in Mrs Dalloway as a ‘powerful force of life, prevailing over traumatic events’ (59), see Olson, Modernism 66– 76. 23. On his website, McGregor commented briefly on the design of his novel, namely the connection and interaction of different stories contained in it: ‘I wanted to take a day in the life of one street in a city, and try to show the vast multiplicity of stories which were happening there, and to look at how those stories interacted with each other in an environment where people were constantly moving in and out and rarely knew each other’s names.’ www.jonmcgregor.com/books/ if- nobody- speaks- of- remarkable- things/back ground (accessed June 2014). 24. McGregor discussed in an interview the importance of this episode and its temporal amplitude: ‘In fact, my original concept for the novel was that it would take place over the course of the thirty seconds it would take for one of these near- misses to happen or to not happen. It proved impossible to stretch thirty seconds over the course of a whole novel (although I bet Nicholson Baker could do it), and in the end my attempt was reshaped to form the closing chapter of the novel.’ www.jonmcgregor.com/books/if- nobody- speaks- of- remarkable-things/background (accessed June 2014). 25. I am here borrowing John Updike’s comment on Ian McEwan’s Atonement in his review published in The New Yorker. 26. See Zadie Smith’s essay ‘Two Paths for the Novel’ published in the New York Review of Books on 20 November 2008. www.nybooks.com/articles/archives/ 2008/nov/20/ two- paths- for- the-novel/ (accessed June 2014). 27. Interview with Ali Smith: www. cambridge- news.co.uk/Whats- on- leisure/ Books/ Interview- Archive/ A- rare- conversation- with- Ali- Smith- 16022012.htm (accessed June 2014). 28. In an interview with Gillian Beer, Smith assesses the importance of ‘voice’ in her fiction: ‘Everything does have voice, a structure has voice, a set of words that’s written down, no matter what person has said it, has a voice. I don’t mean style, I mean there’s a voice. I mean that at every point there’s a calibration of voice happening, and what’s interesting to me really is what the calibration is, where it’s coming from, who’s got the authority to have the voice. Is there authority? Are we making up authority? Do we make the voice up or does the voice impinge on us? It’s never a monologue. Even a monologue is never a monologue. It always implies’ (138). 29. On a discussion on the linguistic aspects in Hotel World, on how the gram- matical is transformed into metaphorical, see Currie, ‘Ali Smith’ 56– 60. 30. On a comparison between these two passages and a few similarities in style and structure between Mrs Dalloway and Hotel World, see Blyth 51– 2. 248 Notes to Conclusion

31. Levin argues that all the protagonists in the novel ‘suffer from a kind of aphasia’ (43). 32. The ‘inherent forgetting’ (Caruth 17) has been analysed in the light of trauma theory. See also López Sánchez 46– 7. 33. On an analysis of Else’s, Penny’s and Clare’s discourses as testimonies of trauma, see López Sánchez 52. 34. These are the novel’s last lines: ‘Morning. One bird lands, then another. The tree shakes slightly. Rainwater jolts off the branches and falls, a miniature parody of rain’ (236). 35. Smith declared the following in an interview: ‘I believe that there’s never just one version or story, and that stories exist multifacetedly, multivocally, plurally, and that their wholeness is the revelation of a coming- together, a necessarily communal act.’ www.foyles.co.uk/ali- smith (accessed June 2014). 36. For instance, fragments from Muriel Spark’s Memento Mori, William Blake’s ‘The Marriage of Heaven and Hell’, Edwin Muir’s ‘The Child Dying’, Charles Jencks’s The Architecture of the Jumping Universe and Albert Camus’s The Fall are epigraphs that appear at the beginning of Smith’s novel. 37. On Smith’s modernist influences, see Denes and Marr. 38. On the novel’s use of postmodernist devices, see Eshelman. 39. By ‘serious literary fiction’, Todd means ‘self- consciously literary novels intended to appeal to the “general reader”’ (3). Although it is difficult to exactly define the essence of literariness, there are common authorial practices that compose the nature of literary fiction, many of them rooted in modernist aesthetics. Winterson also indirectly defines literary fiction and discusses the value of literature by castigating the Booker Prize’s judges’ focus on ‘readability’. For Winterson, literary works should not offer the reader an easy, straightforward reading experience that ‘goes from A to B and does not tax the brain’. Literary novels should be language- based and the writer’s capacity for language should expand the reader’s capacity to think and feel. The author advocates a language close to poetry that ‘operat[es] on a different level to our everyday exchanges of information and conversation’, that ‘experiment with form’ and the ‘strangeness of imagination’. See her article ‘Ignore the Booker Brouhaha: Readability is no Test for Literature’ published in The Guardian, 18 October 2011. www.guardian.co.uk/commentisfree/2011/ oct/18/bookerprize- readability- test- literature (accessed June 2014). 40. See Gabriel Josipovici’s interrogations in ‘Modernism Still Matters’: ‘What had happened to literary modernism in this country? How did it expire like this, without leaving a trace?’ www.newstatesman.com/books/2010/09/ writers- english-modernism (accessed June 2014). 41. In a collection entitled New Writing 13, its editors, Ali Smith and Toby Litt, stated that their main criterion for choosing the pieces was ‘writing which renews language itself’ (quoted in Bradford 70).

