The Quest for Feminine Expression in the Bone People, Tenant of Wildfell Hall and Mrs

ABSTRACT

THE QUEST FOR FEMININE EXPRESSION IN THE BONE PEOPLE, TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL AND MRS. DALLOWAY

Using the feminist theory of Julia Kristeva and Luce Irigaray, this thesis explores the journey of female protagonists through a rite of passage with the outcome being greater feminine expression. The theory of Arnold van Gennep, Victor Turner, and Robert Torrance help elucidate the elements specific to rites of passages and quests within the novels as well. The primary finding of this examination is that one key component in feminine expression is the harmonious coexistence of opposites. While this is contrary to phallocratic labeling, feminine expression resists hierarchical structure, and thus resists a preference for the feminine alone, rather it includes phallocratic labeling in addition to Other forms of self-labeling. This is just one example of harmonious coexistence. Ultimately, feminine expression demonstrates the usefulness of ambiguity, fluidity, and inclusiveness in facilitating agency within a patriarchal society. This study ends with the theory of Gloria Anzaldúa, who demonstrates how feminine expression propels alliance building.

Tomaro Scadding December 2012

THE QUEST FOR FEMININE EXPRESSION IN THE BONE PEOPLE, TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL AND MRS. DALLOWAY

by Tomaro Scadding

A thesis submitted in partial fulfillment of the requirements for the degree of Master of Arts in English in the College of Arts and Humanities California State University, Fresno December 2012 APPROVED For the Department of English:

We, the undersigned, certify that the thesis of the following student meets the required standards of scholarship, format, and style of the university and the student’s graduate degree program for the awarding of the master’s degree.

Tomaro Scadding Thesis Author

John Beynon (Chair) English

Steve Adisasmito-Smith English

Ruth Jenkins English

For the University Graduate Committee:

Dean, Division of Graduate Studies AUTHORIZATION FOR REPRODUCTION OF MASTER’S THESIS

X I grant permission for the reproduction of this thesis in part or in its entirety without further authorization from me, on the condition that the person or agency requesting reproduction absorbs the cost and provides proper acknowledgment of authorship.

Permission to reproduce this thesis in part or in its entirety must be obtained from me.

Signature of thesis author: ACKNOWLEDGMENTS I wish to gratefully acknowledge the help of several people whose confidence in my ability has been unflagging and was definitely a part of my success in the completion of this work. First, my long-time friend, Gail Byas, who always knew I would write a book one day, but didn’t know what it would be. Second, my more recent friend, Lyn Johnson, who believed in my ability to write an expository essay long before I even knew what one was, and whose fault it is that I applied to the M.A. program in the first place. Naturally, I thank my mother, who has continued to parent me long after I reached 18 years of age, and whose love has picked me up more times than I can count. I also appreciate the support of my son, who for an adolescent of 16 has been extremely patient with a mother who was figuratively chained to her desk and would often growl and snap at him. And finally, I wish to thank my readers, and especially my chair, John Beynon, who has been incredibly patient with my incessant emails and who also refused to ease up in his demands so as to ensure that I would shine all the brighter. This work is a representation of more than one person’s effort. It is a testament to the love of people I’m blessed to have as a part of my life. TABLE OF CONTENTS Page

CHAPTER 1: INTRODUCTION ...... 1 The Journey to Self-Actualization: Arnold van Gennep, Victor Turner, and Robert Torrance ...... 2

A Theological Connection to the Liminal: Carmel Davis ...... 10

Feminist Theory and Self-Expression: Luce Irigaray and Julia Kristeva ...... 15

The Feminine Quest in Literature ...... 22

Troubles with a Gendered Study ...... 23 CHAPTER 2: THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL: THE ROLE OF LIMINAL SPACES IN HELEN’S DEVELOPMENT OF AUTONOMY ...... 27

Synopsis of the Tenant of Wildfell Hall ...... 31

Helen’s Use of the Limin ...... 34

The Role of Liminality in Conjunction with Helen’s Spirituality ...... 38

The Feminine in Helen’s Quest ...... 43 CHAPTER 3: THE ROLE OF SIMULTANEITY IN FOSTERING INCLUSION: KERI HULME’S FEMININE DISCOURSE IN THE BONE PEOPLE ...... 50

Coexistent Labels Create Simultaneity ...... 52

Kerewin’s Spiritual Quest ...... 61

The Resolution of Kerewin’s Quest: A Matrifocal Outcome ...... 66 CHAPTER 4: MRS. DALLOWAY: THE FEMININE AGGREGATION OF CLARISSA DALLOWAY ...... 73

Synopsis of Mrs. Dalloway ...... 74

Between the Split: Not This Binary ...... 76

The Plurality of Silence ...... 84

Managing the Abject Through Privacy ...... 88 vi vi Page

Self-Authorship: Clarissa’s Parties ...... 95

CHAPTER 5: A NEW BEGINNING ...... 104

WORKS CITED ...... 115

CHAPTER 1: INTRODUCTION

Within society, the recognition of differences has become a fruitful place towards promoting agency as well as a negative space towards fostering stereotypes and misunderstandings. Even while we strive to create equality, promote social justice, and create a climate which honors diversity—inequality, injustice and uniformity continue to exist as a reality for many because of assumptions surrounding power and privilege. These same sources of power reinforce patriarchal social scripts and phallocratic language that propels dominance and inequality. Additionally, due to a pervading sense that logic is in conflict with the emotional inner life, as well as the nature of in-depth scholarly research which requires an increasingly narrowed focus, connections between the concrete, practical concerns of self-definition and expression to subjective, ethereal spiritual concerns are rarely made at length. A scientific study, for example, might treat what is otherwise deemed sacred in a way that devalues it, robbing it of its mystery, for science seeks to answer every question, while the spiritual is often elusive and intimately personal with a variety of answers or responses. Feminist theory however, works to bridge this gap. Through examinations of marginalized groups, it uniquely attaches sensory, nonverbal, ambiguous understandings of identity and cultural scripts to tensions an individual experiences within a highly verbal, logical world. In this study, the theories of Luce Irigaray and Julia Kristeva demonstrate how interaction of the tangible and intangible go hand in hand. These women have worked to foster a belief that the emotional is as valuable as the logical, that ambiguity has as much a place as the concrete and definable. They go so far as to imply that what can’t be immediately 2 2 articulated can change the world just as fundamentally as knowledge which is communicable. In particular, I shall examine the ways that the harmonious coexistence of opposites, often noted as ambiguity, is useful to women, specifically in its allowance for fluctuating identities as well as its fostering of creativity, both of which facilitate agency within alternative gender roles outside of cultural norms.

The Journey to Self-Actualization: Arnold van Gennep, Victor Turner, and Robert Torrance Within sociology, a connection between scholarly study and the spiritual begins with the concept of the limin in Arnold van Gennep’s Les rites de passage. Published in 1909, his discussion lays out in scientific fashion an observable and linear path by which to view the individual’s change within society. This is widely regarded as his most famous work and examines patterns found in both the sacred and the mundane. While the term rite of passage was probably not new, his theory applied this term to every fluctuation an individual makes within the social group. Additionally, Gennep claims that a rite of passage can be initiated either by society, the individual, or a combination of the two. He states there are three parts to this passage: 1) separation, 2) transition, and 3) incorporation (11, 21, 184). It is within this second part that the limin is found. As can be inferred from the terms, the first phase is one where individuals separate from the group or their prior role, the second is between who they were and who they will become, and the last is their point of rejoining society with a new role to function within. In his discussion of the transition phase, Gennep uses the word liminal, derived from the Latin word limin, meaning “threshold.” He argues that during this stage, the individual is on the boundary of two locations or roles, not residing within either (21-22, 25). Therefore, the final stage is the movement into a definitive role, but the term 3 3 aggregation implies they still maintain their individuality within the group. This leads to the conclusion that the focus of incorporation, or aggregation, is on social acceptance, potentially more than the individual’s successful emotional adjustment, and is supported by Gennep’s use of the word incorporation to elaborate on characteristics of this phase. Framing the individual within this structure made the probability of a person’s inner struggle potentially public and forced a recognition of the formal ways a community accommodated this movement. Even though the phases might appear straight forward through their terminology, using his theory as means to examine protagonists in literature opens up possibilities which can be surprisingly complex and diverse as these stages can be manifested both physically and/or symbolically. This is best discussed through a hypothetical example. Imagine a woman within the twenty-first century who decides she wishes to change her occupation from housewife to business woman. She will not make that transition in an instant, but will rather go through a series of steps that brings her eventually to her new position. Her movement might be caused by external (financial) or internal (personal desire) pressures, which then brings her to a place where she separates from her first role (housewife), as well as from the status that is placed on housewife and all the expectations that go with it. One way this separation would be visible would be the act of finding daycare for her children, effectively removing a significant degree of responsibility from her to another. A symbolic separation might be something as simple as her decision to place photographs of her children in her wallet, something that isn’t necessary when her children are nearby but becomes more significant when her children are far away. As she looks for a job outside her home, she is not yet where she desires, she is not labeled Assistant Manager or any other host of possible titles, and yet she is no longer 4 4 completely Housewife. She is in transition, residing in the margin of her passage, taking on few of the attributes that characterized her prior role, but also having few of those which will be necessary in her new role. The last phase, aggregation, allows us to determine when the rite of passage is completed, whether it was successful or not. In the above example, the woman’s status is the primary marker of change and her first day on the job is most likely the point when she aggregates back into society, having a clearly defined label that she then strives to fulfill because it carries with it all of the societal expectations and obligations for her to do so. If we take this same situation and move it to an earlier historical moment, it is conceivable that aggregation may not occur and instead she might become an outcast, making meaningful relationships within her community difficult or impossible. Therefore, in order for a rite of passage to be complete, society must be considered and included in the process. Otherwise a person’s change might keep them in a liminal state where they are continually on the outskirts of society and longing for acceptance. This may be less desirable than where they began, indicating the rite of passage failed or remains incomplete. For my own examination, I posit that before this movement will occur in terms of personal motivation, individuals must become aware of themselves, their agency or lack thereof, and have a recognition that some type of change must occur. The term self-actualization is not interchangeable with the word success, as people can become wealthy, powerful, intelligent, or any string of qualities we might hinge to the term success while always existing in a cocoon of ignorance about their own needs and desires, essentially only a puppet of their community. Therefore, within my study, the term self-actualization is meant to refer to the realization of a person’s unique and individual notions of success, which may include qualities that are in opposition to what is widely accepted. For example, a 5 5 life of poverty can be the epitome of self-actualization to an ascetic but not for the majority of people. Therefore, my focus is specifically on rites of passage that are motivated by individuals, as opposed to society, and that lead to greater self- actualization. Arnold Gennep and Victor Turner are often discussed together by modern theorists wishing to build off of their sociological premises, and rightly so. Where Gennep is broad and over-arching, Turner applies rites of passage to specific practices of the Ndembu tribe in Africa within his book, The Ritual Process: Structure and Anti-Structure, published in 1969. As he examines the Ndembu tribe, he utilizes the Latin term communitas to add depth to Gennep’s liminal stage. It is Turner’s deepening understanding of people within a liminal social position that brings about his connection to communitas, as this is his designation for the unique social group that forms within the limin. Therefore, liminal individuals can be seen to form their own communities, as initiates or outcasts noticeably band together. He notes that the most obvious characteristic of the limin, and thus the people within it, is ambiguity, and unlike Gennep, spends a greater portion of his book discussing the positive outcomes resulting from this tolerance for ambiguity. According to Turner, the state of ambiguity for those in transition becomes a site of commonality and is directly responsible for fostering a sense of unity. In his recognition that society looks at people on the margins as being on the lowest rung of the social hierarchy, he applies the concept of communitas to specific occupations, making it evident that groups that might be labeled as communitas are initiates, the homeless, the disenfranchised, as well as artists, writers, and philosophers. What all of these have in common are the way they operate outside of the norm, on the boundary of society, sometimes invisible 6 6 but often problematic to the whole. Once we place common titles to communitas, it is increasingly evident that liminality is operative within society, and Turner’s writing directly addresses communitas as a site of tension between structure and the numerous influences that rework or overstep structural boundaries. Because the members of communitas are in flux, one important difference found within the group, as opposed to other groups within normative culture, is that “they stress personal relationships rather than social obligations, and regard sexuality as a polymorphic instrument of immediate communitas rather than as the basis for an enduring structured social tie” (Turner 112-113). Within the context of literature, then, even though the characters are fictional, protagonists who are within a liminal space evidence a transitory connection to others and are drawn to ambiguity and creative or alternative modes of communication and existence. This evidences the usefulness of literature examined through anthropological theory, as the tie between an author and their text crosses boundaries of fiction and reality, making the distance between the two more readily traversed. Bearing this in mind, I believe that all individuals who are moving through a rite of passage, both within fiction and in reality, find fluidity, indefiniteness, and polysemousness not only useful but necessary. Taking Turner’s theory another step, it becomes more understandable why society tolerates these groups, which are common but enigmatic. We might conclude that communitas become increasingly complex when viewed in light of self-actualization, as their lack of mainstream power or conformity, especially when they have actively chosen to become thus, evokes a myriad of feelings in outsiders including anger, disgust, confusion, as well as curiosity and admiration. Turner notes, “What is interesting about liminal phenomena...is the blend they offer of lowliness and sacredness, of homogeneity and comradeship” (96). This 7 7 blending is ever present within communitas, and it is their facilitation of ambiguity which also gives us clues towards what an individual, and thus society, may find useful. Again, an example may help to elucidate this point. As Turner’s work was during the 1960’s, he turned to the new phenomenon of hippie culture to further elucidate his findings: The Zen formulation ‘all is one, one is none, none is all’ well expresses the global, unstructured character earlier applied to communitas. The hippie emphasis on spontaneity, immediacy, and ‘existence’ throws into relief one of the senses in which communitas contrasts with structure. Communitas is of the now; structure is rooted in the past and extends into the future through language, law, and custom. (113) Hippies are one group recent enough to demonstrate the relevance of communitas to our modern world, hence their general position in society. Similarly, and making increasingly broader implications, women themselves may be termed communitas, as they constitute a community in conflict with a prevalent structure. This conflict produces tensions that are observable in the form of negative stereotypes, active discrimination, and/or legislation, all of which are attempts by those in power to suppress alternatives to existing cultural scripts. The result of these actions is to effectively push subversive influences to the margins of society, making it possible to view individuals at the margin as liminal or within communitas. These places of tension demonstrate a complicated relationship, the push and pull between individuals, groups, and society with multiple paths into and out of the limin. As the limin is always a space of ambiguity, the permeative ease whereby individuals or groups enter or are exiled to it further adds to its 8 8 ambiguous nature. Individuals within this ambiguous space have equally ambiguous relationships to others, exhibiting both detachment and connection. While small changes can incorporate the stages of a rite of passage as Gennep suggests, the purpose of this study is to look at changes that are more fundamental to an individual’s autonomy and may accurately be labeled a quest for self-actualization as well as a rite of passage. Robert Torrance believes all humans seek for answers and existence that transcends their human constraints and describes the process within his book The Spiritual Quest: Transcendence in Myth, Religion, and Science, published in 1994. As Torrance believes that questing is still operative in our modern world, he lays out the characteristics of a quest so that scholars might better recognize its essential aspects. Within his book, he states a quest includes a celebration of the sense of passage (10), an awareness of itself and its goals (24), the necessity of a journey into the unknown (53), an intrinsic sense of seeking (54), and always exhibits itself as a creative process in that “human beings continually remake themselves” (57). While Gennep demonstrates the likelihood of both small and large changes involving stages of a rite of passage, one additional characteristic mentioned by Torrance, the potential for failure (54), increases risk to the individual such as to deepen the quality and nature of a quest in comparison. Some changes are conceivably reversible; although, a change of character or beliefs might not be undone. It is important to note that an individual who tastes autonomy may not be able to return to their previous degree of ignorance or dependence. The goal of a quest as Torrance posits is to transcend human constraints; thus individuals who find themselves in a position of tension with society’s expectations are likely to go through a period of change, which may bring them into greater or lesser conformity with cultural scripts. If the individual is changing 9 9 as a result of personal dictates, it is probable they will be increasingly out of conformity, but that society will adjust to incorporate them if possible. For example, civil liberties within America were granted to marginalized groups through a gradual process of many individuals’ incorporation, rather than a sudden shift of acceptance. Additionally, concerns that are personal and internal often connect to an individual’s religious beliefs as well as their proclivity towards self-reflection. If they perceive themselves in a mode that is not satisfying, or in some way meaningless, individuals will begin seeking for alternatives, for change, as well as transcendence towards a meaningful existence. Therefore, while an individual’s quest may be motivated internally, and their change may occur out of connection with normative culture, the interplay between society and the individual is ever present, complicated, and fluctuating. While it is true that the shared experience of increasingly visible outcasts is capable of generating awareness that facilitates future change and incorporation, the private, inner world of individuals remains more fluid than the public, outer world, and people may change more easily than society. Within my literary analysis, I focus on female protagonists who search for a meaningful existence within societies dominated by patriarchal cultural models. Torrance connects the spiritual quest and patriarchy, saying that, just as religion fosters both an open and closed nature from its followers, patriarchy fosters a similar movement through its search for knowledge, via science, which revitalizes patriarchal society. This springs out of the premise that patriarchy favors dominance, which in turn fosters a sense of competition, both of which are apparent in the phrase “knowledge is power.” Torrance connects the spiritual to scientific pursuits, which is preferred within Western scholarly circles, and posits that, rather than viewing science as fact, we should recognize that knowledge is 10 10 always transient, changing as a necessity to accommodate new knowledge. Similarly, the quest for knowledge also encourages an exploration of identity, as psychoanalysis has been foundational to the feminist movement. If we push Torrance’s point, then, it is ironic, yet apparent that patriarchy not only tolerates the feminist movement, but encourages it as well. The eventual outcome, however, is to incorporate the philosophy and appropriate it as either ‘good’ or ‘bad’, acceptable or not, as domination requires a hierarchical framework and controls and suppresses ‘lesser’ philosophies. Torrance’s theory elucidates the fact that patriarchy does not operate effectively as a collaborative model because of its need for a hierarchical structure.

