The Place of Language in the Waves and the Years
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Oberlin Digital Commons at Oberlin Honors Papers Student Work 2010 The Luminous Halo: The Place of Language in The Waves and The Years Rachel Luban Oberlin College Follow this and additional works at: https://digitalcommons.oberlin.edu/honors Part of the English Language and Literature Commons Repository Citation Luban, Rachel, "The Luminous Halo: The Place of Language in The Waves and The Years" (2010). Honors Papers. 385. https://digitalcommons.oberlin.edu/honors/385 This Thesis is brought to you for free and open access by the Student Work at Digital Commons at Oberlin. It has been accepted for inclusion in Honors Papers by an authorized administrator of Digital Commons at Oberlin. For more information, please contact [email protected]. The Luminous Halo: The Place of Language in The Waves and The Years Rachel Luban Honors Essay April 22, 2010 Advised by David Walker Virginia Woolf had an abiding interest in what she called “the thing itself.” The phrase appears across her fiction (To the Lighthouse, Orlando, “A Mark on the Wall”) and her essays (“On Not Knowing Greek,” “George Moore,” A Room of One’s Own, “A Sketch of the Past”). What is the thing itself? This concept seems straightforward enough: it is the objective world, if only we could see it, the ahuman landscape Wallace Stevens says “One must have a mind of winter / To regard.”1 For Woolf, the thing itself has a special connection to language; each time it appears in her work she relates it to words or writing. Perhaps because she is a writer or perhaps just because language is a distinctly human form of communication, she is dedicated to exploring the power of words to communicate the thing itself. Thus, for instance, “By the bold and running use of metaphor [Aeschylus] will amplify and give us, not the thing itself, but the reverberations and reflection which, taken into his mind, the thing has made; close enough to the original to illustrate it, remote enough to heighten, enlarge, and make splendid” (“On Not Knowing Greek” 31). Or in Orlando, “Was not writing poetry a secret transaction, a voice answering a voice? So that all this chatter and praise and blame and meeting people who admired one and meeting people who did not admire one was as ill suited as could be to the thing itself— a voice answering a voice” (325). And, famously, in “A Sketch of the Past,” the blow that accompanies moments of being is a token of some real thing behind appearances; and I make it real by putting it into words. It is only by putting it into words that I make it whole; this wholeness means that it has lost its power to hurt me; it gives me, perhaps because by doing so I take away the pain, a great delight to put the severed parts together.…From this I reach what I might call a philosophy; at any rate it is a constant idea of mine; that behind the cotton wool is hidden a pattern; that we—I mean all human beings—are connected with this; that the whole world is a work of art; that we are parts of the work of art. Hamlet or a Beethoven quartet is the truth about this vast mass that we call the world. But there is no Shakespeare, there is no Beethoven; 1 I say “ahuman” rather than “inhuman” or “unhuman” to avoid the connotations of the latter words of brutality or the supernatural, which show their submission to the measurements of a human scale. “Ahuman” indicates a world totally estranged from human concerns. 2 certainly and emphatically there is no God; we are the words; we are the music; we are the thing itself. (72) This passage represents her most detailed and explicit exploration of the thing itself: it is, she confirms, the truth about the world, the “real thing behind appearances.” In this passage, too, are the hallmarks of her understanding of the world: the whole composed of “severed parts”; the buried pattern of interhuman connection; the apprehension (or recreation, or representation) of this connection through words. But this passage complicates the nature of the thing itself and its relationship to words. The parallelism in the last sentence implies the equivalence of words, music, and the thing itself. But are these items equivalent? Her other writings indicate that words can get “close enough to the original” but always remain outside it. Aeschylus uses metaphor to “illustrat[e]” the thing itself, even “heighte[n]” it, but not actually to reveal it. He offers something between an approximation and an amplification. Lily Briscoe’s experience in To the Lighthouse suggests a similar principle. She tries in her painting to capture “something that evade[s] her” (193): “Phrases came. Visions came. Beautiful pictures. Beautiful phrases. But