Conclusion: New Kids on the Virginia Woolf Block

1. I am here alluding to Justin Spring’s discussion with Michael Cunningham about Woolf’s legatees. JS: ‘You are the new kid on the Virginia Woolf block’. MC: ‘And it’s a big block, populated by a lot of very, very smart kids’ (79). Notes to Conclusion 249

2. The term ‘mythical method’ was coined by T. S. Eliot in his 1923 essay ‘Ulysses, Order, and Myth’. Schiff discusses the ‘mythical method’ employed in a certain type of literature today that ‘explicitly attempts to retell earlier stories that have achieved mythic significance’ (‘Contemporary’ 367). 3. According to some critics, mythical stories ‘improve with retelling’ (Kroeber 1). Alley contends that such contemporary literary productions as The Hours (novel and film) enable a return to the original masterpiece: ‘The stunning success that has attended these particular children of Mrs Dalloway, both novel and film, was responsible, of course, for making the original masterpiece a bestseller for the first time in seventy- five years’ (415). 4. See Bentley 194– 5 and Bradford 47– 78. 5. Critics have announced the death of postmodernism and are currently attempting to articulate a theory of post- postmodernism from philosophical, cultural, historical and artistic points of view. This growing theoretical movement emerged in the late 2000s and seeks to chart cultural developments in the aftermath of postmodernism. However, there have been few formal attempts to define and name the ensemble of new paradigms in art succeeding postmodernism: some critics labelled this new postmodernism, post- postmodernism or metamodernism, but none of the proposed designations has yet become part of mainstream terminology. In 2006 the British scholar Alan Kirby formulated a socio- cultural assessment of post- postmodernism that he calls ‘pseudo- modernism’ (see ‘Death’). In 2010 the cultural theorists Timotheus Vermeulen and Robin van den Akker introduced the term ‘metamodernism’, the prefix ‘meta’ here referring not to some reflective stance or repeated rumination, but to Plato’s metaxy, which intends a movement between opposite poles as well as beyond binary aspects – here modernism and postmodernism. See also Potter and López, After Postmodernism and the series of essays in the American Book Review 34.4 (May/June 2013) dedicated to metamodernism. 6. The critic further argues that ‘[t]he ideal Postmodernist novel will somehow rise above the quarrel between realism and irrealism, formalism and “content- ism,” pure and committed literature, coterie fiction and junk fiction’ (Barth 203). 7. Instead of providing an explicit theoretical definition, Ian Jack, the editor of the literary magazine Granta from 1995 to 2007, relies on a more intuitive and pragmatic sense of literariness: ‘The “literary novel” isn’t an easy thing to define; you know it when you see it’ (11). 8. I am here paraphrasing Joyce: ‘The artist, like the God of the creation, remains within or behind or beyond or above his handiwork, invisible, refined out of existence, indifferent, paring his fingernails’ (Portrait 249). Bibliography

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NOTE: Page numbers followed by n and a number refer to information in a note.