A Theological Connection to the Liminal: Carmel Davis The prior discussion deals with rites of passage, liminality, and questing for self-actualization, but as previously mentioned, spirituality can play a key role in an individual’s quest. Carmel Davis’s inquiry within her book Mysticism & Space: Space and Spatiality in the Works of Richard Rolle, The Cloud of Unknowing Author, and Julian of Norwich takes an in-depth look at how society motivates spiritual movements and utilizes them, allocating space, both physically and psychologically so as to create a valuable place for mystics within culture. Her examination is literary and theological, focusing on three specific texts written by medieval religious figures. As Davis discusses physical and psychological spaces in connection with mystical practice, she emphasizes the tensions created between an outward/inward dichotomy. This is apparent in her focus on individual concerns vs. societal concerns, and Davis makes a point of bringing this to light for her audience when she writes, “the spatial perspective that I apply allows mysticism to be understood 11 11 as both a social construct in its exterior representations and yet, interiorly, as an authentic experience of God” (5). These “social constructs” were the visible indicators of a mystic’s invisible experience, the only way a community could come to understand and participate in mysticism. The visible indicators which are most relevant for my purposes were their ascetic lifestyle and writings. Because the mystic’s community would have no other way of determining authenticity, God and the sacred permeated the mystic’s physical and outer space as well as their inner space. This supports experiences that are inward, emotional, and personal as being “authentic” and relevant for discussion. Generally speaking, Western religions posit a feminine ideal that is chaste and submissive, a woman’s sexuality harnessed and utilized but not an acceptable source of woman’s personal desire or fulfillment. This type of woman, one who conformed to cultural scripts of proper and restrained behavior, was welcomed into religious avenues. Her opposite, however, would be a woman who was sexually liberated and self-governing, and was considered a source of temptation to man, and therefore open to condemnation. Believing man was more logical than woman, men saw themselves as responsible for their leadership and protection, as emotions were viewed as a source of weakness. Therefore, Western religion is widely considered patriarchal in its hierarchical structure and its suppression of women. However, looking at the ways women have utilized available modes of agency, Davis demonstrates how religion also offered an avenue into increasing influence upon society as women who chose to devote themselves to God, becoming mystics and religious figures in the fifth to the fifteenth century, would write about their sacred experiences. Admittedly, these women might at first be seen as furthering patriarchal constructs of female identity, but as she notes, 12 12

“women could appeal to a higher authority in God and thus transcend ‘cultural restrictions on their behavior, self-image and influence despite their lack of books [and] rudimentary education’” (qtd. in Davis 4)1. This demonstrates that in the inclusion of women’s writing, validating their sacred experiences and promoting its transmission, the church provided one avenue for women out of the confinement of their roles as wives and mothers, granting them an alternative means of expression, albeit limited, but nevertheless present. Through their role as mystic, they were able to find a voice within their community. So, while it can be argued that historically men have claimed to have a higher authority over women in relation to God, within Western historical traditions there are times when women are granted more equality in religious circles than generally discussed. Furthermore, while other means of influence were present such as wealth, a female mystic’s involvement in her decision to join an anchorage makes this path more closely connected to both a rite of passage and a spiritual quest. In the case of anchorites, as discussed by Davis, a woman’s choice was influenced by society as well as internal dictates, but ultimately her position as a mystic must come about through the woman’s personal motivation as the experience of a recluse is difficult in its asceticism. As these women were able to read and write and education was a mark of privilege, woman who joined an anchorage left behind a life of relative comfort for one dominated by solitude and minimalism. We can make connections between Davis’s theories and Torrance in the fact that these female mystics were directly involved in their own sense of seeking and quest, and that this was, in fact, a journey into the unknown.

1 Secondary source quoted by Davis is: Lagorio, Valerie. “The Medieval Continental Women Mystics.” An Introduction to the Medieval Mystics of Europe. Ed. Paul E. Szarmach. Albany: State University of New York Press, 1984. Print. 13 13

As the focus of my literary analysis is on women who quest for expression, which is also an act of self-actualization, Davis’s discussion brings some interesting points to bear, particularly in relation to society’s involvement with the mystic’s journey. As women who were cloistered relied on provisions from the surrounding community, their role was supported by members who sought a means of sharing sacred experiences. This was done through writing, as those outside of the sacred experience anticipated and sought after the writing of all individuals who devoted themselves to God, women included, the reading of texts allowing for a vicarious way of hearing from God themselves. Davis posits that assisting the mystic’s life by caring for their physical needs allowed others to share in the rewards (49). Therefore, while female mystics are potentially supporting a patriarchal cultural script, they are also subverting these scripts by creating texts that serve to speak into the lives of the surrounding community and potentially undermine the belief that women should be seen and not heard. While Turner builds on Gennep to include occupations as liminal, Davis takes a different step when she concludes that the productions from liminal spaces are liminal as well, specifically referring to their writings. This is apparent when we see how a mystic’s texts served to bridge the gap between their personal and private experience to one that is shared by its readers, making a movement from the inward to outward, the open to the closed. In this way, texts themselves can be seen as liminal and demonstrate the ties that individuals have to their communities and vice-versa, supporting the relevance of literature studies and analysis done by scholars today. This connects to my examination of Tenant of Wildfell Hall specifically in the next chapter, as Helen Huntington’s diary becomes a point of entry for readers into her liminal space and experience. 14 14

It is important to point out that communities shared in the ambiguity of the liminal as well, and society’s involvement was a way of mitigating and preventing subversive doctrines. Since power structures demand control over their subjects, remaining active in the process allowed them to better regulate and appropriate threatening ideological shifts.2 One example of appropriation as a means towards reducing potential threats can be seen in the role played by court jesters. These are liminal figures who were granted an inordinate amount of latitude, facilitating potentially subversive doctrines through their freedom of expression while also allowing a monarchy to increase awareness and monitor the undercurrents of their domain. Society and individuals are complicated, and the way they work together is similarly so. When looking at female anchorites for example, their degree of self- sacrifice continues to make their agency problematic, but when viewed as a rite of passage towards self-actualization, feminist, sociological, and theological scholars agree that internal dictates are important to consider in judging the benefits to the individual and society. This is increasingly evident when we consider differences between male and female anchorites, as they do not both gain and lose the same things. According to Davis, women could not renounce what they never had (30). This would include power and wealth, as well as agency. While their literacy indicates similar degrees of privilege, men had access to benefits women were frequently denied. Therefore, it is conceivable that the sacrifice of male anchorites was greater, as women often gained power, agency, and influence through their

2 For a more in-depth look at the power dynamic between religion and culture, see Mircea Eliade’s chapter “Crisis and Renewal” in his book The Quest: History and Meaning in Religion. Eliade illustrates the ways that the incorporation of newly relevant ideas pose a challenge to society. 15 15 sacred experience and subsequent writings, while men reduced their sphere of influence to religious communities, even though these were significant.

Feminist Theory and Self-Expression: Luce Irigaray and Julia Kristeva Looking at the language of men and women makes it apparent that many differences exist between the sexes. The tension that exists during conversations between men and women demonstrate how each sex favors a particular style of communication: men are wishing she’d get to the point already, and women are wishing he would listen better3. While this is not always the case, it occurs often enough to create gender stereotypes, reinforcing the idea that differences exist between the sexes with regard to their discourse. Therefore, while some may say that communication serves everyone towards the same goal, it is more likely true that men and women approach communication with gender specific biases, motives, and expectations. It is also conceivable that whichever sex holds more power within a specific society will have the most agency to propel their gendered desires towards a successful end. This majority will also facilitate gendered notions of value within its society that will translate into, among other things, a preferred rhetorical style. This is not to say that an entire language is gender specific, but that communication choices preferred by a specific gender will be reinforced, similar to Pavlov’s experiments with his dog, simply through repetition and a power structure with the means to reward preferred communication tendencies. In Western patriarchal society, this translates to long-standing traditions of communication that are generally deemed masculine.

3 For a theoretical examination supporting gender communication differences, see Deborah Tannen, Gender and Discourse. New York: Oxford UP, 1994. Print. 16 16

In order to explore feminine expression within a literary text, it is first necessary to define what a feminine discourse is. While current scholarship continually complicates our understanding of language, it is widely accepted that within Western cultures, a favored rhetorical style is linear, logical, holding clearly defined terminology and perpetually moving towards new knowledge. Luce Irigaray, a French psychoanalyst and prominent feminist theorist, attaches this rhetoric to the male phallus, positing that Freud’s theories hinge on phallocratic laws (68). Her theories were read as essentialist and criticized at the time of publication, as the feminine once again becomes confined and appropriated. However, when utilized in a situational context, I believe they still hold relevance, and scholarship is furthered by the concepts that Irigaray brings to light. While Freud’s analysis of woman’s sexual identity is problematic, his theories continue to hold a surprising tenacity and serve as a foundation for many modern conclusions. Within her book This Sex Which is Not One, Irigaray reexamines Freud’s psychoanalysis and uses the female genitalia to imagine what a feminine discourse might look like. According to Irigaray, rather than viewing a woman’s sex in terms of ‘lack’ or ‘dependent on man,’ we should recognize the lips of the vagina are always touching, making woman’s sexuality autoerotic (Irigaray 23-24). This ‘self- embrace’ creates a simultaneity, or infinite embrace, causing a continual turning inwards. Because of this, feminine sexuality privileges an inward focus and the tactile, while masculine sexuality, in its reliance on a receptacle for the phallus, privileges an outward and visual focus (79). Therefore, if a woman’s desire determines her rhetoric, then her language would be foreign to men because her desire differs from man’s (25). Specifically then, a feminine discourse would be circular, excessive to the point of disrupting logic (78), and confound 17 17 appropriation because it is fluid and embraces simultaneity (79). For the sake of clarification, it is important to note that my focus is less on language in terms of syntax or phonology, but more the purpose of a woman’s language in her rhetorical choices and her way of framing knowledge and understanding. As expression involves a unique understanding deriving from the individual, a woman’s actions and choices of expression, if we follow Irigaray’s notions, will put her in conflict with a masculine world. Simultaneity in language is expressed through multiple layers which may contain opposites as well as similar terms. This translates to a woman’s actions that might seem unaccountable to observers. Simultaneity creates ambiguity, a haze to the masculine gaze, but is a demonstration of women’s movement within multiple roles that might be in conflict with each other. Since my focus is on female protagonists and their self-actualization, it is important to recognize that feminine expression is a source of tension in society. For example, looking at feminine discourse as having simultaneity, it becomes apparent this serves to disrupt phallocratic labeling and create an excess of attributes that brings about a harmonious and complicated whole. This coexistence essentially is a tolerance for difference that frustrates preference, dominance or labeling. Therefore, feminine discourse creates tension within a patriarchal society, but I would argue this is due to society’s phallocratic hierarchical framework, and less tension is experienced on the part of women than might be supposed. This is because, according to Irigaray’s line of thinking, women are more comfortable with ambiguity and layered or coexistent meanings, while phallocratic laws require separate and ordered meaning placed into a linear structure. Accordingly, female protagonists who are moving towards self- expression might maintain an appearance that is consistent with patriarchal 18 18 cultural scripts, but will simultaneously move towards alternative scripts, creating plurality and fostering inclusion. This multiplicity also checks an argument that prefers the masculine over the feminine, as feminine discourse postulates coexistence, not separation. Just as the quest promotes a movement between the closed and open, in similar fashion, feminine discourse transcends singular notions of identity, rhetoric, and dominance through an outcome that is unique. To Torrance, transcendence through the quest becomes a way of going beyond human limitations to reach an indeterminate outcome, generating transformation through the process, while always having the potential of fallibility. I suggest that Irigaray’s feminine discourse moves towards an indeterminate outcome as well. In its fluidity and simultaneity, new knowledge and understanding arise, which fosters liminality, ambiguity, and creativity. If we return to generalities in order to better see the motivation of women in their quest for expression, we might presume a woman within Western society finds herself decidedly within a man’s world. Because phallocentrism masks the feminine, a woman’s struggle to find fulfillment in life requires a change of focus from social expectations (an outward focus) towards a realization of her individual needs (an inward focus). Irigaray posits that women naturally have an inward focus, but are conditioned by patriarchal cultural to focus more on their beauty, propriety, and nurturing, making them acceptable to the male gaze. As a woman becomes more aware of her own needs and her own thoughts, she may find they conflict with what others believe, creating anxiety that must be resolved. Therefore, internal motives, frames of existence, awareness, and its outcomes once again are of particular interest. 19 19