what she wished to get hold of was that very jar on the nerves, the thing itself before it has been made anything.” The equivalence in this passage is between phrases and pictures, which the chiasmus of the first four sentences serves to conflate. These beautiful bits of art stand in opposition to the thing itself. The examples of Aeschylus and Lily Briscoe support the common-sense notion that the thing itself belongs not to art or language but to the world, that “phrases” and “visions” can only mediate between this essence and human understanding. Yet in “A Sketch of the Past” Woolf does not illustrate the thing itself by putting it into words—she “make[s] it real by putting it into words.” Words do not alter but rather help constitute the thing. Whence this contradiction? If the thing is itself “before it has been made 3 anything,” how can it remain itself after it has been “made…whole”? Perhaps the disparity in these passages is just a matter of timing—she wrote “Sketch” at the end of her career, in 1939— and the two models are irreconcilable. But paradoxes for Woolf are productive forces whose opposing sides must be pushed together at different angles until, like magnets, they attract rather than repel each other. Usually, that is, she finds a path to reconciliation. This particular paradox pits truth against transcendence. As Wallace Stevens recognizes in “The Snow Man,” the thing has no meaning “before it has been made anything”; our attempts to lay hold of the thing itself are futile, for we cannot avoid projecting human meaning onto the world. But if the thing itself is the “truth about…the world,” what sort of meaning can our lives possess? Does this meaning entail falsehood? Or can we transcend the meaningless fragments of our world—can we find a way to make the thing itself whole without obscuring its true nature? The passage from “Sketch” suggests that we can. She explores the possibility that “mak[ing] it real” and “mak[ing] it whole” can coincide, and the power of “putting it into words” to achieve this harmony, in two of her late works. This exploration, though present in all her novels, finds its fullest expression in the odd couple of The Waves and The Years. Her seventh and eighth of nine novels, the two look so different as to be nearly opposite; but the gulf between them belies their shared concerns. The two seem to conform to a dichotomy various critics have identified using various terms. On one side of this dichotomy lie vision, impressionism, transcendence, and, the theory goes, The Waves; on the other, fact, realism, fragmentation, and The Years.2 In this scheme “mak[ing] it whole” and “mak[ing] it real” are incompatible, as the 2 Woolf used but never defined “fact” and “vision,” a task Alice van Buren Kelley takes up in her analysis of this duality in Woolf’s writing. “The factual world is, most simply,” she says, “the world of solid objects.…[It] is also the world of the intellect that perceives the isolation of men and objects and attempts to find order, using only the tools of objective reason” (3-4). On the other hand, “in the world of vision, physical objects are not bounded, but instead transcend themselves to take on universal significance. Identity in the world of vision is unity, merging, a combining of all things” (4). 4 whole belongs to the former side and the real belongs to the latter. Thus the thing itself cannot be made whole—with words or otherwise—because transcendence stands in opposition to the truth about the world. But the dichotomy falls apart under inspection. The Waves unfolds in whole and transcendent language but ultimately rejects the power of language and asserts the importance of the thing itself. In other words, it does not refute Woolf’s sometimes-expressed notion that the thing itself lies outside of language. The Years, taking up where The Waves leaves off, emerges from linguistic failure and shows thing itself in all its meagerness. By eschewing the method of the earlier novel and putting language in its place, however, it offers the possibility of real transcendence. This transcendence is quite different from the beautiful but false integrity of The Waves. It is a fractured transcendence, a fragmented whole—the thing itself woven into a grand and unifying pattern that sometimes, briefly, words can grasp. The Unlikely Kin How different are the two books? The Waves, at least formally, is her most intimate, subjective book, what might be called the clearest example of the “novel of vision”; The Years, as many critics have noted (usually with distaste), deals much more with exteriority, apparently embodying the “novel of fact.” The disparity between the consecutive (and late) books has proved confusing for readers and critics.