Aciman, Alexander, 5, 6, 124–8, biographeme, 85, 87, 225n.44, 237n.40–1 230n.87 Twitterature, 99–100, 102, 113–18, Bloom, Harold, 3, 4, 5, 123, 215n.17, 124, 237n.36, n.40, n.48, n.50, 216n.23, 227n.63, 240n.4, 238n.51 245n.67 ‘Mrs Dalloway’, 11, 13, 99–100, Bradford, Richard, 7, 11, 130, 164, 102, 113–18, 119; @FlowerGirl, 165, 166, 211, 212, 213, 114–15, 237n.44; @Septimus, 217n.30 115 bricolage, 4, 94, 232n.113 Anglo-American fiction, 2, 12, 129–30, 155–6, 208, 209, 211 Calinescu, Matei, 97, 227n.54, see also contemporary fiction 232n.123 autobiography caricature, 93, 100–2, 106–7, 118, as fictionalised by Michael 228n.65, 233n.3, 237n.43 Cunningham, 62–3, 65, 66, see also parody; pastiche; travesty 70–2, 96, 97, 223n.20, 225n.39 Chatman, Seymour, 18, 34, 73, 78, as fictionalised by Robin Lippincott, 94, 218n.7, 226n.52, 230n.88, 85, 87, 96, 97 n.94, n.96, 231n.103 Woolf’s private experience and her circadian structure/day-in-the-life character portrayal, 44, 48–9, format, 18, 20, 33, 64, 60, 220n.23, 221n.42, n.44, 105, 109, 118, 130, 132, 223n.20 137, 147, 154, 156, 161, 162, 163, 169, 184, 186, Barth, John, 210, 216n.19, 249n.6 209, 240n.6, 243n.40, Barthes, Roland, 72, 113, 222n.53, 247n.23 225n.44, n.48, 226n.51, 230n.87, contemporary fiction, 4, 8, 14, 238n.58, 242n.37, 246n.14 15, 58, 97, 100, 126, 130, Bate, Jackson W., 3, 4, 101, 215n.17, 163–6, 182, 207, 208–13, 216n.23 240n.3, 244n.60, 245n.66, Baudrillard, Jean, 3, 4, 72, 217n.29, 246n.9 225n.47 see also Anglo-American fiction biofiction copy, culture of the, 2, 227n.62 criticism of practice, 231n.108, see also forgery; imitation; pastiche 232n.120 Cowart, David, 92, 216n.26, 231n.102, definition of, 225n.37, n.110, 233n.124 229–30n.87 Crace, John, 5, 6, 124–5, 234n.9, n.12, as practised by Michael 236n.28, 239n.67 Cunningham, 70, 72, 96, Brideshead Abbreviated: The Digested 222n.4, 223n.20, 225n.39 Read of the Twentieth Century, as practised by Robin Lippincott, 96 99, 101

264 Index 265

‘Mrs Dalloway’, 11, 13, 99–114, combinations of, 15, 130, 207 118, 119, 125–8, 235n.17–19, creation of, 6, 12, 17–19, 58, 60 237n.48; Clarissa Dalloway, definition of, 218n.7 102–4, 106, 107–8, 110, 111, deictics, 21, 57, 73, 103, 107 113; Peter Walsh, 104, 106, exclamations, 21, 39, 57, 73, 83, 88, 107–8, 109, 110; Richard 107, 114, 196–7 Dalloway, 103, 104, 109; Sally free indirect discourse, 22, 57, 73, Seton, 103, 104, 106, 110; 86, 88, 107, 109, 138, 199, Septimus Smith, 103–4, 106, 234n.16, 238n.56 109, 111 in ‘The Hours’, 29, 30, 31, 33, 43, Cunningham, Michael, 1, 6, 13, 61, 46, 48, 51, 57, 59 178, 225n.40–1, 232n.117 interruptions (structures of), 21, admiration for Woolf, 1, 13, 74, 98, 73, 86, 88, 102, 106, 107, 109, 233n.125 235n.18 The Hours, 11, 13, 61, 62–76, in ‘Mrs Dalloway in Bond Street’, 92–8, 161, 214n.7, 222n.6, 22, 24, 59 223n.9–11, n.20, 224n.26, present participles, 21, 57, 88, n.30–4, 225n.39, n.42, n.46, 219n.19 n.49, 226n.52, 227n.53, n.58, in ‘The Prime Minister’, 26, 59 230n.88, n.100, 231n.108–9, punctuation, 22, 23, 35, 73, 88, n.111, 232n.118–19, 249n.3, 107, 160, 187, 197, 198, 204, 230n.100 218 Clarissa Vaughan, 63, 64–7, 68–9, bracket, parenthesis, 21, 73, 86, 70, 223n.12 88, 90, 151, 198, 199, 230n.91 film adaptation, 225n.39, comma, 23, 57, 88, 198 239n.60, 243n.48, 249n.3 dash, 21, 23, 88, 160, 235n.18 Laura Brown, 63, 67–70, 72, semicolon, 21, 23, 35, 57, 73, 75, 224n.24–6, n.36 86, 88, 160, 198 Virginia Woolf, 61, 62–3, 66, 67, reproduction of, 9, 12, 13, 14, 16, 68, 70, 71, 72, 95, 96, 222n.4, 43, 58, 73, 74, 76, 81, 86, 88, 225n.39 89, 93, 94, 105, 109, 121–2, see also Woolf, Virginia: as 124, 131, 137, 148, 151, character in fiction 209, 223n.18, 224n.30, n.32, interview with, 74, 75, 222n.1, 226n.52 n.4, 223n.7, n.23, 225n.40, reworking of, 6, 58, 62, 80, 97, 101, 232n.119, 233n.125, 248n.1 113–14, 137, 155, 162, 167, Cusk, Rachel, 7, 11, 14, 162, 167, 190, 195, 205, 206, 210, 218n.7 206–7, 245n.8, n.9, 246n.12 self-interrogations, 21, 73, 88, 102, Arlington Park, 167–84, 206–7, 106, 121, 158, 235n.17 