Our internal motives are of particular interest to psychoanalytic theory, and Julia Kristeva’s work demonstrates the struggles of women within patriarchal cultures. Kristeva, like Irigaray, is not only a scholar but a psychoanalytic practitioner as well. Arriving in Paris in 1966 from her native country of Bulgaria, she found herself on the margins of a man’s world, yet continually made herself heard. Her work with Tel Quel4, as well as her seminal work, La Révolution du langage poétique, placed her in the forefront of scholarship on feminine expression. As she has changed, so has her theoretical perspective, always staying with the feminine, but moving from the abstract to the practical in ways that keep her relevant. According to Anne-Marie Smith, “Julia Kristeva is an exemplary advocate of her own thinking, a living example of its dynamism, complexity and conflicts, its powers of transgression within limits and remarkable capacity for synthesis” (5). Kristeva has gone through her own feminine quest, searching for knowledge, finding autonomous expression, and making ties to her feminine self that connect to Irigaray, as well as Torrance, Davis, Turner, and Gennep. Human existence is full of varying types of experience, and what can be put into words serves to bridge our inner and outer worlds. Some experiences however, the sensory or the spiritual, remain marginal in part because they are difficult to express. Additionally, verbalization often detracts from their essence and makes them ordinary simply from the attachment of ordinary words. Anne- Marie Smith’s book, Speaking the Unspeakable, looks at Kristeva’s work with an emphasis on the impact of Kristeva’s voice, her texts a mark of agency working inside the scholarly community. As Smith describes it, Kristeva’s seminal work

4 Tel Quel was a French literary magazine founded in the 1960s which sprung up from revolutionary thinkers like Marx, Freud, and Lacan to name only a few. The focus was on deconstruction and post-structuralist thought to challenge conditions of the day with a goal towards change. The publication ceased in the 1980s to be replaced by L'infini. 20 20 explores the “realm of the sensible and its encounter with the laws of language” (14). The sensory is devoid of language and must be constructed to describe our nonverbal perceptions. In our constructions, we move experience from the right hemisphere of our brain to the left, intellectualizing the emotional. Furthermore, the work of extrapolating language to fit an experience demonstrates the connection between the sensory and the rational, as language without the sensory incorporated becomes meaningless. According to Kristeva, poetic language’s use demonstrates the way that new constructs serve to revitalize popular experience, to reach across and connect people through their senses. According to Smith, Kristeva’s work brings to light ways, “poetic language points to the fact that language cannot live by grammar or syntax or even vocabulary alone, that sensation will leave its indelible stamp and that this imprint of the body in language is readable” (Smith 14). Here we see that even the feminine’s potential overthrowing of logic, its chaos which is posited by Irigaray, might be readable, as poetic language is often linked to the feminine, the emotional, the intangible, and the subversive. As texts themselves are potentially liminal, one result of the encounter with language is the way the author becomes a revolutionary figure, influencing society as their language becomes aggregated, their concepts and expression pressed into society and available for repetition by others. This is one quality I am exploring in texts written by women about women. Essentially, what is language without experience? The two are intrinsically linked. Frequently, language is seen as abstract, mathematical even, a logical representation, and phonemic. However, language is hinged on the tangible, the sensory, the experience that, at times, is nonverbal. From this perspective, communication requires nonverbal experience to be joined with logical expression, hence logic is inseparable from emotion. Irigaray states phallocratic 21 21 discourse values logic and the feminine values it opposite, an overflowing fluidity of understanding. While Irigaray makes it seem like all women are opposite phallocratic logic in their discursive choices, both men and women value sensory experience, and in light of Kristeva’s theory, it seems more likely that both struggle for a balance in their ability to communicate nonverbal experiences. Kristeva’s conceptualization on the abject is relevant when analyzing women’s expression and self-actualization, as well as its connection to the limin. As the abject is a reaction, a feeling of horror experienced “when the individual comes up against all the barriers and limits which in society and culture define separation from the archaic mother” (Smith 32), it is conceivable the abject is a factor in the intrinsic motivation of women, the push against their constraints which aims to drive them back into connection with the feminine. As an abject figure is “neither subject nor object, [but]...lies between the two” (33) then the abject is connected to the liminal. The abject is an internal liminality therefore female protagonists in literature might demonstrate their movement towards the realization of self-expression in a way that is difficult to see externally. Kristeva argues that men transform their desire for connection with the mother to heterosexual relationships but that women must construct their desire differently. Because society maintains that a woman must desire man, she must distance herself from her own body in a way unique from men, as her body is the site of tension within a masculine order. Therefore, her senses don’t fall in line with “a strange, illusory, masculine order signified by the phallus.” This is resolved by a type of “psychic bisexuality”, which I would argue is another way to frame Irigaray’s simultaneity: [She is] able to feel estranged from masculinity and nostalgic for femininity, to live out that nostalgia in [her] femininity, in 22 22

motherhood, in female friendships and to submit that strangeness to the scene, the game, of heterosexual seduction...It is movement between the feminine and the masculine, a delicate, difficult configuration, a fantasy to remedy other less liveable fantasies. (92) What we must conclude from Irigaray and Kristeva is that women will resolve their rites of passage in ways that are different than what Gennep originally speculated, as women may be negotiating multiple social roles, multiple mental states, as well as multiple layers of experience. Consequentially, their expression of this multiplicity will be equally varied in terms of their liminal productions and their use of language.

The Feminine Quest in Literature The following chapters look at The Bone People, The Tenant of Wildfell Hall, and Mrs. Dalloway. Each of these texts is written by women and include female protagonists who can be seen to move towards self-actualization. In using the theories discussed, these women evidence a process towards resolution of internal and external sources of discord that make the unique journey of women more clear. Within The Bone People, Kerewin Holmes is attempting to regain her artistic expression and her resolution demonstrates a surprising result of feminine expression, one of dynamic inclusion. Kerewin’s spiritual journey derives from her Māori roots, but the other texts explore different religious aspects. Helen Huntington’s quest within The Tenant of Wildfell Hall is framed within a Christian perspective which facilitates her autonomy, not the prescribed submissive wife. Faced with an alcoholic husband, her moments of solitude open possibilities towards navigating between her external and internal dictates. Virginia Woolf’s Mrs. Dalloway is a concentrated look into the internal world of feminine self- 23 23 definition with a greater focus on the completion of a quest and aggregation. Clarissa has to find a way to fit within prescribed cultural scripts while maintaining contrary internal beliefs. Her negotiation of a plural existence adds another layer of depth to what is brought out in the discussion of Kerewin and Helen’s process. Each woman has their own way of expressing the feminine. Whether it is constructing something unexplainable like a suneater (in Kerewin’s case), painting, writing, or throwing a party, each woman must counter a patriarchal influence that works against their expression. In each text, ambiguity and the limin is stressed, as well as the role of feminine expression in encouraging autonomy.

Troubles with a Gendered Study I wish to conclude this chapter with an acknowledgment of some problems that arise when narrowing individuals, expression, and self-actualization, each with a host of unique and complicated aspects, to gendered terms like ‘feminine’ and ‘masculine’ for the sake of a logical argument, as well as general notions that have arisen during the process of this work. Due to the scope and focus of my paper, I am examining the quest for expression as it pertains to women specifically, but that is not to say that men don’t suffer from gender expectations that constrain them as well. Additionally, while I use the term feminine expression repeatedly, it is evident that men can utilize the same expression. Feminine, as I employ it, is not dependent on a gendered body, is not an essential quality of “women,” but serves to refer to the “Other” and specifically points to one alternative to phallocratic discourse. Additionally, dividing men and women into little boxes is problematic in itself and overly simplistic, as well as attempting to explain cultural complexity 24 24 with the use of repeated terms like “Western civilization” or “patriarchy.” Considering constraints of time and space however, it would be impossible to fill in every concept in a way that does it justice. To some degree I rely on binaries as a starting point and hope to demonstrate complexity as my argument unfolds in terms of my specific focus: feminine expression. While feminist theory has plowed new inroads into ways of examining the repressed other, these are generally reliant on an assumption that there must always be a dominant influence. The premise is that differences cannot coexist harmoniously in tandem, whether that be gender, race, or sexual preference. Even though hope exists for coexistence, most theory is a lens which separates by its very nature. Irigaray’s conclusion that fluidity of meaning would confound appropriation is demonstrated by the complexity of the ideas which make them problematic. Often it becomes difficult to use literary theory or classifying categories without also acknowledging the oppositional truths, yet I hope to admit complexity when able without also becoming tedious to my reader. That being said, many elements in this paper can become binaries, yet being specific about the myriad of ways these are expressed contextually allows our understanding to follow along the lines of a spectrum of possibilities. For Davis, she speaks of mysticism, but I am speaking of feminine expression and self-actualization. Both mysticism and one’s identity are imbued with a sense of mystery. Both bring a sense of awe and respect. When one encounters the self, humility and ego are combined in a struggle. How one sees their worth and the possibility of self can be influenced by the teachings and prejudices of society, the doors that open from the stories of those who have journeyed before, as well as the self that is undeniable and will not be repressed. There remains a struggle between 25 25 the outside and inside worlds that I hope to bring forth in a way that does justice to its intricacy. One intriguing thought is that a world without men would look very different, because women would create a world vastly different. This is an idea explored within feminist utopian literature, as well as within the mind of many women. While I acknowledge the reproductive limitations this brings about, the assumption is that women have been unable to exert influence because they are not able to express themselves fully within a male dominated society. Nevertheless, I believe this is an oversimplification arising out of a conversation on women’s rights, necessarily pushing against patriarchy, which has been ongoing for over a century. For example, it has been said that a woman’s world would be nurturing, peaceful, and harmoniously in-sync with nature, believing that men are solely responsible for war. Frequently, the problem with this line of thinking is its refusal to acknowledge complications like similarities between the sexes or instances when gender, sex, and cultural lines are blurred. However, my foundational premise remains that women are different from men, a necessary starting point to build upon. While I’ve struggled against drawing lines in the sand between the sexes, ultimately those lines remains present more often than not, simply for the sake of clarity. Furthermore, while it is possible to prove that muting women’s interests has direct correlations to our current global emphasis on conquest, that is not the purpose of my paper. I disagree that women have been completely without agency in the structure of civilization. Just as a world without men might look radically different, a world without women entirely would be different from the world we live in today. Both sexes have managed to coexist in the interest of our continued survival, and it would seem to me that women have flowed like water into the only 26 26 space allowed for them within the Western world. Because I believe that women encourage a collaborative world view, taking on a collaborative role is consistent, and their collusion with patriarchy works to both support and subvert women. This is not to say that women are naturally submissive, but rather, naturally fluid. Their inward focus and multiplicity allows them to define their role in numerous ways that can be privately rewarding, while simultaneously acknowledging an alternate view by a dominant influence, similar to Kristeva’s psychic bisexuality. In terms of presenting an exhaustive look at feminine expression, I sympathize with Turner when he writes, “it is one thing to observe people performing the stylized gestures and singing the cryptic songs of ritual performances and quite another to reach an adequate understanding of what the movements and words mean to them” (7). Similarly, I might attempt to say what “feminine” is, but there are still individuals who only know themselves and cannot be known completely by an outsider’s gaze. Also, taking into account all the scholarship that has occurred in gender studies is another impossible task, so I admit without reservation that my definition of feminine expression is limited. I do, however, hope this study is useful in terms of future examinations of female protagonists.

CHAPTER 2: THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL: THE ROLE OF LIMINAL SPACES IN HELEN’S DEVELOPMENT OF AUTONOMY

Examining specific works of literature moves abstract concepts towards concrete examples, thus I turn to the first novel, The Tenant of Wildfell Hall. I begin with this text, not only because it makes the quest for feminine expression visible, but also because it raises awareness as to its necessity and significance to women in particular, both now and in the past. Within our postmodern world, few generations have passed since women were as disenfranchised as Mrs. Helen Huntington is within Tenant, yet, surprisingly young women today rarely feel a tangible connection between themselves and their feminine predecessors. For this reason, using older texts which were written before Luce Irigaray and Julia Kristeva’s theory informs new scholars whence current feminist theory arises. Thus, Helen becomes significant as a woman who facilitates her own rite of passage at a time when few options were available, and works additionally to create a bridge of understanding between modern realities and the past. While my focus is on Helen, several feminine characters are available for a similar discussion, each with unique outcomes that demonstrates the varied nature of a quest. However, the concept of the limin is particularly significant to feminine expression, and Helen’s use of liminal spaces allows her change. Thus Helen is the character best suited to bring liminality under sharp focus. At the time of Tenant’s publication in 1848, despite its popularity and relevance, the majority of critics believed it was grossly inappropriate and unfit for discriminating readers. Scholars who discuss its impact on Victorian society make it evident the novel generated a complicated mix of reactions. Josephine McDonagh addresses Tenant’s reception in her introduction for the 2008 Oxford 28 28 edition, stating, “[contemporary] critics were . . . gripped by what they called the novel’s . . . passionate eloquence [and] undoubtedly Christian moral” and notes its longevity is a result of, “its frank depictions of states of subjection and powerlessness . . . [thereby remaining a] sharp critique of a brutal and brutalizing society” (ix-x). Ian Ward, professor of Law at Newcastle University, adds to this, saying, “the Tenant scandalized Victorian England . . . [as] its stark portrayal of a dysfunctional, abusive marriage . . . shattered the pretenses of marital harmony so beloved of many Victorians” (Ward 151). As my thesis examines the search for feminine expression, Anne Brontë, in her writing of a novel which generated an impassioned and myriad response from its public, indicates the usefulness of her text to my discussion. Helen is the main protagonist of the novel, and she is a woman who expresses a devout commitment to God. Significantly, her difficulties arise through her marriage to Arthur Huntington, a man who proves himself a womanizer and an alcoholic. After several years of an increasingly unhappy marriage, Helen makes the decision to leave her husband, in large part so she might protect her young son from Arthur’s corrupting influence. She flees to Wildfell Hall, a property owned by her brother, Mr. Frederick Lawrence, and takes on the fictitious name, Mrs. Helen Graham in order to prevent Arthur from locating her. At the time of its publication, this ‘marital harmony’ Ward speaks of was reliant on gender roles which made women completely dependent on their husbands, more like pets than individuals. Consequently, a nineteenth-century audience was reluctant to tolerate a public account of alcoholism and dissipation which maligned the sacrosanct role of husband. What is more, women’s rights, especially within marriage, were only beginning to receive attention, so that the authorial creation of a woman who would leave her husband for any reason was 29 29 reprehensible. This construction of gender roles in part sprang out of the premise that man was morally and intellectually superior to woman, which was the justification for his leadership in the home and public arena. With Tenant, Anne Brontë subverts cultural gender expectations, as her main protagonist, Mrs. Helen Huntington, is a woman who demonstrates an increasing devotion to God while simultaneously becoming less dependent on her husband, thus facilitating the notion that a woman could successfully direct her own life. Therefore, to the Victorian reader, Helen offered an alternative to the traditional identity of wife as only being a “good” woman when submissive, and this is one reason the novel was met with more consternation than approval. However, the importance of such an alternative identity is developed by Sidonie Smith and Julia Watson, who write, “those whose identities, experiences, and histories remain marginal, invalidated, invisible, and partial negotiate and alter normative or traditional frames of identity in their differences” (3). Brontë, as a member of this group of marginalized individuals, creates a character who is negotiating and altering the traditional role of wife and woman, placing her within a doctrine that stressed “[the husband’s] business [is] to please [himself], and hers to please [him]” (Brontë 50). As Helen remains the most spiritually devout character within a Victorian novel, while simultaneously bringing her role as wife into question, she becomes a female literary figure that prompts a reexamination of female social scripts with a focus on feminine expression. The separation of Helen’s spirituality from her duty to her husband is a primary source of controversy and as such, illustrates an intriguing possibility for how a woman may threaten the patriarchal ideal. The focus on abuse within Tenant by scholars has overshadowed Helen’s spiritual journey and its connection to her burgeoning independence. Significantly, this intensifying of her relationship 30 30 with God cannot happen through her dependence on her husband, but only through her separation from him. Therefore, Helen defies cultural scripts which assume that a woman’s purity is inseparable from her subjugation. Women were offered few roles of social esteem, given primarily the options of wife and mother. To be unmarried was to be a spinster, a category men escaped completely, but one which equaled a life of shame to many women. While the Catholic religion offered an alternative, as women could become the “bride of Christ” and join a nunnery, Helen is not afforded this option as she is not Catholic. Nevertheless, even these possibilities would not allow women the freedom to be independent, as each entails being under an authority other than their own. Understanding the narrow perimeters women faced adds a level of desperation to Helen’s plight as she finds her duty to her husband and her desire to please God in tension with each other. As marriage was seen as the union of man and woman into one person, and the woman was legally incorporated into a man’s estate as property, once married a woman was granted no will of her own separate from her husband’s. Due to the extent of Helen’s spirituality and the opposite disposition of her husband, Helen finds herself in a situation that society had no remedy for: her commitment to God is in conflict with her vows to her husband. Helen does not foresee this problem occurring when she agrees to marry Arthur, but shortly after their wedding he chides her for being “too religious” because she doesn’t give him the attention he desires. Her response to Arthur indicates her unwillingness to yield to him what her culture dictates she must: I will give my whole heart and soul to my Maker if I can . . . and not one atom more of it to you than He allows. What are you, sir, that you should set yourself up as a god, and presume to dispute 31 31

possession of my heart with Him to whom I owe all I have and all I am, every blessing I ever did or ever can enjoy. . . (173) As wives had no autonomous rights of their own at this point in history, Helen’s statement to her husband would be viewed as absurd to most of her Victorian audience. Ian Ward, in the aforementioned article, cites a chief justice in 1886, Sir John Duke Coleridge, as saying “across much of Victorian society a wife was still ‘regarded as a kind of inferior dog or horse’” (153). In this light, Helen’s independence would appear exaggerated to Brontë’s contemporary readers. Importantly, it is Helen’s spirituality that is intrinsically linked to her sense of autonomy, and it is this that serves to facilitate her growing independence rather than suppress it. Therefore, a woman’s struggle towards self-actualization can deviate from a patriarchal model on either side of the spectrum, becoming either less or more than the ideal “good” woman, as autonomy in any form potentially incurs censure. Helen’s increasing autonomy, expressed via her personal spiritual journey and decreasing reliance on others, occurs due to her ability to find a space that is liminal, allowing her to grow and change.