245n.1, n.3 syntax, 15, 23–4, 73, 76, 88, 94, The Bradshaw Variations, 167–8, 107, 119, 121, 153, 160, 172–6, 179, 182, 183–4, 195, 180, 190, 194, 197, 198, 207, 206–7 239n.61 Dentith, Simon, 126, 127 Dallowayisms Derrida, Jacques, 218n.3, 231n.111, appropriation of, 13, 58, 88, 98, 232n.113 101–2, 104, 106, 109, 208, 210, diagnostic property (Umberto Eco), 224n.30 25, 82, 102, 219n.16 266 Index duality, as structuring device, 24, 29, formula (Dalloway-esque), 16, 18, 19, 30, 77, 90, 186, 197 25, 102 doubles, 20, 24, 29, 30, 31, 39, see also Dallowayisms 41–2, 44, 46, 85, 90, 106, 150, Foucault, Michel, 111, 236n.27 188, 194, 218n.7, 221n.35, 232n.118 genetic criticism, 5, 60–1, 220n.29 life and death motif, 20, 29, 31, 32, Genette, Gérard, 3, 93, 100, 42, 51, 55, 56, 63, 68, 69, 73, 125, 209, 216n.25–6, 82, 89, 91, 106, 115, 135, 142, 28, 226n.51, 227–8n.65, 143, 155, 160, 188–9, 197, 204, 228n.66–7, n.69, 229n.76, 220n.28 230n.90, 232n.113, 233n.3–5, rising and falling motif, 37, 38–9, 235n.19, 243n.42 41, 48, 49, 50, 52, 121, 134, The Guardian, 101, 112, 236n.33 136, 170, 179, 182, 190, 196, 202 hallucinations (representation of), sanity and insanity motif, 29–30, 27, 28–9, 30, 36–40, 46–51, 52, 31, 42, 44, 63, 68, 104, 115, 65, 69, 84, 103, 106, 140, 142, 142–3, 218n.7 149–50, 180, 200, 201–2, 205, see also Dallowayisms 229n.83 see also madness Eco, Umberto, 25, 77, 85, 102, 122, Hassan, Ihab, 94, 231n.105 219n.16, 228n.70 hauntology, 231n.111 Eliot, T. S., 60, 167, 214n.11, see also ontology 215n.16–17, 216n.21, 222n.51, homage, 7, 8, 13, 15, 16, 76, 80, 98, 232n.114, 249n.2 99, 127, 208 elitist literature, 112–13, 116, 125–6, homosexuality, 67, 69, 77–8, 79, 86, 154, 164, 168, 213, 236n.34, 95, 104, 111, 115, 131, 132, 239n.62 133, 137, 223n.23, 235–6n.25– see also popular literature; readerly 6, 240n.8 prose; writerly prose see also Mrs Dalloway: rewriting of: epigone, 4, 13, 58, 98, 99 gender issues see also Woolf, Virginia: influence Hutcheon, Linda, 92, 100, 125, 126, on other authors 127, 128, 217n.29, 218n.38, epigraph, 13, 64, 77–80, 148, 163, 233n.5, 234n.11, 239n.62, 223n.8 n.65–6 epiphany, 11, 51–7, 133, 138, Hynes, James, 7, 11, 14, 206 144, 160–1, 168, 170, 172, Next, 130, 132, 137, 145, 147–56, 178–80 162–4, 243n.39, n.41 see also moment of being hyperrealism, 164, 225n.47, epitext, 81, 163, 229n.76 240–1n.15 Evans, William A., 19, 21, 88, 102, hypertextuality (Gérard Genette), 105, 218n.6, 220n.22–4 4, 5, 6–7, 11, 12, 13, 14, 62, 63, 75–6, 92, 94–7, flash fiction, 99, 101, 234n.8, 99–100, 105, 112, 118, 119, 237n.36–9 121–2, 124, 125, 129, 131, forgery, 13, 16, 76, 93, 209, 227– 137, 210, 211, 216n.25–6, 8n.65, 231n.104, 233n.3 n.28, 227n.65, 230n.88, see also copy; imitation; pastiche 231n.102, 233n.3 Index 267 hypotext (Gérard Genette), 6, 12, Lanchester, John, 7, 11, 14, 206, 13, 14, 62, 63, 69, 75, 81, 87, 217n.30 89, 91, 92, 94, 96, 99–100, Mr Phillips, 130, 145, 156–62, 162– 101–2, 104, 108, 112–13, 118, 4, 244n.54–6, n.58 121, 125, 127, 129, 131, 137, legacy (literary), 1, 3, 12, 101, 128, 210, 216n.26, n.28, 228n.65, 212, 215n.17 230n.88, 231n.102, 233n.3, see also tradition 235n.19 Lippincott, Robin, 6 see also source-text; ur-text admiration for Woolf, 77, 80, 96, 227n.64, 233n.125 imitation, 2–3, 4, 93, 94, 100, 123, Mr Dalloway, 11, 13, 62, 127, 211, 215n.17, n.19, n.23, 76–98, 131, 227n.63, 227–8n.65, n.67, 231n.103–5, 228n.73, n.75, 229n.80, 232n.112, 233n.3–5, 240n.4 230n.88, n.97, 231n.106, see also copy; forgery; pastiche n.109 individual talent (T. S. Eliot), 2, Clarissa Dalloway, 76–84, 86, 3, 15, 166, 167, 206, 88–9, 90–1 215n.16–17 postcloset novel, 78, 94 influence