Synopsis of the Tenant of Wildfell Hall The story of Tenant begins in the county of Linden-Car, where Wildfell Hall stands. Helen’s new home is a “dilapidated, rickety old place” (52) according to Gilbert Markham, who is the narrator through most of the novel, telling the story chronologically for him, beginning with Helen’s arrival into the community as a mysterious figure. Tenant is told by two narrators, Gilbert Markham and Helen, and is constructed as a long series of letters that Gilbert is writing to his brother-in-law, Mr. Halford. Gilbert portrays Helen’s entry into the community as having rocky beginnings, seemingly rude and aloof in her desire to be alone to 32 32 neighbors who know each other’s business through regular gossip. Wildfell Hall is described as “singular” (20) and “lonely” (47), its only occupants being Helen, her son, little Arthur, and her servant, Rachel, prompting those around her to see her as having a “lonely life” (54). Helen’s mystery is only heightened by her preference for isolation and her repeated rejection of counsel from others, including the vicar. Gilbert gives an insightful glimpse into his own character, as well as Helen’s degree of independence, when he says: I seldom suffered a fine day to pass without paying a visit to Wildfell, about the time my new acquaintance usually left her hermitage; but so frequently was I balked in my expectations of another interview, so changeable was she in her times of coming forth and in her places of resort, so transient were the occasional glimpses I was able to obtain, that I felt half inclined to think she took as much pains to avoid my company, as I to seek hers. (45-46) Gilbert, in keeping with society’s expectations, does not validate Helen’s choice to remain isolated, rather he continually disregards her wishes by spending much of his time in her company no matter how determined she is to avoid it. Because she is unwilling to engage with her neighbors along prescribed gender scripts, specifically gossip and welcoming the authority of men, she quickly becomes a source of suspicion and speculation. Nevertheless, eventually she and Gilbert develop a tentative friendship, and when she is rumored to be having an affair with Mr. Lawrence, Gilbert is the only person to whom she is willing to defend herself. This she does by presenting him her diary, which Gilbert reproduces in full, and which takes up the middle section of the book. As it is primarily the details of her marriage to Arthur Huntington, Helen’s narration of her experience as Mrs. Arthur Huntington of Grassdale often makes reference to her unhappiness: 33 33

how little real sympathy there exists between [Arthur and I]; how many of my thoughts and feelings are gloomily cloistered within my own mind; how much of my higher and better self is indeed unmarried – doomed either to harden and sour in the sunless shade of solitude, or to quite degenerate and fall away for lack of nutriment in this unwholesome soil! – But, I repeat, I have no right to complain; only let me state the truth – some of the truth at least, – and see hereafter, if any darker truths will blot these pages. (206) After reading Helen’s story, both Gilbert and readers of Tenant recognize that Helen’s marriage was a tortuous affair—that she remains married, but is in hiding. Helen’s decision to leave Arthur is largely due to his negative influence on their son, encouraging him to drink when he is very young, as well as encouraging him to see his mother as an object of ridicule. These details within Helen’s journal make her a figure difficult to demonize. Helen’s diary comes to an end shortly after she moves to Linden-Car and into Wildfell Hall, and Gilbert’s narration continues again. The final portion of the book details Helen’s subsequent return to Grassdale to nurse Arthur who is dying as a result of his dissipated life, her inheritance of Arthur’s estate as well as her uncle’s, and Gilbert’s marriage to Helen as her second husband. Looking at Helen’s chronological journey, it’s obvious she becomes increasingly devout in the face of her trials. Initially, Helen is young and headstrong, but after several years married to Arthur, she becomes very long suffering. This is evidenced through her asking Gilbert to never see her again once she realizes they both care for each other, as well as her decision to nurse Arthur on his deathbed. Brontë’s story makes it clear she believes a woman can find comfort in God, as during one of Helen’s darkest moments, Helen says, “Then, 34 34 while I lifted up my soul in speechless, earnest supplication, some heavenly influence seemed to strengthen me within . . .” (258). Continually readers are met with a woman who is virtually blameless in her trials.

Helen’s Use of the Limin The impetus for her movement towards self-actualization stems from her position of conflicting loyalties. On one hand, she must conform to society’s ideal of having a “gentle deportment, and lowly and tractable spirit” (130) and on the other, her own intrinsic sense of self which dictates “without approving [she] cannot love” (113). Society would ask her to submit without question to her husband, but Helen insists she cannot without also taking into account her own needs. Ultimately, Helen refuses to submit without an internal validation of those who claim authority over her. In order to resolve the tension between social constraints and her personal construction of duty, she moves through stages that follow the lines proposed by Arnold van Gennep. While the first and last stages of a rite of passage are important, the stage of liminality is of primary interest in Tenant, as it is within this space that Helen finds freedom from censure and a facilitation of her growth. According to Victor Turner: The attributes of liminality or of liminal personae (‘threshold people’) are necessarily ambiguous, since this condition and these persons elude or slip through the network of classifications that normally locate states and positions in cultural space. Liminal entities are neither here nor there; they are betwixt and between the positions assigned and arrayed by law, custom, convention, and ceremony . . . . Thus, liminality is frequently likened to death, to 35 35

being in the womb, to invisibility, to darkness, to bisexuality, to the wilderness, and to an eclipse of the sun or moon. (95) In Tenant, Helen is able to locate a liminal space, thus allowing her to resolve moral conflicts, transform and practice agency, and ultimately become a woman who can negotiate the tension between two oppositional realities: society’s expectations and her perception of God’s will. The specific liminal spaces she utilizes, discussed momentarily, are both psychological and physical. Before exploring Helen’s navigation of the liminal, it is important to note how subtle the liminal itself can be. One result of liminality, and rites of passage in general, is to allow individuals to influence society as they are aggregated back into the collective whole. One may move from being unmarried to married via a long set of traditions and symbols which incorporate separation, liminality, and aggregation, but the liminal, or margin, is ever present. Helen’s change of perception from before marriage to the way she is when the novel begins, residing alone at Wildfell Hall, occurs through many little shifts in and out of the liminal. These small moments within the limin build upon each other, and each time she exits to join other people in her home, she is adapting and being adapted to by those around her. Therefore, it is Helen’s pattern of retreating to spaces of solitude whenever there is a trespass against her person that I propose as liminal. Before her marriage, we see this when her uncle is teasing her and questioning her about becoming Mrs. Huntington. Helen leaves “the room immediately, to escape further examination” (116). Through the course of the novel, her pattern of retreating continues until it would seem that solitude is more comfortable than the company of others. During one of her rare social outings with her neighbors in Linden-Car, she pulls away from the group in order to draw, which by then is her means of 36 36 financially supporting herself. Gilbert writes of her choice in a manner that demonstrates his own unease, saying, “she left us and proceeded along the steep, stony hill, to a loftier, more precipitous eminence at some distance, whence a still finer prospect was to be had, where she preferred taking her sketch, though some of the ladies told her it was a frightful place, and advised her not to attempt it” (57). It is evident the other ladies find her behavior alarming and Gilbert’s notice of the “precipitous eminence” makes it clear her choice involved some risk. Both of these point to the fact that Helen does not seek the shelter of traditional gender scripts which would make her helpless and malleable. Instead, Helen demonstrates an increasing confidence in her own dictates, a continual reliance on herself, that indicates her growing independence. For Helen, comfort is found when she is alone and not by the counsel of others, for only in solitude is she free from social edicts. As she separates from the group and moves into this liminal space, she finds herself able to elude “positions assigned” (Turner 95) to her and “regain . . . composure” (Brontë 271). Her “composure” is, in fact, her own construction of self that provides confidence and reaffirms her agency. Within the social group, she must answer for her actions, justify and explain her differences, and eventually comply enough to maintain her role within her community. When alone, she is able to do, think, and feel without restraint “unnoticed and undisturbed” (Brontë 142). Significantly, Wildfell Hall is different from Grassdale in terms of its liminality. Even though Helen finds moments of solitude within Grassdale, she maintains an identity as Mrs. Huntington throughout. However, at Wildfell Hall her identity is much more ambiguous, one reason the community finds her presence unsettling. Therefore, liminality is found within Grassdale in psychological spaces, more a mental change occurring in Helen as a result of her 37 37 solitude on occasion, but Wildfell Hall itself is inherently a liminal space within the novel. This is evident as Wildfell Hall creates liminal relationships, not just for Helen, but also for others who enter. As one primary characteristic of the limin is ambiguity, a sense of mystery pervades and dominates the perception of outsiders. This gives Helen, her maid Rachel, her son Arthur, and her brother Mr. Lawrence shifting social labels and tentative connections with each other in Gilbert’s narration while she is at Wildfell Hall. This liminal space also allows Gilbert to violate social codes of propriety as he visits with Helen alone frequently, indicating that societal norms have less currency here, at least to the insiders of Wildfell Hall. It isn’t until we read Helen’s diary, taking us back to the space of Grassdale, that real identities and their relationship to each other are fully discovered. This furthers the notion that Grassdale, unlike Wildfell Hall, is a place where roles are clearly defined. The ambiguous quality of the liminal is significant because it facilitates creativity, one aspect that Turner notes in his work. Helen, in addition to utilizing liminal spaces, also keeps a journal and earns her living as an artist, and therefore participates in the potential creativity of the limin. Scholars Hein Viljoen and Chris N. van der Merwe, in their effort to trace liminality in African indigenous folklore, make a connection to this creative space and literature itself, claiming “the space of the text itself is a symbolically demarcated liminal zone where transformations are allowed to happen -- imaginary transformations that model and possibly bring into being new ways of thinking and being” (11). This makes Helen’s writing potentially liminal, as it is a space of increasing awareness where she can reflect on her marriage, its problems, and her internal dictates without a commentary from the outside. As she writes, she is separate, turned inward towards her own thoughts, independent and insular, creating and connecting to 38 38

“new ways of thinking and being.” As she paints she does the same, creating an alternative identity where she is financially independent as well as separate from her husband. This demonstrates why Arthur’s eventual confiscation of his wife’s journal and his burning of her art is, without question, an intimate attack on her individuality and increasing agency.

The Role of Liminality in Conjunction with Helen’s Spirituality The purpose of this liminal space, its function, is to allow the individual to resolve the tension between who they were and who they will become. As healthy spirituality often fosters continual growth in practitioners, the limin is often a part of religion and religious ceremonies. For women, however, change was tolerated only within limited boundaries, boundaries that Helen eventually crosses. Helen requires a liminal space because she is both moving from cultural scripts, as well as towards an individual mandate to fulfill her obligation to God. Individuals are not stagnant and rites of passage, specifically the limin, grant the space which is necessary for change to occur. For Helen, society dictates she must be a good wife, docile under Arthur’s authority, as she realizes: his idea of a wife, is a thing to love one devotedly and to stay at home – to wait upon her husband, and amuse him and minister to his comfort in every possible way, while he chooses to stay with her; and when he is absent, to attend to his interests domestic or otherwise, and patiently wait his return; no matter how he may be occupied in the meantime. (206) This is in conflict with a role she regards as superseding her role as wife, a follower of God. 39 39

Because her movement is towards a fulfillment of her perceived obligation to God, her spirituality deepens as a result of her time within liminal spaces and occupations. It is possible Arthur was attracted to Helen’s forceful character initially, making him think she was bad and not the Victorian ideal, but he soon complains to her that “you are too religious . . . you are making more progress towards that saintly condition than I like” (173). Helen, on the other hand, is yoked to a man who “drains the cup to the dregs.” (210). While we are given few specifics about what Helen does when alone, the reader is consistently given a picture of a woman who, after a time of solitude, reintegrates into social situations with a greater sense of moral fortitude, a larger capacity for nonconformity to the desires of those whom she perceives as pushing her towards wickedness, and all of this is gained from within herself and without the help of others. In many ways, Helen is a devout follower of God, and her marriage can be viewed as her mission field. It is obvious she wishes to make Arthur a better man when she says before she marries him: I think I might have influence sufficient to save him from some errors, and I should think my life well spent in the effort to preserve so noble a nature from destruction. He always listens attentively now, when I speak seriously to him (and I often venture to reprove his random way of talking), and sometimes he says that if he had me always by his side he should never do or say a wicked thing, and that a little daily talk with me would make him quite a saint. (126-27) When she finds the soil infertile and unworkable, she retreats and reconfirms her relationship with God, using her faith as justification for her resistance to being a submissive wife. 40 40

The fact that this is a source of turmoil for Helen within Victorian society reveals that secular and sacred concerns are not always the same, even though Victorians might argue to the contrary. To the audience of Brontë’s day, society had little place for woman’s autonomy, few well defined social scripts to allow it, and rarely fostered it. Through her writing of Helen’s journey, Brontë finds one path for women, and publishes it for others to read and be warned, writing in her “Preface to the Second Edition”: But as the priceless treasure too frequently hides at the bottom of a well . . . likely to incur more scorn and obloquy for the mud and water into which [the finder] has ventured to plunge . . . if I can gain the public ear at all, I would rather whisper a few wholesome truths therein than much soft nonsense . . . I find myself censured for depicting con amore, with ‘a morbid love of the coarse, if not of the brutal’, . . . if I have warned one rash youth from following in their steps, or prevented one thoughtless girl from falling into the very natural error of my heroine, the book has not been written in vain. (3-4) The pattern of discovery becomes circular, as Brontë creatively imagines how a woman might gain autonomy through the liminal space of writing of Tenant, and Helen finds her autonomy through a similar act of writing in her journal and her paintings. Significantly, Helen indicates her art serves her in ways that go beyond the financial when she says, “My drawing suits me best, for I can draw and think at the same time; and if my productions cannot now be seen by any one but myself and those who do not care about them, they, possibly may be, hereafter” (110). In this way, both Brontë and Helen reach out to a wider public who aggregates their art through reading a liminal text or viewing a subversive painting. 41 41