Richard Dalloway, 76–86, anxiety of (Harold Bloom), 3, 89–91, 95 4, 122–3, 215n.17, 216n.23, Virginia Woolf, 86–8 240n.4, 245n.67 see also Woolf, Virginia: as theory of, 3–4, 215n.17, 228n.69 character in fiction innovation (literary), 2, 4, 7, 8, literary fiction, 8, 17, 58, 97, 101, 10, 11, 15, 16, 17, 19, 45, 129, 166, 168, 182, 183, 206, 75, 93, 94, 97, 122, 126, 208, 210–13, 244n.60, 248n.39, 129, 130, 154, 163, 164, 249n.7 167, 182, 183, 184, 206, literary prizes, 58, 65, 74, 76, 212, 209, 210, 211, 215n.16, 213, 244n.60, 248n.39 234n.7, 237n.41 Lodge, David, 7, 165, 234n.6–7, intertextuality, 10, 20, 42, 48, 51, 238n.56, n.58, 239n.61, 57, 67, 68, 72, 73, 91, 97, 244n.62–3, 246n.13 99, 100, 119, 121–3, 143, The British Museum is Falling Down, 201, 205, 215n.12, 216n.28, 11, 13, 99, 100, 118–28, 233n.1, 226n.51, 233n.5, 241n.24, 238n.53 242n.32 campus novel, 118, 238n.52 Isherwood, Christopher, 7, 11, 14, Clarissa Dalloway, 121–2 206, 240n.9 London (representation of), 9, 18, A Single Man, 130, 131–7, 162–4, 64, 65, 81, 83–4, 89, 103, 240n.8 106, 120, 122, 137, 138–41, 146, 158–9, 220n.26, 242n.29, James, David, 164, 166, 217n.30, 244n.55 240n.3, 242n.33 Lyotard, Jean-François, 217n.29 Jameson, Fredric, 3, 93, 218n.38, lyrical prose, 11, 14, 15, 58, 154, 239n.64, n.66 162, 168, 175, 180, 182, Joyce, James, 60, 116, 131–2, 214n.11, 183, 184, 190, 191, 195, 222n.50, 231n.110, 232n.114, 206, 207, 212 238n.53, 245n.66, 249n.8 see also literary fiction; poetic prose 268 Index madness (representation of), 14, Mrs Dalloway 38–40, 44, 48, 59, 85, 130, 200, and the canon, 2, 14, 97, 99, 100, 201–2, 221n.44, 225n.39 118, 124, 131 see also hallucinations Clarissa Dalloway marriage, 9, 14, 68, 78, 79, 95, 130, in ‘The Hours’, 34, 35, 52–7 171–2, 173 many selves of, 9, 82 mash-up, 126, 239n.63 in ‘Mrs Dalloway in Bond Street’, McEwan, Ian, 7, 11, 14, 206, 20, 22–3 244n.64 as party hostess, 25, 34 global novel, 137, 146–5, 147, 156, and Peter, 43 164–5, 207, 240n.10 in ‘The Prime Minister’, 27 Saturday, 130, 132, 137–47, 157, and Richard, 66, 77–8 162–4, 240n.13, 241n.17, n.21, and Sally, 53, 69 n.24, n.27, 242n.29–30, n.34, and Septimus, 27, 29, 30, 31, 243n.39, n.41 40, 41–2, 44, 46, 51, 56, 63, McGregor, Jon, 7, 11, 14, 247n.20 69, 85, 90, 91, 95, 134, 153, If Nobody Speaks of Remarkable 221n.35 Things, 167, 184–95, 206–7, in The Voyage Out, 20, 77–8, 246n.16–18, 247n.23–4 219n.16, 228n.70–1 McHale, Brian, 87, 217n.29, 218n.38, and Woolf, 71; see also: 230n.89 autobiography: Woolf’s private metafiction, 10, 61, 85, 87, 97, 99, experience and her character 107–8, 123, 124, 163, 215n.11, portrayal 222n.54, 224n.26, 229n.82, composition of, 5, 12, 15, 16–61, 235n.19, n.22 62–3, 220n.25, n.29, 221n.46, metanarration, 201, 202 222n.51 microliterature, 99, 113, 234n.8, creative responses to, 2, 6, 9, 12, 237n.36–9 16, 62, 76, 80, 92–7, 127, 209, modernism, 6, 7–9, 11–12, 14, 94, 214n.6 97, 103, 104, 123, 129–30, 137, ‘cycle’, 16, 17, 19, 218n.2 144–5, 146–7, 155, 162, 163–6, design of, 17, 26, 30, 31, 38, 41–2, 167, 168, 183, 195, 196, 204, 45, 46, 58, 60, 63, 64, 103, 205–7, 209, 210–13, 216n.29, 108, 180 217n.30, n.34, 218n.39, balance, 19, 25, 30, 31, 42, 44, 235n.22, 240n.3, 242n.30, 49, 104, 188 n.31, n.33, 244n.53, n.60, n.64, ‘chorus’, 29, 32, 36, 38, 40, 41, 245n.1, 248n.39 43, 67, 90, 104, 220–1n.33, modernism lite, 154–5, 156, 166 246–7n.19 modernist tropes, 6, 7, 8, 11–12, 14, connecting ‘caves’, 45, 64, 136, 15, 108, 130, 145, 146–7, 162, 173, 209 164, 168, 184, 194–5, 205–7 connecting device, 27, 29, 30, 32, moment of being, 9, 18, 36, 51–7, 41, 42 58, 69, 91, 133, 134, 135, 139, converging device, 26–7, 30, 32, 143–4, 152–4, 168, 172, 177– 41, 59, 168, 192 80, 209, 212, 221n.47, 245n.6 ‘queer’ and ‘masterful’, 19, 45 see also epiphany symmetry, 40–2, 52, 103 Moraru, Christian, 1, 4, 5, 8, 13, ‘tunnelling process’, 45, 64, 214n.10–11, 215n.12, n.15, 136, 156, 176, 193, 209, 227n.62 237n.44 Index 269