In its turning back to its creator as a means of their own self-actualization, art becomes a place for feminine expression in Irigaray’s sense as circular and turning inwards. Irigaray’s theory is hinged to the pleasure of woman, to her identity as “never being simply one” (31). Irigaray imagines this multiplicity as working against the phallocratic order and against the role of women as “property” (31). Irigaray writes “She herself enters into a ceaseless exchange of herself with [her pleasure] without any possibility of identifying either,” (31) indicating the porous quality of labels and identity scripts in the face of woman’s subversive sexuality, her “nearness” which “puts into question all prevailing economies: their calculations are irremediably stymied by woman’s pleasure, as it increases indefinitely from its passage in and through the other” (31). Brontë and Helen touch those around them from within an ambiguous endeavor springing from the liminal, and provide a glimpse into the circular pattern of touching self and touching others as a permeable “nearness” to the self, a seeking of expression, a result of their feminine pleasure. In this way, feminine expression finds a home in the liminal act of creation and allows for a re-imagining of one’s role. Helen’s movement of change towards being increasingly devout reveals her increasing agency as well. It is significant to note that Helen, in line with Irigaray’s reasoning that women’s pleasure comes from a turning inward, initiates her own separation from the group; she is not exiled to it. Because she is in control of her solitude, Helen is exercising agency every time she pulls away, moving to a “nearness” with her(self), making it difficult for Arthur or a phallocratic authority to appropriate her to the order of “property.” Even the modern reader might overlook evidence of Helen’s self-authorship, viewing her financial liberty and emotional and intellectual distance, when framed within her circumstances, as a necessity more than a choice. 42 42

Ironically, Arthur facilitates this change in Helen that is one he does not desire. His displeasure in her autonomy is apparent through the ways he speaks of her. He mentions to his friend, Mr. Hattersly, “this woman will be the death of me, with her keen feelings and her interesting force of character” (217). He describes her as his “pretty tyrant” (218), and even goes so far as to blame her for his adultery, as Helen writes, “he says I drive him to it by my unnatural, unwomanly conduct.” (273). However, it is his own absence while in London that assists Helen in becoming increasingly self-sufficient. During her times alone she has time to recognize the reality of her situation, the reality of the man she is married to, and the reality of her ability to manage life on her own. Just before she is going to leave Arthur, she writes, “I had regarded the library as entirely my own, a secure retreat at all hours of the day” (299). This has become not only her place to escape from conflict, but also the room she has converted into a studio for her painting. Painting provides her an occupation, is a liminal act, and an expression of her autonomy. Surrounded by books, a form of sublimated liminality, she feels the most free to flex her muscles of independence. This makes Arthur’s later invasion of her studio and subsequent destructive acts not only an intimate attack, but also an attempt to destroy the source of her strength and transformation. As her husband, Arthur is validated and empowered to keep Helen bound and dependent by any means necessary, undercutting her individuality and agency to protect himself and the institution of marriage. William Blackstone’s Commentaries proves this, stating, “For this reason, a man cannot grant any thing to his wife, or enter in to covenant with her: for the grant would be to suppose her separate existence; and to covenant with her, would be only to covenant with himself” (qtd. in Ward 153). In Arthur’s eyes, Helen has no individuality. Therefore any hope she has of being autonomous must be crushed. 43 43

The growth of both her agency and spirituality is evident when we examine her behavior immediately following her times alone as the novel progresses. Rather than being more submissive or compliant, she is increasingly independent. Early in the novel, after Arthur pockets her drawing of him unbidden, she retreats to the library. Upon exiting, Arthur is waiting for her, but Helen is determinedly cold to him and forcefully oppositional. Arthur’s response is equally forceful, restraining her physically and stealing a kiss. This is before she agrees to marry him. As time goes on, Helen continues this practice of separation. While her response to others upon incorporating back in the group is still oppositional, more often than not these moments also become a means of expressing her faith, or witnessing. For example, after listening to Annabella discuss her influence over Arthur much the same way that Helen thought of herself before marriage, Helen finds herself “almost sick with passion” (271), which we might safely assume is rage and indignation. Helen secludes herself for a time in the library, and upon exiting is once again confronted, only now by Mr. Hargrave, one of Arthur’s unscrupulous friends, who has been attempting to persuade Helen to return his affections. This time she responds to Mr. Hargrave with scripture, telling him to “go, and sin no more” (271). Therefore, her final act as wife of sitting beside Arthur’s bedside as he is dying has elements of both independence (in her forceful request for his signature granting Helen custody of their son and promising his estate to her), as well as piety (in her act of self-denial in hopes he will be saved).

The Feminine in Helen’s Quest If we incorporate the ideas of Luce Irigaray and Julia Kristeva, we can better appreciate Helen’s navigation towards this seemingly conflicted state of both autonomy and pious submission and the significance of her last moments 44 44 with Arthur. Irigaray would argue that women will naturally turn towards self- embrace and simultaneity which is in conflict with male orientated cultural models and disrupts logic. According to Irigaray: This ‘style’ . . . is among other things tactile. It comes back in touch with itself. . . . Simultaneity is its ‘proper’ aspect – a proper(ty) that is never fixed in possible identity-to-self of some form or other. It is always fluid. . . .We would still have to ascertain whether ‘touching oneself,’ that (self) touching, the desire for the proximate rather than for (the) proper(ty), and so on, might not imply a mode of exchange irreducible to any centering, any centrism, given the way the ‘self- touching’ of female ‘self-affection’ comes into play as a rebounding from one to the other without any possibility of interruption, and given that, in this interplay, proximity confounds any adequation, any appropriation. (79) In other words, Helen, in her movement to respond to her internal dictates, takes on multiple roles and relationships, which confound Arthur’s attempts to appropriate or control her. Irigaray’s writing within This Sex Which is Not One is largely a rebuttal of the phallocratic order and can be viewed as oppositional to men in general. However, looking at Helen, the expression of simultaneity, one key aspect of feminine expression, demonstrates its subtlety. It does not necessarily embody the anarchy that might be assumed. Helen’s returning to Arthur at a time when he had no one else is not done out of fear or powerlessness, but in response to her autonomous desire. By this time in her life, she has resided at Wildfell Hall for some time and fallen in love with Gilbert. She has relegated herself to an existence of asceticism, living as a “fair recluse” (14), refusing contact with Gilbert, and keeping to her “hermitage” (45), because these are 45 45 expressions of who she wants to be. She is not creating an identity that is without a place in her society, but still fundamentally linked to it. The primary difference is that, rather than being directed and ordered upon her, she is the one in control. She, in Irigaray’s terms, is “fluid” in her “(self) touching,” and is thus the agent of her life. Kristeva’s examination of the estrangement of women from patriarchy and their nostalgia for the feminine is seen as Helen becomes “mother” to herself, then her son, and then her husband. In attempt to reconcile a psychic bisexuality (Smith 92), expressed via her involvement and connection to a patriarchal society which invalidates and objectifies her and her necessity to connect to herself and therefore the maternal, Helen recognizes that she is as much a woman as ever when she is able to look after herself as well as those she cares about. She makes a choice to nurture her husband, not out of love for him, but out of love for herself. As she rewrites a script she can live within, she has discovered that what society dictates as a ‘bad’ woman is not always so. Helen has two paths that run side by side: loving herself and loving God and they are able to coexist. She chooses to act in the service of her husband and her son. She is selfless as she loses sleep and endures Arthur’s emotional outbursts, hoping he will recover, if not physically at least spiritually. And in her selflessness she actually supports a patriarchal ideal while simultaneously subverting it. It thus becomes, in Anne Marie Smith’s words, a “movement between the feminine and the masculine, a delicate, difficult configuration, a fantasy to remedy other less liveable fantasies” (92). It is interesting that several scholars find Helen lacking in agency, claiming her silence perpetuates Arthur’s violence. According to Meghan Bullock, silence is directly responsible for the perpetuation of violence, as abused women pass down behaviors to their succeeding generations. She discusses at length in her 46 46 essay, “Abuse, Silence, and Solitude in Anne Brontë’s Tenant of Wildfell Hall” how this generational teaching serves to silence women perpetually and grease the wheels for continued violent acts against them. Similarly, Priti Joshi, in her discussion of gossip, claims that Helen’s silence within her social sphere facilitates her isolation, which is a part of the class structure of the time. She posits that the middle class use gossip as a means toward connection with community where high class individuals, in their attempt to remain aloof, struggle in situations of abuse. While my latter chapter on Mrs. Dalloway will discuss silence in greater depth and demonstrate the possible truth in the claims of both Joshi and Bullock (as silence has many effects), this is not the only role of silence in Helen’s situation. If we attach Helen’s religious beliefs to silence, then she believes her life testifies to those around her in a way that words cannot. In fact, no matter how aloof she seems to the community of Linden-Car, where Wildfell Hall rests, her witness is still a primary consideration to her. This is seen by her response to an attack on her virtue via the gossip of her neighbors. Helen says to Gilbert: but however little you may value the opinions of those about you— however little you may esteem them as individuals, it is not pleasant to be looked upon as a liar and a hypocrite, to be thought to practice what you abhor, and to encourage the vices you would discountenance, to find your good intentions frustrated, and your hands crippled by your supposed unworthiness, and to bring disgrace on the principles you profess. (87) This leads to the conclusion that as Helen becomes increasingly agile in her exercise of autonomy, able to move in and out of society in a way that cements her constructed identity, she also comes to realize a cost that is occurring via her decreasing connection with society. While Helen’s independence is fostered 47 47 through solitude, she is not antisocial. She would rather be lonely than lose her integrity, but she prefers to have a few friends believing “no one can be happy in eternal solitude” (53). The community of Linden-Car however, is threatened by her propensity towards self-sustainability and self-regulation, as well as her ambiguity, and they work to bring her into connection and conformity or else to drive her out. If she remains in the liminal, it will be at the cost of her reputation, which would make her Christian witness worthless. This indicates that Helen’s potential mission field has broadened and is the reason she eventually chooses to yield the liminal state and reintegrate into society through a second marriage, this time to Gilbert Markham. Her marriage is not a sign she is reverting back, only that she is moving forward through the liminal and towards an identity that allows her to operate within society, rather than on the outskirts. She is not the same woman as she was during her first marriage and will bring aspects of autonomy and agency into her life as Mrs. Markham. Ultimately, Helen’s use of the liminal reaches out to those around her and modifies characteristics of the traditional ‘good’ woman, making her a model to both men and women. For instance Rachel, her maid, is able to remain within Helen’s liminal space without disrupting it, indicating she is a member of Helen’s communitas, retaining aspects of ambiguity as she moves invisibly within various social classes as Helen changes status. Additionally, Milicent is able to become more outspoken to her husband Mr. Hattersley, and Hattersley gives up drinking and becomes a less dominant and violent figure within their marriage as a result of Helen’s presence. Since everyone cannot go through similar trials and subsequent growth, the incorporation of writing within society acts similarly as the incorporation of individuals, affecting change and adaptation on society. 48 48

This is one reason why Gilbert’s sharing of Helen’s diary may not be against her will or a violation, as it is through her writing that her suffering and the reason for her change becomes apparent, both to Helen’s fictitious world and the nonfictional Victorian reading public. If we assume that Helen is aware of and approves Gilbert’s sharing of her writing, we can suppose that her awareness of her own agency has also made her aware of Gilbert’s agency as a man. Gilbert’s cultural authority enables him to further her transformative effect on society better than she, as Victorian cultural scripts are still alive and well. When her voice is appropriated by her husband, he validates and endorses her actions, thoughts, and transformation towards autonomy. Helen’s increasing skill in the use of her agency is dramatic and apparent. When she is young, while with her Aunt and Uncle, she is respected and given enough freedom to foster a sense of self-worth and empowerment. However, her sense of agency oversteps her actual aptitude in the practice of it, as well as her knowledge of potential threats to it. Her perception and confidence foolishly leave little room for the reality of her position as wife, whose power is equal to that of a child within the culture of her time. She has a rude awakening however, as her fantasy about her own empowerment is met with the reality that her husband is beyond her control or influence. However, when Tenant begins, Helen is living at Wildfell Hall. She is out of step with society due to her exceptional degree of independence: her painting isn’t only a feminine mark of nobility, she sells her work to earn a living; except for her son and servant, she lives alone; and she is described by the narrator as “most provokingly unsociable at first” (56). Additionally, it is discovered by the reader that her identity as Mrs. Graham is false, demonstrating further the extent of her willingness to deceive those around her for the sake of her own safety. All of this shows a woman who acts as her own 49 49 agent, who is in charge of her own destiny and reluctant to relinquish her power to figures that are perceived as having authority over her. This difference in Helen over time suggests the most productive and valuable work is done while in the limin. Here she paints, she writes, she reassures herself, she reaffirms what is most important. It is here she reflects and creates. Being left with few formal spaces for her quest besides going into a nunnery, Helen creates a space which allows her to seek God and resolve a tension of conflicting duties. Helen’s predicament brings to light a double bind for women in society’s assumptions that men are more noble and the wiser sex. Within this idea, women were the one who needed guidance and leadership, therefore, the best woman or wife was she who would submit without question. Consequently, when a woman was married to a man who was ungodly, a point that Helen’s Aunt is greatly concerned about for Helen, she would find her duty between God and her husband in conflict. In order to keep her purity, her integrity, her salvation especially, she must find a way to reconcile these demands—which Helen does in private, because society has no answer for her yet. At the time Tenant was written, society would not advocate her agency, her independence apart from a man, or her intellectual capacity to direct her own life. But through her spiritual journey it is evident that Helen, as well as Anne Brontë, believes that God does.