‘The Hours’: The British Museum gender issues, 1, 9, 14, 94–5, 130, Manuscript of Mrs Dalloway, 232n.116, 235n.25 18, 22–3, 28–9, 33–42, 45, political issues, 9, 14, 80, 94–5, 46–56, 59, 219n.10–13, n.17, 120, 130, 132, 137, 138–9, 220n.23, n.25 140–1, 145–6, 147, 148, 155, imitation of, 7, 11, 14, 15, 22, 33, 156, 164–5, 242n.36 58, 67, 72, 75, 76, 88–9, 92–4, Rezia Smith, 36, 37, 38, 39, 49, 51, 98–100, 101, 105, 107, 113, 68, 69, 104 119, 121, 129, 131, 187, 204, Sally Seton, 41, 52, 53, 65, 69, 218n.7, 226n.52, 230n.100, 77, 103, 104, 106, 110, 170, 238n.53 229n.80, 235n.18 improvisation on, 74, 92, 131, Septimus Smith 227n.57–8 and Clarissa, 27, 29, 30, 31, 41–2, and its literary heritage, 2, 73, 74, 44, 54, 55, 56, 63, 69, 85, 90, 76, 81, 148, 172, 209 91, 95, 134, 153, 221n.35 and lyrical prose, 21, 28, 35, 37, 48, in ‘The Hours’, 30–1, 36–43, 46–9 51, 52, 57–8, 182 in ‘The Prime Minister’, 27–9 mirror effects and Rezia, 33, 36, 37, 39, 68 echoes between Mrs Dalloway visions of, 27–8, 30, 36, 37–40, and The Hours, 64, 68, 69, 70, 44, 46–52, 84, 149–50, 179, 180, 75, 223n.10, n.17, n.20, n.22, 201; see also hallucinations; 224n.30–2, n.33, 225–6n.49, madness; shell shock 230n.100 and Woolf, 44, 48–9, 65, echoes between Mrs Dalloway and 220n.23, 221n.42; see also: Mr Dalloway, 90–2 autobiography: Woolf’s private Peter Walsh, 40, 41, 43, 51, 65, experience and her character 104, 107, 149, 150, 159, 161, portrayal 223n.14–15, 229n.79–80 and stream-of-consciousness and recycling, 13, 16, 17, 98, 99, technique, 21, 88, 115, 121, 102 131–2, 134, 238n.54 revision of, 18, 19–24, 30, 34–5, and style, 5, 13, 14, 15, 16, 31, 38–9, 40, 41, 45–7, 48–9, 51, 32, 36, 64, 75, 94, 98, 111, 54–9 121, 125, 148, 167, 209, 210, rewriting of, 1, 3, 5–8, 10–11, 12, 218n.4, n.7, 225–6n.49–50, n.52 13, 17, 18, 19, 34–5, 38, 40, 41, imitation of, 89, 93, 100, 123–4, 45, 46, 48–9, 51, 52, 55, 56, 58, 209, 228n.65, 232n.112; 62, 74, 75, 76, 80, 92, 95–7, 99, by Alexander Aciman and 101, 113, 115, 126, 129, 131, Emmett Rensin, 113, 115; by 140, 209, 210, 231n.109 Ali Smith, 195, 247n.28; by class issues, 1, 9, 14, 130, 146, Christopher Isherwood, 131; 244n.54 by David Lodge, 119–20; by cultural issues, 6, 9, 13, 15, 93–5, John Crace, 101, 106–7, 111; 99, 100, 111, 112, 117, 118, by Jon McGregor, 187, 247n.20; 120, 125–8, 130, 146, 156 by Michael Cunningham, 73, domestic issues, 133, 139, 140, 75, 94, 97, 98, 225–6n.49, n.52, 142, 143, 146, 147, 161, 162, 230n.100; by Rachel Cusk, 164–5, 166, 168, 169, 171, 172, 167, 181–3, 245n.1; by Robin 173, 174, 176, 177, 179, 182, Lippincott, 76, 88, 92, 94, 97, 183, 242n.29, 244n.56 98; see also parody; pastiche 270 Index

Mrs Dalloway – continued pastiche, 10, 22, 62–98, 100, 101, stylistic ‘tics’, 21, 73, 76, 88, 93, 124, 215n.11, 230n.100, 97, 101, 106, 109, 112; see also 231n.104–5, n.107, 232n.112, Dallowayisms; signature 233n.2–3, 238n.53 transformation of, 15, 60, 92, 95, see also copy; forgery; imitation 99, 100–2, 113, 115, 218n.7, peritext, 81, 229n.76 230n.95 plagiarism, 4, 72, 226n.51, 231n.104, transposition of, 11, 13, 64, 87, 96, n.107 145, 166, 168, 233n.3 poetic prose, 11, 15, 73, 145, 162, 175, 180–2, 184, 190, 194–5, neomodernism, 5, 6–8, 11–12, 14, 15, 206–7, 212, 248n.39 16, 129–30, 147, 163–6, 167, see also literary fiction; lyrical prose 182, 183, 194, 206–7, 208, 