CHAPTER 3: THE ROLE OF SIMULTANEITY IN FOSTERING INCLUSION: KERI HULME’S FEMININE DISCOURSE IN THE BONE PEOPLE

My introductory chapter discusses theoretical perspectives that are useful in examining female protagonist’s self-expression and a facilitation of identity within and outside of cultural norms and constraints. Of primary interest to my literary analysis is the role of feminine expression in the movement of women towards autonomy, as well as the role of simultaneity, an essential quality of feminine expression, in developing an outcome which is uniquely tolerant of oppositional states, labels, and meanings. I continue with The Bone People, written by Keri Hulme, because this text, while fascinating in its own right, continues a trend of making the theoretical abstractions (rites of passage, simultaneity, and circular language) concrete and apparent and builds off Tenant. When this novel is analyzed in connection with these theories, one possible outcome of feminine discourse appears. Hulme’s novel is written in such a way that simultaneity operates on multiple levels, the female protagonist’s spiritual connection to her quest is obvious, and the fulfillment of her quest and how it is expressed is uniquely feminine. Situating The Bone People within a historical and cultural context, Hulme’s authorial intent, as well as clues regarding her choice of narrative style, become more clear. According to an interview with John Bryson at the Melbourne Writer’s Festival in 1993, Hulme describes herself as coming from, “a Māori as well as Scots and English background” (131). However, her Māori identity deeply influences her writing, dictating its structure and her way of intertwining three elements, as she states, “It must contain something of the mind, something of the body, and that aspect we label spiritual” (132). 51 51

Taking this information and connecting it to New Zealand history adds further significance to The Bone People. She began work on this novel around 1974, ten years before it was published, and we can presume the politics of the day impacted her creation. Around this same time, in 1975, The Treaty of Waitangi Act was passed in New Zealand, which was significant to the indigenous Māori population, because it marked the British acknowledgment of Māori land rights after a long political struggle. As a New Zealand author who labels herself Māori, this treaty and the events surrounding it are influential factors in Hulme’s own claim as Māori. Photographs of Hulme show her as white in appearance, making Hulme’s Māori identity internal, based on heritage as well as a personal affinity for Māori cultural and religious thought. Hulme’s outward appearance coexists with her internal Māoriness. She is both Māori and “Pākehā,” Pākehā being the term Māori use to refer to white colonist, literally translating to “outsider,” which is used now to refer to Westerners in general. Hulme’s identity, as both insider and outsider, coexists like the symbolic Māori double spiral. Similarly, her novel is validated as both Māori and Pākehā by the awards it received: a Māori board awarded it The Prize for Māori Literature in1984, and it also received the Man Booker Prize in 1985, which is a prestigious award granted to English novels written by citizens of a British commonwealth. In this we see how Hulme’s identification with both Pākehā and Māori, expressed in her writing, brings her into a threshold existence, writing as both. Through her liminal occupation as writer, she presents a text that pushes boundaries of culture and normative scripts. In brief, the basic plot goes as follows: Kerewin lives alone and estranged from her family in a tower of her own design on the beach. Simon, a young boy, intrudes upon her world, wounded and mute, which facilitates the meeting of Kerewin with Joe, a widower and Simon’s guardian. This acquaintance of three 52 52 evolves into friendship and love which presents each character with both benefits and complications, until a crisis of violence occurs and the three separate to go through a process of self-discovery and growth which borders on the mythical. This mythical aspect is more true for Kerewin and Joe than it is for Simon, as Kerewin is miraculously healed of a tumor in her stomach, and Joe encounters a man who has been awaiting his arrival for approximately 60 years and subsequently appoints Joe the new keeper of the heart of Aotearoa, a little god. The completion of their transcendent experiences facilitates a renewed relationship that appears to have all benefits and little problems. The influence of their journey extends beyond the three, reaching out to their Māori community significantly. There are troubling aspects within the novel, however, which contribute to its complexity. One controversial element is child abuse, as Simon, a child of indeterminate age, is repeatedly beaten by Joe, who is portrayed as a man who loves Simon deeply, making him difficult to demonize. Other areas of concern are the amount of drinking done by all three characters, Simon included, and a resolution that seems remarkably neat and tidy in light of the violence. However, each of these facilitate the notion that Hulme’s writing is influenced by her identity as Māori since she creates characters that do not easily fit into fixed gender or literary categories.

Coexistent Labels Create Simultaneity While all three characters are useful in literary analysis, my focus is on Kerewin. To introduce Keri Hulme is to introduce her protagonist, Kerewin Holmes, and the similarities between the two make it evident the author is connected to Kerewin. Both are pale skinned and potentially labeled Pākehā rather than Māori by outward appearances, yet label themselves Māori. Both have an 53 53 appearance that fits with an androgynous person, not stereotypically feminine or masculine, but a mixture. Kerewin is a woman who is financially and emotionally independent, skilled in aikido (242), doesn’t like to be touched (307, 325), smokes cigarillos (148), drinks heavily, and is a hunter and a fisher (130). She is also connected to the natural world, infers meaning through symbols and makes connections to people through her senses (not only through language), as well as being an artist, poet, and a musician. She stresses understanding others through conversation, even though she has a “killer instinct” (232) and easily wins against Joe in a fight (230). In Hulme’s creation of a complex character, the reader is unable to typecast but must rely on the labels Kerewin applies to herself, like “androgyne” (229). This creates a realization of coexistence attained within the body, potentially similar to Hulme herself. In his essay “On Women’s Writing in Aotearoa/New Zealand : Patricia Grace, Keri Hulme, Cathie Dunsford,” Sigrid Markmann notes, “Hulme shows clearly that she strongly rejects any simplifying, binary division in favor of a variety that allows for a nonclassifying ambiguity . . . [This] discards Māori-Pākehā dichotomy..[not] assigning people in simplified terms to a certain sex and sexuality” (171-72). Kerewin is simultaneously both male and female, gendered and genderless, yet available for elements of each of these categories to be hinged to her; she is simultaneously all, while solitary. Markmann goes on to say “Keri Hulme transcends boundaries and conventions; she retains differences as a constitutive element of the mutual” (175). This points to the effects of ambiguity, that sense created when multiple meanings are in coexistence with each other, as well as one goal for both Hulme and Kerewin: inclusion through a recognition of the mutual. 54 54

Hulme’s writing of Kerewin displays the mutual, but this is a general characteristic of Hulme’s style and is found throughout her text in numerous ways. In attempt to give a brief overview, places of overlap or fluctuation within the text are: narration shifts between people and first and third person; language shifts between English and Māori as well as employing poetic or lyrical expression; gender shifts are created through complicated descriptors, not just for Kerewin, but also for Joe and Simon; the plot shifts out of linear time; intimacy shifts as the plot develops; and the connection of the author to her text shifts. While many novels have similar fluctuations as mentioned above, it is the large quantity of places where layers of meaning occur that sets The Bone People apart in terms of my analysis, and the list above is by no means exhaustive. It is worth mentioning that these shifts don’t necessarily create confusion for the reader. Hulme builds complexity and coherency through a skillful weaving of understandings to create simultaneity and in so doing she demonstrates its usefulness as Irigaray posits. Simultaneity of communication may be the easiest to point to within a written text and language in general is significant within The Bone People as communication occurs through the earth, the body, the spiritual realm, as well as being spoken. In this, perception is linked to communication and becomes an example of Irigaray’s concept of feminine discourse as being a “ceaseless exchange” in its “nearness” (Irigaray 31). Kerewin’s communication is the most complete of all the characters, as she listens to and reads people and books, as well as nature. Her creation of “suneaters,” (123), the charting of her own “biorhythmic cycles” (123), and her way of talking to the natural world demonstrate an openness to alternative means of communication that connect back to Māori beliefs. Simon’s communication is significant as well, being a form of sign language that is self-constructed, “mainly derivation . . . from an object, or a way of doing things 55 55 that is ordinary, or from ordinary things” (59) and incorporates not only his hands, but his entire body. However, it is through Kerewin’s perception that the reader discovers all that Simon is communicating. Even though Joe has been with Simon longer, he understands Simon’s messages by reading his signs, while Kerewin seems to read Simon as a whole, wondering why Joe resorts to violence and doesn’t attempt to go deeper into the cause of Simon’s misbehavior. Simon also confides in Kerewin that he perceives people’s auras and sees what can be assumed to be spirits, things he is afraid to tell Joe. And Simon’s faith in her proves well founded as Kerewin supports his music hutch creations, a construction of natural objects that can be heard to sing by people willing to be still and tuned in. The sea biscuit in the centre, a network of dry marramgrass stalks on top, the feather, a sliver of driftwood, a seaweed bladder, a pip shell . . . putting them together neatly, quickly, and it seemed to Kerewin’s bemused eyes, inevitably . . it finally stands about six inches high, sturdy yet delicate, an odd little temple, a pivot for sounds to swing round. . . .Slowly [Simon’s] eyes closed, and his mouth loosened, opened. His expression was one of rapture. (156) Joe, on the other hand, destroys Simon’s creations. Hulme’s portrayal of multi-layered communication validates simultaneity, enfolding phallocentric discourse and adding to it. In the fact that Simon’s and Kerewin’s communication allow for more simultaneity, while admittedly still reliant on aspects of a signifier and signified, it broadens the realm of possibility within discourse. Simon is able to write, but feels hindered, reluctant, and wants to communicate as efficiently and fully as possible. He finds his message gets across 56 56 most effectively when he employs multiple levels which Kerewin is unique in her ability to accept and understand. Researchers of Māori culture make it evident Māori beliefs support Hulme’s practice of ambiguity to bring out the mutual and Māori emphasize a multi-layered approach to life in general. The Māori’s use of terminology is best described as a coexistence of labels. This is seen in their use and creation of terms as a conscious act of agency. Examining the connection between power and discourse, the Māori have struggled to maintain their land, traditions, and language since being invaded by the British. In this, the Māori culture is similar to many indigenous peoples, but different in its perception of coexistence. Their insistence on the term bicultural1 is one example of how terminology becomes an act of agency. Another is their resistance to fixed Western labels as it pertains to sexuality. Clive Aspin and Jessica Hutchings are associated with the National Institute of Research Excellence for Māori Development and Advancement and write as representatives of their respective Māori tribes. Within their article, “Reclaiming the Past To Inform the Future: Contemporary Views of Māori Sexuality,” they attempt to show how past Māori views of sexuality are much more fluid than Western notions. As a result of European influence, primarily religious, the Māori became more intolerant of sexual diversity, but traditional views are slowly being reasserted through increasing Māori agency. Kaupapa is a “uniquely Māori way of looking at the world” (419) and Aspin and Hutchings believe that “it is inaccurate

1 Radhika Mohanram touches on this within her article, "The Construction of Place: Māori Feminism and Nationalism in Aotearoa/New Zealand." She states that Māori resist being caught in what they perceive as a multicultural trap. To their way of thinking, biculturalism maintains equal power between the Māori and Pākehā, while multiculturalism historically prefers Caucasians with all other ethnicities below and combined. 57 57 to say that sexual expression is the same from culture to culture” (420). According to them, Māori history shows a tolerance for sexual expression which can change throughout one’s life, unlike Western notions that label an individual as heterosexual or homosexual with the assumption that changes in age, life experiences, or location have little ability to alter these labels. Māori identity however, embodies “. . . non-linearity of identity processes” and they have a term, takatapui, which “embraces both cultural and sexual components of one’s identity with fluidity being a key feature of this descriptor” (423). This potentially flies in the face of Freudian psychoanalysis, which moves through stages that are not recursive, yet this fluidity is consistent with Irigaray’s feminine discourse and Kristeva’s psychic bisexuality. As a result of takatapui, women (as well as men) may be seen as having two spirits: one identity that is linked to their cultural roots and heritage and one that is linked to dominant views, which can be Eurocentric, masculine, or any combination that exerts its own definition onto them. In this way, Māori are able to resolve the tension that might exist for the indigenous, who are then allowed a perception which is fluid and changing, yet harmonious with an alternate perception that remains fixed. This argument about Māori terminology is further complicated by Andrew Sharp in his work Justice and the Māori: The Philosophy and Practice of Māori Claims in New Zealand since the 1970’s. He makes it clear that the Māori are continuing to invent themselves and, in their emphasis on self-identification, they may contradict others within the Māori community in how they define and use terminology. This was a source of frustration and confusion for the British during discussions surrounding The Treaty of Waitangi Act, as consistency in terminology is considered vital within Pākehā legal and political documents. With this in mind, it becomes increasingly difficult to say that Māori as a whole use all Māori terms similarly, 58 58 when it is more apt to say that individuals decide for themselves how to best express their identity and their beliefs. In this manner, Māori beliefs frustrate a phallocentric discourse which would prefer one element over another, one term over another, a dominance if you will, of the signified and the signifier. Kerewin says it aptly in the novel, “You just get someone neatly arranged in a slot that appears to fit them, and they wriggle on their pins and spoil it all” (283). Simultaneity makes a fluid identity more available, while also increasing ambiguity. Looking at Māori two-spiritedness demonstrates how simultaneity makes it difficult to separate, categorize, and label, which also has the result of fostering inclusion as various labels coexist together. This connects to Kristeva’s belief that women may have outward expressions of accepting the masculine symbolic order, while simultaneously finding internal meaningfulness in a nostalgia for the feminine. Thus it can be said both the Māori and women work to resolve tensions created by conflicting identity labels, between that which is perceived by others and that which is defined internally. The Māori’s coexistent labels rejects a favoring of one label over another, and while it might be argued they prefer Māori labels over Pākehā, it appears they actually coexist together. It might be presumed that without favoring one label over another, labels themselves become less significant, but this thought trivializes Māori beliefs as names themselves are seen as sacred. Simon has a name that is private, and a name which is public. He secretly calls himself Clare (137), but everyone else calls him Simon. When Simon first is seen as loving Kerewin, he “said [her name] inside himself, melding it to his name” (89). The difference between labeling and the sanctity of a name is seen in the private name, which is given to oneself, not an appropriation by another. By this, we can infer the two-spirited identity exists for 59 59