209, popular culture, 1, 2, 10, 101, 210, 211–12, 217n.30, 239n.1 112, 113, 116, 118, 126, neorealism, 147, 164 236n.31–2 nostalgia, 2, 129 popular literature, 16, 94, 96–7, 112–13, 115, 160, 165, 211, ontology, 68, 85, 87–8, 122, 201, 204, 231n.103, 239n.60 217n.29, 231n.111 see also elitist literature; readerly see also hauntology prose; writerly prose ordinariness (representation of), 9, 11, postmodernism, 2, 3, 4, 6–8, 10, 13, 56, 57, 70, 112, 116, 121, 133, 15, 71–2, 76, 81, 85, 86–8, 92, 138, 140, 146, 149, 153–4, 156, 94, 96–9, 101, 113, 121, 123–4, 157–8, 160, 161, 162, 164, 168, 126–8, 129, 196, 201, 202, 169, 171–2, 174, 175, 178, 179, 205–6, 208–12, 215n.11–12, 182, 183, 184, 185, 187, 188, n.15, 216–17n.29–30, 225n.37, 189–90, 194, 195, 198, 244n.57, 227n.62, 231n.103, 232n.123, 245n.5, 246n.12, n.16, 247n.22 236n.32, 239n.64–5, 242n.30, original score (Umberto Eco), 77, 85, 249n.5–6 228n.70 see also hypotext; source-text; ur-text readerly prose, 113, 124, 166, 211, 246n.14 palimpsest, 3, 112, 114, 126, 226n.51, see also elitist literature; popular 231n.107 literature; writerly prose paratext, 12, 13, 77, 78, 81, 119, 148, realism, 9, 43, 44, 71–2, 87, 119, 163, 204, 228n.69, 229n.76 123, 124, 132, 147, 162, 164, parody, 5, 10, 14, 16, 22, 92, 99–128, 165, 194–5, 206, 210–11, 129, 215n.11, 216n.28, 226n.52, 217n.30, 242n.32, 244n.62, 231n.104, 233n.1–5, 234n.11, 249n.6 235n.19, 236n.29, 237n.35, (re)appropriation n.40, n.42, 238n.52–3, n.56, of historical figures, 96, 232n.120 n.58, 239n.61–2, n.65 of past works, 1, 5, 13, 73, 94, 126, see also caricature; travesty 131, 164, 208, 232n.113 party, as motif and structuring device, recycling, 1, 2, 3, 4, 8, 10, 92, 94, 25–6, 30, 32, 35, 54–5, 59, 65, 112, 215n.14, 232n.113, 66, 69, 70, 81, 82, 85, 91, 95, 239n.66 104, 105, 106, 110, 114, 115, Rensin, Emmett, 5, 6, 124–8, 237n.41 133, 138, 142, 147, 153, 168, Twitterature, 99–100, 102, 113–18, 169, 170, 195 124, 237n.36, n.40, n.48, n.50, ‘party consciousness’, 18, 91 238n.51 Index 271

‘Mrs Dalloway’, 11, 13, 99, spin-off, 92, 127, 225n.39 100, 102, 113–18, 119; stolentell (James Joyce), 94, 231n.110 @FlowerGirl, 114–15, 237n.44; Storey, John, 236n.31–2 @Septimus, 115 Strachey, Lytton, 58 retro-modernism, 129–30, 240n.2 rewriting terrorism, 139, 140–2, 146, 147, 148, as cannibalistic practice, 4, 58, 92, 150, 155 100, 124, 127, 234n.6 see also shell shock; trauma; war of the canon, 3, 5, 93, 94, 126, 127, time 216n.23, 234n.9 and Big Ben, 21, 32, 34–5, 43, 54, as literary parasitism, 92, 127, 56, 83, 89–90, 105, 109, 110, 231n.102, 233n.124, 239n.66 120, 141, 177, 181 of past works, 1–3, 4–5, 92, 94, 96, circularity of, 89 126–7, 131, 214–15n.10–12, clock time, 33, 34, 35–6, 52, 54, 56, n.14, 216n.26, 227n.54, n.62, 57, 66, 90, 105, 119–20, 141, 228n.66, 233n.5, 249n.2–3 144, 150, 161, 163, 168, 177, 200, 243n.39 Sackville-West, Vita, 219n.10 elasticity/flexibility of, 90, 130, 151, as character in fiction, 87, 229n.82 153, 162, 175, 176, 178, 196, Saricks, Joyce G., 212 201, 205 Schiff, James, 2, 3, 5, 9, 14, 73, 76, 78, fluidity/liquidity of, 21, 34, 90, 176, 79, 93, 94, 95, 96, 97, 130, 131, 177 224n.26, n.30, n.32, 227n.61, fragmentation of, 175, 196, 205 231n.109, 232n.116, 240n.7, historical, 137, 138, 141, 143, 163 244n.54, n.56, 249n.2 linearity of, 33, 89 second-degree narratives (Gérard monumental, 143–4, 163, 241n.21, Genette), 4, 92, 94, 96, 99 243n.39 sequel, 3, 61, 76, 92, 93, 216n.28, passage of, 19, 33, 89, 105, 150, 168, 217n.33, 222n.52, 228n.67 169, 176, 177, 180, 200, 244n.58 allographic sequel, 76, 92, 228n.67 ageing, 19, 82, 89, 135, 138, 143, sexuality, 1, 9, 14, 52, 74, 77, 78, 