Simon. The fact that he is not Māori, but of Irish descent, crosses boundaries once again and makes two-spiritness available to all, creating broader implications. Hulme’s gift to Simon, thereby all non-Māori, is one of inclusion, a direct result possible through patterns which are consistent with Irigaray’s notion of feminine discourse. Analyzing Kerewin and the text she is found within through the lens of Irigaray’s feminine discourse, the role of simultaneity in fostering inclusion becomes apparent. Inclusion is absolute, what is included is not left out. Therefore, signifiers which are opposites, such as male / female, are generally not used to describe the same thing because it seems to work against clarity. It is either one or the other or a new label is created to describe a blending. Thus, Hulme’s text demonstrates how coexistent signifiers (which may include binaries like male/female) serve to disrupt phallocratic labeling, as they create an excess of attributes that brings about a harmonious and complicated whole. This coexistence essentially is a tolerance for difference that frustrates preference, dominance or labeling. In this, it makes way for inclusion. This multiplicity also checks an argument that differentiates the masculine from the feminine, as Hulme’s writing promotes coexistence, not separation. Luce Irigaray’s conclusion that this fluidity of meaning would confound appropriation is demonstrated within The Bone People as Hulme’s layering thwarts misguided attempts to appropriate literary theory, attach gender stereotypes, or prescribe social cures for the antisocial behaviors of the characters, without also acknowledging exceptions. The complexity of the characters makes them difficult to label. Additionally, because of the multiple places of intersection within this text, it is challenging to approach it along a linear and logical path. The text is a web of inclusion, which is its key, 60 60 its main component that brings Irigaray’s theory of simultaneity out of the abstract and into the observable. This also connects to Robert Torrance’s theory that a spiritual quest moves into an unknowable future. Transcendence through the spiritual quest becomes a way of going beyond human limitations to reach an indeterminate outcome, generating transformation through the process, while always having the potential of fallibility. I would suggest that Irigaray’s feminine discourse moves towards an indeterminate outcome as well. In its fluidity and simultaneity new knowledge and understanding arise which fosters a tolerance for alternatives. Hulme’s narrative style, if we connect simultaneity and inclusion to time, works in a similarly layered manner, the prologue titled “The End at the Beginning.” This reflects the influence of the double spiral within Māori tradition. Within the prologue, four parts work to give the reader the future and the past, before she proceeds into the present. The first of the four parts contains all three characters in some distant future, while those parts that follow are past experiences of first Simon, then Joe, and finally Kerewin. As the double spiral moves simultaneously inwards and outwards, this represents a circular movement which encompasses the past, present, and future and is foundational within the Māori world view. Hulme gives us the key for the spiral within her novel, saying it is seen as “an old symbol of rebirth, and the outward-inward nature of things” (56). It also represents the actuality of independent realities in coexistence. For the Māori, all three temporal dimensions work in tandem within life, as ancestors are able to influence the life of the present, which in turn, influences the future. 61 61 Kerewin’s Spiritual Quest Hulme’s propensity for layered meaning is consistent with Māori tolerance for simultaneity, making Kerewin’s home richly layered in symbolism, three of which are relevant for my current discussion. The tower potentially symbolizes: 1) Kerewin herself; 2) Kerewin’s place on her spiritual quest; as well as 3) Māori coexistence. First, seeing Kerewin as a solitary figure, her home is a symbolic representation of isolation. Kerewin’s section of the prologue is only two pages, but the focus is completely on her home, which she creates after she separates from her family. Here the reader sees that she wants a tower “chiefly because she likes spiral stairways” (8), which connects to the Māori double spiral again. Described as a body, the tower is “A concrete skeleton, wooden ribs and girdle, skin of stone, grey and slateblue and heavy honey-coloured” (8). It is “gaunt and strange and embattled” (8) and is her “hermitage, her glimmering retreat. No people invited, for what could they know of the secrets that crept and cholled and chuckled in the marrow of her bones?” (8-9). This portion of the text, while small, is loaded with intent and grants the reader Kerewin’s perspective, one of disconnection with those around her. Portraying the tower as a human body makes it symbolic of Kerewin herself, an outward symbol of her inner condition, honey colored being potentially Māori. As the passage continues, it becomes increasingly bleak and intimate, shifting from third person narrator to first person. She calls it “a prison” and says “I am encompassed by a wall, high and hard and stone, with only my briany nails to tear it down. And I cannot do it” (9). Kerewin is clearly on the margin, cut off from society by her own choosing, moving through Gennep’s first phase, separation, successfully but now finding herself stalled. As the plot unfolds in the next section, it is increasingly evident she is in “limbo” (34), she is “not sure whether she’s coming or going” (77), and “there’s no compass for [her] 62 62 disoriented soul, only ever-beckoning ghostlights” (307). She is stuck in liminal space. If we take another step and suggest the tower is also a phallic symbol, it is conceivable the stacked levels are a potential symbol of the feminine, which are confined within. While it is tempting to say that Kerewin’s tower demonstrates a subjugation of the feminine by the masculine, that it is thus symbolic of what women do within a patriarchal world, Hulme’s writing in light of her Māori beliefs makes that conclusion problematic. Many of Hulme’s characters display traits of both genders, Joe and Simon included, making coexistence more probable as Hulme’s intent, rather than a masking of the feminine. Kerewin’s androgyny makes it difficult to say Hulme believes the masculine dominates the feminine or vice- versa. It is more likely Hulme’s belief that the existence of the masculine and the feminine are balanced in her home, that they coexist together in tandem. However, Kerewin has said it is a prison and she cannot tear down the walls, indicating she is also in a position of powerlessness. In light of a rite of passage, a necessary question to ask is what has brought Kerewin to the limin and what is she seeking? Kerewin herself doesn’t seem to know for a majority of the novel, which may be why she becomes stuck. The closest the text comes is Kerewin’s speaking to herself in Simon’s presence. She says she used to be a talented, but poor, painter who then won the lottery: And while I was busy blessing the god of munificence, the lightening came. It blasted my family, and it blasted my painting talent. I went straight out of one bind into a worse one. Very strange. I never could understand why . . . .(34) Kerewin recognizes her art has suffered, but doesn’t recognize why, which sends her on a quest of discovery. Looking at Kerewin’s art as expression, as a liminal 63 63 work that represents layered meaning and therefore feminine in both Victor Turner’s and Irigaray’s sense, she has found a voice and then loses it. She separates herself and erects a fortress. She keeps people out. She drinks. She has possessions, her treasures, one of which is her guitar. She fills it with herself, makes what she wants and what she needs fit inside it, but it is all hidden away. This thread of loneliness and isolation runs throughout much of The Bone People, making the need for emotional connections and human ties a key element within the novel. While Hulme posits inclusion through her complex characters, all three exhibit division within their respective communities; Kerewin is estranged from her family, and Joe’s physical abuse of Simon creates discord within his immediate and extended family. As individuals, they are on a path that has become common in today’s modern society: lost (307), confused (77, 159), and out of harmony with each other (129, 167, 230). However, together the relationship is continually alluded to directly and indirectly, as being “instruments of change” (4). It is clear that Māori beliefs support connectivity and simultaneity that work together in a movement against isolation. As opposed to seeing family outside of oneself, Māori view themselves, their family and their community as intertwined. According to John Patterson, who writes “Mana: Yin and Yang,” Māori use the term mana to refer to their sense of connectivity to a myriad of aspects within life. This is a significantly abbreviated definition, as Patterson devotes nearly four pages to the word’s meaning in an attempt to cover its complexity, but this simplification will suffice for my purposes. Kerewin’s disconnection makes her stall within the limin, but the arrival of Simon into her life is the impetus that gets things moving again. It is her connection with him that brings along Joe and through her time spent with the three of them, she comes to a 64 64 renewed perception of where she is and what she’s missing. This is apparent when she says, “After the warmth and company of the Gillayleys, the Tower seems as cold and ascetical as a tombstone” (333). Here we see that she misses a sense of connection and community. Also, describing the tower as a tombstone foreshadows her coming deathlike experience and her purposeful destruction of her home. The ability to touch others is clearly a part of connection, relationship, and mana, thus is another important marker of Kerewin’s journey. Kerewin avoids touch before she burns her tower, thinking to herself at one point, “But hands are sacred things. Touch is personal, fingers of love, feelers of blind eyes, tongues of those who cannot talk” (88). Her apprehension borders on aversion, apparent when Simon takes her hand and “It takes all her self-control not to pull violently away. To wait until the sudden pounding of her heart slows to normal, to wait without yelling abuse” (307). On the opposite end of the spectrum, Joe’s physical abuse of Simon demonstrates a life which is just as imbalanced as Joe is both affectionate and violent. Kerewin and Joe struggle with their connection to their immediate family, but are able to connect to each other on Simon’s behalf. Joe will not accept help from his family, but he will from Kerewin, eventually asking her to be responsible for Simon’s punishment, saying he will call and request permission before he punishes Simon physically. When this is presented in the novel, the typical reader is uncomfortable with Joe’s willingness to seemingly slough off his own parenting role onto Kerewin. Despite Kerewin’s reluctance to get involved, she concedes to Joe’s request and as the relationship deepens, tells herself at one point “she is aiding and abetting the concealment of a criminal offense” (276). This demonstrates how responsibility for each other is something these characters 65 65 struggle with, which directly relates to community in that it is not responsibility only for one’s self, but also for others. This all leads one to believe that Kerewin’s spiritual quest involves two elements that are intimately related: her art, which is a form of self-expression, and her connection to others. She states that her decision to isolate herself is initiated because her art suffers. It is her hope that isolation will help her recapture the ability to “call forth a piece of soul” (91). However, while Kerewin is without connection, without an audience for her expression, without a community to work within, she is left feeling aimless and wandering. Her artistry flows unhindered only after she develops a relationship with Simon, their time together facilitating the creation of two works that are exceptional: an ominous painting of a scream (90-92) and the tricephalos (387). The tricephalos, like her tower, is another significant indicator of Kerewin’s point on her spiritual quest as it is an artistic expression of her emotional connection. It is a sculpted bust of three heads united, each face looking out, created to capture them as whole and happy. She shapes it after Joe has nearly beaten Simon to death and fires it with the burning of her home. Before this point, the relationship of the three is growing, knitting them together, creating “warmth and strength” (206), which comes to a violent halt after Simon finds a local pedophile, Binny Daniels, dead in a gruesome scene. This leads to a series of events that erupts in the final scene of abuse, putting Simon in a coma and Joe in jail. Kerewin’s construction of the tricephalos is an attempt to manifest the connection she felt and restore what Joe’s violence, with her permission, has destroyed: Gradually, [Simon’s] unbroken face is moulded by her hands, small and angular and smiling again . . . I wonder what you would have 66 66

turned out like, had you been left to grow up whole? . . . The clay lips smile as well as the real ones did. (386) Later Joe glimpses the creation and describes it: the triple head . . . each lifesize face. The hair of their heads is entwined at the top in a series of spirals. Simon’s hair curves back from his neck to link Kerewin and Joe to him . . . with each circumambulation, the faces become more alive. . . She saw us as a whole, as a set. (387) It is evident that Kerewin is now using her art to express a reality she wishes were true. It is an expression of simultaneity and coexistence, a bond of three separate individuals together made whole. However, her sculpture is not able to restore the relationship and Kerewin is not out of the liminal stage yet. As death is symbolic of the limin, being a threshold between the here and the hereafter, Kerewin will not begin aggregation until she is free from the tumor that is steadily growing inside her near her womb.

The Resolution of Kerewin’s Quest: A Matrifocal Outcome In order for Kerewin to successfully complete her quest and move into the final stage of aggregation, she must be willing to accept responsibility in relation to others, to reestablish connection. The fact that Kerewin’s quest is tied to connectivity is evident in examining the moment she is released from the limin and able to begin the stage of aggregation. This happens when she is healed of the growth in her abdomen because up to this point she is lost, accepting death, and accepting her separation from her family, Simon and Joe. As the tumor grows larger, her pain increases, and alone in a little hut on the beach, she asks herself, “What do you love” (518)? As she begins to make a list, the first items are large 67 67 and distant, “The earth. The stars,” but as she continues, she circles back to what is close and immediate, all the while connected to nature: The singing people, my sisters in the sea . . . water of life and bread of heaven . . . He’s the bright sun in the eastern sky, and he’s the moon’s bridegroom at night, and me, I’m the link and life between them. We’re chance we three, we’re the beginning free . . . It don’t make sense but it’s the only sense, and o lady of the southern land, dear dear to me are my loves. (519) While still cryptic, references to “the three” generally refers to the relationship of Kerewin, Joe, and Simon in the novel. The fact that Kerewin admits her love is a change from the beginning of the novel when she says to herself, “To care for anything deeply is to invite disaster” (41). Her fear of disaster is ultimately proven incorrect because it is after she makes this admission, “a small dark person” appears who seems to help “the thing that had blocked her gut and sucked her vitality [be] gone” (519-20). To the Māori, one’s connection to the realm of the seen and unseen directly influences one’s life. Returning to Patterson, mana embodies a quality similar to the Eastern philosophy of yin and yang. It is significant, representing a connection to the whole, increasing the possible meanings of “the three” to include other meanings simultaneously. Kerewin’s proclivity to connection remains the emphasis, her mana improving and a significant part of her resolution, since her admission of love is directly responsible for a physical and spiritual rebirth. In Kerewin’s movement towards connectivity, she also reconciles a nostalgia for the feminine, coping with the abject as Kristeva theorizes. While Kerewin is choosing to be disconnected, she rejects her role as “mother,” reluctant to be involved in parenting Simon. However, it is significant her tumor is near her 68 68 womb, and after she is healed she legally adopts him. She also becomes a type of mother to her Māori tribe, beginning the work of restoring the old marae site. Marae are sacred Māori places, meant for ceremonies that involve the gathering of community. Kerewin becomes a mother, you might say, to her Māori community. When she first comes to the old marae site, “a great warmth flows into her. Up from the earth under her feet into the pit of her belly, coursing up like benevolent fire through her breast to the crown of her head” (528). Because the energy flows into her belly and breasts, it appears that her healing makes her receptive to the earth’s blessing, flowing into feminine areas responsible for childbirth and nurturing. In response, she is “shaking with laughter, shaking with tears, shook to the core by joy” (528). Kerewin is now in a place where she can be fulfilled. In her adoption of Simon and building the marae, she exerts influence into her community, involving herself actively in the lives of others. Whether she demonstrates psychic bisexuality completely can be argued, as Kerewin doesn’t demonstrate a change in sexuality, thus showing she is accepting a masculine symbolic order in desiring the phallus. She is still as complicated and androgynous as when the novel began, except now the feminine is realized and fulfilled in a community that is inclusive. For Kerewin, change is a move from isolation and powerlessness to a desire for intimacy and involvement. This is symbolized through her move from a home which is a tower, to a home which is shell shaped. Her new home is described as: a regular spiral of rooms expanding around the decapitated Tower . . . privacy, apartness, but all connected and all part of the whole. When finished, it will be studio and hall and church and guesthouse, whatever I choose, but above all else, HOME. Home in a larger sense than I’ve used the term before. (532) 69 69

Her new home demonstrates simultaneity as has been discussed in relation to both Māori practice and Irigaray’s theories of feminine expression. Connection and complexity is necessary to the feminine, according to Irigaray, as she says: But woman has sex organs more or less everywhere. She finds pleasure almost anywhere. Even if we refrain from invoking the hystericization of her entire body, the geography of her pleasure is far more diversified, more multiple in its differences, more complex, more subtle, than is commonly imagined - in an imaginary rather too narrowly focused on sameness. (28) Kerewin’s home isn’t open in one great room, but has “apartness” and is “connected” in a manner consistent with coexistence. Where she was once afraid of connection and incapable of artistic expression, through her relationship to Simon, then Joe, she begins to reclaim a sense of influence which carries her along a path of choices leading to the conclusion, a reuniting of the three within a restored Māori community and her own sense of personal fulfillment. Hulme’s portrayal of a Māori community in the end is idyllic, “the round shell house holds them all in its spiralling embrace” (541), holding both Joe’s and Kerewin’s family, including “greatgreat aunts” (540). Kerewin’s role as the central figure gives the reader the sense she has a significant degree of influence within her community. However, this scene of cooperation and feminine power may not be as unrealistic as some might argue. Peggy Sanday, an anthropologist from the University of Pennsylvania, has witnessed a similar type of community during her study of the Minangkabau, located within Western Sumatra between 1981 to 1999. As a result of her research, she believes the scholarly view of matriarchy as a myth stems from faulty logic. As patriarchy is defined as ‘rule by men,’ matriarchy has been defined as ‘rule by 70 70 women.’ The essential element of matriarchy for anthropologists was power, specifically political power. The search for civilizations that were ruled by women has been of interest since the myth of the Amazonian warrior was first told. The truth is, however, there is no proof that any civilization has ever been ruled by women, at least according to many anthropologists (Ledgerwood 255). As a result, the term matriarchy is used less and less within the scholarly community. Sanday argues the root of the problem lies in the belief women would use power the same way as men which assumes that men and women are identical. Her study of the Minangkabau, and their matriarchaat (a term they have appointed themselves) shows otherwise. Frustrated with her colleague’s rejection of matriarchy’s existence, she presents a strong argument for a reexamination of how the term matriarchy is traditionally viewed by Western scholars, and the need for a new definition. Within the matriarchaat of the Minangkabau, women are responsible for a synthesis of differences, as opposed to encouraging dominance. Female influence leads to the preservation of ancient beliefs, while simultaneously integrating Islam as a religion; disagreements are encouraged because accommodation is valued; and women are given the most privilege and esteem because the nurturing of the weak is valued more than brute force. They appear more collaborative than Western society, focused inward on community rather than outward on conquest, this inward focus connecting back to Irigaray’s theory as it pertains to the feminine. Interestingly, within the Minangkabau it is men who are seen as chaotic, not women. The guidance of women is viewed as necessary to redirect men’s murderous tendencies (Sanday 44). Because of this, Sanday believes that the term gynecocracy would better fit ‘rule of women’ and that matriarchy should be redefined to allow for anthropological study that acknowledges a feminine view of 71 71 power, rather than being modeled after man’s. This view of matriarchy would posit woman’s power is not achieved through government positions, but rather within family and within traditional ceremonies and ritual. Family bonds are paramount, the bond between mother and child precede all others, including allegiance to government or god. With this in mind, ethics are based on blood ties, rather than abstract principles. While Sanday isn’t willing to give up the term matriarchy altogether, matrifocal is a term that is more often used which indicates a feminine focus and influence which is consistent with Minngkabau culture. Hulme’s resolution bears a remarkable resemblance to a matrifocal society which may stem from a use of simultaneity in the text, as well as an emphasis on connectivity. Looking at the novel’s ending, it is possible to say that simultaneity propels a tolerance for difference, making a path for inclusion, which fosters a greater sense of community, allowing for the existence of both male and female, not preferring one over the other. Additionally, Joe and Kerewin must not only be willing to share the responsibility for Simon, but Joe must also surrender a sense of dominance, perhaps even ownership of Simon, which promotes a willingness to share Simon with not only Kerewin, but all family. Coexistence is posited in the fact that Hulme never gives the reader proof that Joe is reformed of his violent parenting. Instead, the focus becomes collaboration through connection in that Joe is no longer solely responsible for Simon. The implication is that Simon is better off, not by the removal of Joe from his life, but with the addition of others into it. Joe’s change of heart seems to be a willingness to accept censure from others, validating views he would have originally dismissed and been defensive against. The reader is given little information about the direction his parenting has taken, and while it is possible that he has a new found sense of restraint, these are assumed rather than addressed directly. 72 72

Ultimately, Hulme transcends Western notions of identity, rhetoric, and dominance through an outcome that is uniquely Māori, as well as uniquely feminine. Kerewin moves through stages of separation, transition, and incorporation, while being acted upon by past, present and future. Robert Torrance would say that a spiritual quest serves to bridge the past to the future, and Hulme shows this to be true. The Bone People connects Māori tradition to a possible future, creating a scene in the end that generates hope for individuals, and thus society, to potentially move towards coexistence.