149 94–5, 130, 132, 133, 135, 149, psychological time, 141, 145, 163, 150, 156, 232n.118 168, 169, 176 shell shock, 47, 85, 95, 103, 106, 109, Todd, Richard, 239n.64, 244n.61, 138, 179, 241n.18 n.65, 248n.39 see also terrorism; trauma tradition (literary), 2–3, 5, 8, 10, 100, signature (Jacques Derrida) 122–3, 126–8, 131, 147, 155, counter-signature, 130 163, 164, 165, 167, 168, 172, forging of, 13, 76, 209 183, 206, 211, 213, 215n.16–18, reproduction of, 12, 16, 106, 217n.30, 238n.58, 239n.65, 218n.3, 239n.63 240n.7, 241n.21, n.27, 244n.63 see also Dallowayisms; stylistic ‘tics’ see also legacy Smith, Ali, 7, 11, 14, 248n.41 transformation (Gérard Genette), 3, Hotel World, 167, 195–206, 206–7 4, 6, 12, 73, 100, 129, 215n.11, source-text, 5, 6, 7, 11, 12, 13, 15, 216n.26, n.28, 226n.51, 233n.3, 75–6, 80, 92–3, 95–8, 99, 100, 239n.67 102, 106, 108, 110, 113–14, see also hypertextuality 118, 122, 125, 131, 164, 167, transtextuality (Gérard Genette), 100, 207, 208, 209, 211 216n.28, 226n.51, 235n.19 see also hypotext; ur-text see also hypertextuality 272 Index trauma, 36, 65, 79, 103, 140, 146, 156, ‘The Hours’: The British Museum 164, 185, 188, 195, 200, 205, Manuscript of Mrs Dalloway; see 241n.16, n.18, 247n.22, 248n.32 Mrs Dalloway: ‘The Hours’ see also shell shock; terrorism; war icon, 1, 58, 235n.25 travesty (Gérard Genette), 100–1, influence on other authors, 1, 2, 231n.104, 233n.3 3, 6–7, 10–15, 17, 60, 66, 71, see also caricature; parody 73–5, 76–7, 79, 113, 130–1, 143, 162, 164, 165–6, 167–8, ur-text, 130, 131, 137, 156 207, 208–9, 210–11, 213, see also hypotext; source-text 223n.20, 226n.52, 244n.60, 248n.1, 249n.3 ventriloquism, 13, 62–98, 99, 105, Jacob’s Room, 18, 44 109, 127 ‘Lives of the Obscure’, 16, 218n.1 ‘The Method of Henry James’, war, 9, 14, 47, 49, 67, 68, 95, 103, 244n.60 106, 109, 115, 130, 140, 141, ‘Modern Fiction’, 8, 9, 10, 19, 44, 146, 147, 149, 156, 188, 66, 102, 150, 157, 164, 165, 232n.118–19, 241n.16, n.18, 166, 175, 182, 189, 221n.39, 246n.12 234n.14, 243n.43 see also shell shock; terrorism and modernism, 6–8, 9, 12, 17, Whitworth, Michael, 2, 88, 95, 129–30, 137, 147, 163, 183, 214n.6, 223n.20, 224n.28, 210, 213, 221n.47, 224n.24 225n.39, 228n.67, 230n.92, ‘Mr Bennett and Mrs Brown’, 44, 232n.121, 245n.4 224n.24, 234n.14, 246n.11 Wilde, Oscar, 78, 119, 228n.73 Mrs Dalloway, see Mrs Dalloway Winterson, Jeanette, 3, 12, 167, 206, ‘Mrs Dalloway in Bond Street’, 17, 217n.30, 218n.39, 227n.62, 19–26, 31, 58, 59 248n.39 Mrs Dalloway’s Party, 79, 219n.8 Woolf, Leonard, 44, 71, 219n.10, ‘The Narrow Bridge of Art’, 57–8 221n.42, 244n.29 ‘The New Biography’, 229n.87 as character in fiction, 66, 229n.82 ‘Nurse Lugton’s Golden Thimble’, Woolf, Virginia 221n.46 as authorial figure, 1, 5, 61, 65, 66, ‘The Prime Minister’, 17, 26–9, 31, 70, 72, 74, 95, 211 46, 59, 220n.27 Between the Acts, 5, 216n.27 A Room of One’s Own, 3, 183, 246n.12 and the canon, 1, 66 and signature, 2, 106, 129 as character in fiction, 13, 61, 63, ‘A Sketch of the Past’, 177, 221n.47 65–72, 86–8, 95–6, 121–2, ‘A Summing Up’, 18, 79 222n.4, 223n.20, 225n.39 To the Lighthouse, 17, 60, 85–6, 178, The Common Reader, 25, 60 181, 214n.6, 229n.82, 245n.6 death of, 1, 66, 68, 69, 70–3, 95, The Voyage Out, 20, 77, 78, 228n.71, 115, 225n.39 247n.21 diary of, 6, 9, 17, 18, 19, 24–5, 26, ‘Walter Sickert’, 245n.7 29, 44, 45, 46, 48, 49, 58, 59, writerly prose, 124, 168, 183, 60, 63, 64, 71, 104, 142, 148, 246n.14 175, 180, 214n.8, 219n.13, see also elitist literature; popular n.19, 220n.28–9, 221n.43, literature; readerly prose 222n.6, 224n.35, 225n.38, n.43, Wussow, Helen, 18, 219n.10, n.17, 229n.85, 230n.94, 234n.13 220n.25