CHAPTER 4: MRS. DALLOWAY: THE FEMININE AGGREGATION OF CLARISSA DALLOWAY

The final text I examine is Mrs. Dalloway, written by Virginia Woolf and published in 1925, as it demonstrates one woman’s expression of the feminine in the years following her decision to marry. While Tenant and The Bone People are useful for showing stages of a quest, Mrs. Dalloway gives very little away in terms of a quest occurring at all. Instead, the entire novel is set in one day, and that day is over thirty years since Clarissa Dalloway, the female protagonist of the story, decided to marry Richard Dalloway. These choices, to marry and to whom, are significant factors in a woman’s identity and can become themselves a type of quest for feminine expression. Clarissa’s decision moved her from one social status to another and necessarily embodied a passing through the limin. The purpose of this chapter is to explore in greater depth feminine expression after the resolution of a quest. Clarissa Dalloway presents one example of possible feminine expression in her harmonious coexistence of opposites, specifically her navigation of plural realities that operate simultaneously. For, it is her plurality that works to generate a fluid reality, one which moves between external and internal dictates in tension with each other without eliminating one or the other. In contrast to Helen and Kerewin in the novels previously discussed, Clarissa never seems to be on the margins of society, one indicator that she has settled into her life. But internally, Clarissa holds a belief that is uncommon which she has had since she was a young woman: “she felt herself everywhere; not ‘here, here, here’; and she tapped the back of the seat; but everywhere . . . .She was all that” (152). Springing out of this belief comes the possibility that she exists in a state of inclusion, a repository for all states of being and all identities. This is one aspect of the limin, being ambiguous and inclusive, as well as feminine expression 74 74 in Irigaray’s terms. While physically it is impossible for Clarissa to be everyone, mentally, within her imagination, it is possible. This is her foundational belief that grants her a plural existence, allowing her to carry feminine expression into her stage of aggregation.

Synopsis of Mrs. Dalloway Written in the style of a stream of consciousness, Mrs. Dalloway takes place primarily in characters’ minds and is without chapters or frequent section breaks. Beginning at 6:00 a.m. and ending the evening of the same day, readers begin in Clarissa’s thoughts and journey to first one person, then the next, as people come into proximity with each other on the day of Clarissa’s party. Woolf’s internal / external story works to draw a distinction between a public and private self and allows for an examination of the tension created by these two aspects of an individual’s life. Clarissa is married to Richard Dalloway but after more than thirty years of marriage, she still retains a connection to Peter Walsh. Despite the time and distance that separates them, she remembers the emotions of the past, having “borne about with her for years like an arrow sticking in her heart the grief, the anguish” (8) after she rejected him in favor of her marriage to Richard. As the day moves through the hours, both Clarissa and Peter reminisce about their summer at Bourton, Clarissa’s family estate, when as a young lady she is involved in a liminal journey of self-exploration and discovery. It is during this summer that Clarissa also becomes friends with Sally Seton who is daring and intelligent, who encourages Clarissa to become the same, awakening not only her mind, but also her body as Clarissa remembers a kiss they shared as “the most exquisite moment of her whole life” (35). On the day the 75 75 novel takes place when she is now over 50 years old, Clarissa remembers an emotional connection to both Peter and Sally which the novel demonstrates as evoking passion Richard does not. As Clarissa demonstrates longing and sadness in her reminiscences, she also continually reconfirms her decision to marry Richard, and the reader is presented with a woman who is living in a simultaneously stable and conflicted state, allowing for a deeper examination of a multiplicitous self and raising questions about aggregation, the stage which culminates a quest, as free from ambiguity and fluidity. By the thoughts of both Peter and Clarissa, we see Clarissa’s decision is not emotionally resolved for either character, yet she maneuvers through her world in a way which allows her a sense of independence, purpose and creativity. Other characters in the novel, in contrast, are not able to exert the same degree of efficaciousness, in terms of plural realities. While Clarissa’s alter-ego, Septimus Warren Smith, is dealing with conflicted states of an outer and inner reality, coping with trauma from WWI and the death of his “great friend,” Evans, he remains on the margins of society. As Septimus attempts to find solace, further questions are raised about madness, male homosexuality, and the medical profession in terms of an individual’s autonomy. On a different note, Miss Kilman presents a rejected and uncomfortable figure as a woman so repressed she evokes the horror of the abject in those she comes into contact with. Seemingly having only one reality, she is “a soul cut out of immaterial substance; not a woman, a soul” (134). Similarly, Lady Bradshaw, the wife of Septimus’ doctor, also presents a startling figure, as she follows the dictates of her husband so absolutely, so vacuously, people leave her dinner parties in a rush, gasping for fresh air “even with rapture; which relief, however, was denied [Sir William’s] patients” (101). These characters are but a few examples of those who live lives that are in contrast 76 76 to Clarissa, demonstrating that while Clarissa is navigating tension, she is relatively successful in maintaining an inner measure of happiness and self- authorship and also remains outwardly connected to her society. The result is, within a relatively small novel, numerous glimpses are given into the quest for feminine expression and feminine expression’s effects and presence within aggregated individuals. The book ends in the middle of Clarissa’s party, the thoughts of Peter the last words, “What is this terror? what is this ecstasy? he thought to himself. What is it that fills me with extraordinary excitement? It is Clarissa, he said. For there she was” (194). Always the gaze returns to Clarissa. Her party serves to encapsulate all the significant characters developed in the novel, as well as encapsulating the reader, leaving both readers and characters perpetually at a party, perpetually looking at Clarissa, and disrupting a temporal closure many readers come to expect.

Between the Split: Not This Binary Before looking at Clarissa in-depth, it is important to acknowledge that her assimilated role in society has come at a cost and one cannot stamp her with a definitive label as successful or failed in the resolution of her quest. Woolf is careful to make her complex, struggling with the demands of early 1900s London society, and in this, no cut and dried solution towards happiness is offered, nor is Clarissa easy to categorize. Even though she maintains an outward commitment to Richard, longings remain which hint at a desire for more. She finds herself “sometimes yielding to the charm of a woman” which makes her “feel what men felt . . .some pressure of rapture” (32), while thinking herself having a “cold spirit” with Richard (31). Now, due to an earlier case of influenza, she sleeps alone in an 77 77 attic-type room on an extremely narrow bed and is left unable to “dispel a virginity preserved through childbirth which clung to her like a sheet” (31). As life rarely brings about absolute fulfillment, the goal often is to find places of succor and safety, moments of respite and growth. Despite her longings, Clarissa finds this in her life with Richard: She felt like a nun who has left the world and feels fold round her the familiar veils and the response to old devotions . . . .It was her life, and, bending her head over the hall table, she bowed beneath the influence, felt blessed and purified . . .moments like this are buds on the tree of life . . .not for a moment did she believe in God; but all the more . . .must one repay in daily life…above all to Richard her husband, who was the foundation of it . . . (29) It is evident that Clarissa believes her current life, all its joys and trials, is directly connected to her choice to marry Richard. In her younger years, during her time at Bourton, Clarissa decided between choices available to her. Her decision to marry Richard, while forcing her to relegate aspects of herself to a private inner world, also allows her some play between an internal and external reality which coexists in fluid opposition at times. In this way, Clarissa demonstrates an existence that transcends binaries, indicating she lives in a space better described as “in- between.” Clarissa, by remaining in-between, exhibits plurality. Plurality, as I use the term, is the ability to have multiple realities in play simultaneously. Clarissa’s sexuality is one indication of her plurality, and remains one aspect frequently discussed by scholars, as she gives the indication that she is potentially bisexual or homosexual, yet is married in a heterosexual union. According to Jesse Wolfe in her essay, “The Sane Woman in the Attic: Sexuality and Self-Authorship in Mrs. Dalloway,” “Clarissa is a tangle of paradoxes, 78 78 masculine and feminine at once” (40). Wolfe continues along this line until she ultimately claims this “androgyny reveal[s] a frozen state of development” (41). This points to one result within scholarly discussions of Clarissa’s plurality: he is labeled as a “tangle” of gender and sexual identities, which then becomes labeled as “androgynous.” Additionally, her ambiguity makes her seem “frozen,” her choice to remain in a plural existence viewed as negative. While more can be said about this tendency, my purpose, specifically, is to discuss the use of the term “androgyny” in order to explore its connection to feminine expression. Often androgyny implies a blending of binaries, as opposed to independent aspects working in tandem. Clarissa’s plurality, I argue, is not a fusion of her internal and external realities, and her androgyny must follow an equally complicated definition. Plurality and feminine expression do not generate resolution through fusion; therefore, androgyny in connection to Clarissa should not be understood as a fusion of sexual identities. Marilyn Farwell notes the complexity of the term androgyny in her essay, “Virginia Woolf and Androgyny” discussing the context of the term before approaching Woolf’s own use of it in A Room of One’s Own. According to Farwell, “Androgyny appears to be either an interplay of separate and unique elements or a fusion of one into the other” (434) with “fusion” defined as a representative One, which is masculine, incorporating a feminine Other, and said incorporation rendering the feminine invisible. Farwell goes on to argue that Woolf, within A Room of One’s Own, demonstrates both uses, beginning with unique aspects of male and female, but ending by using androgyny as a way of collapsing these unique aspects into an objective and blended form. Farwell believes Woolf ends this way as a result of her concern for her male audience and anxiety over their criticism. Returning to the notion of androgyny as separate, 79 79

Farwell elaborates on this idea by saying, “neither side is reduced to the other in defeat, but each contributes to dynamic tension which defines the unity. . . . Androgyny here is not a limitation but an expansion” (442). While it is uncertain what Woolf’s specific intention was in regard to Clarissa, feminine expression seems to follow a direction of expansion rather than limitation. This is better understood through Irigary’s use of the term “disruptive excess” in connection to feminine discourse. In looking at Clarissa’s sexuality, it is plausible that Clarissa is “jamming the theoretical machinery itself. . . suspending its pretension to the production of a truth and of a meaning that [is] excessively univocal” (Irigaray 78). Therefore, in light of androgyny defined as an expansion, and feminine discourse as disruptive excess, Clarissa sexuality indicates her plurality, a coexistence of opposing realities rather than a fusion or blending into one reality which is easily labeled. Her plural sexuality is only one example of feminine expression and is a result of—even an adaptation to—social dictates. If a woman matches her inner world to her outer, she is in conformity with social edicts and has a unified existence. However, if her inner world is contrary to her outer, and she manages it without insanity, then she is demonstrating a type of feminine expression, a harmonious existence of opposites that is significantly more complicated than a collapsing into a blended and unified identity. Admittedly, Clarissa’s inner life pushes against boundaries society would impose. Yet, by her demonstration of thinking in opposition to social mores while still managing to exist harmoniously within social norms, Clarissa demonstrates how feminine expression facilitates a fluid identity and self-authorship which appears to blur the lines of sexuality and gender, while allowing for the development of complex and autonomous aspects of identity. 80 80

The fact that she experiences tension between contrary aspects of her identity is the key indicator these remain independent, rather than blended. This tension between her private and public self is evident, yet it is her awareness of these as oppositional realities that grants her the ability to cross lines and blur her identity and desires. The tension Clarissa experiences as a result of her conflicting inner and outer realities is a significant indicator there is more scholars need to discuss. The term androgyny, when understood as blending, potentially deflects and disrupts a deeper understanding of plurality. However, Clarissa’s exhibition of feminine expression is her plurality, as she maintains conflicting desires that are not her undoing. Within society, few people are without inconsistencies but social pressure is towards becoming a person with a consistent character so that others may trust one’s actions as being in line with one’s inner self. To be otherwise is labeled negatively, possibly as being deceptive, hypocritical, or unstable. While Clarissa is not the only character within Mrs. Dalloway who demonstrates tension between a private and public self, she seems to be the character who manages the disparity with the greatest amount of success, demonstrated by her ability to maintain a respectable position in society which functions well within the boundaries of patriarchy. Clarissa manages this tension in a way so as to indicate she prefers a resolution that is inclusive; her choice does not mean she must exclude entirely other parts of herself, even those that potentially cause her emotional pain. It is her plurality that allows her to fulfill inner needs and wants rather than repress them completely. In this way, her mind is out of step with society at times while her life is not. One of the most obvious ways she expresses plurality is her belief she is everywhere and connected to everything. Clarissa thinks: 81 81

that somehow in the streets of London, on the ebb and flow of things, here, there, she survived, Peter survived, lived in each other, she being part, she was positive, of the trees at home; of the house there, ugly, rambling all to bits and pieces as it was; part of people she had never met; being laid out like a mist between the people she knew best, who lifted her on their branches as she had seen the trees lift the mist, but it spread ever so far, her life, herself. (9) In this, she experiences an alternate reality, the reality of many. She is not singular, but many: not individual, but all. Throughout the novel, her feeling of connection to everything around her is evident, which is supported by the number of characters she introduces to the reader as opposed to those introduced by other characters. Over all, there are approximately 98 people referred to within a book that is only 194 pages. A majority of these are noticed by Clarissa, and always by name, even though she remains indoors much of the novel. This is possible because of Clarissa’s mental connection to people that does not require physical proximity, her thoughts bringing them to the reader’s attention. However, many are introduced to the reader at the end of the novel during the course of her party, the reality of their physical presence in a social setting validating her perceived connection. Her connection to others is also hinted at through her choice to read memoirs when she cannot sleep. This is potentially a liminal act, incorporating another’s life into her own. Clarissa’s sense of connection is of paramount importance, demonstrated when Clarissa discovers an “extraordinarily amusing” luncheon is thrown without an invite extended to her. Suddenly it “made the moment in which she had stood shiver, as a plant on a river-bed feels the shock of a passing oar and shivers: so she rocked: so she shivered . . .out of her body and brain which now failed, Lady Bruton . . .had not asked her” (30-31). Clarissa 82 82 reacts with alarm at signs of disconnection, her existence as enmeshed with others as a “plant” is to water. Her reaction indicates the degree of her awareness, the “shock” which disconnection or changes bring. In the case of Lady Bruton’s invitation, her husband is invited but she is not. Her sense of connection is a primary source of comfort, and while most women are nervous when husbands spend time with other women, Clarissa’s reaction stems primarily from her need to be connected to everyone, Lady Bruton included, and goes beyond jealousy. This connection to others leads Clarissa into a space that can be problematic socially. While outwardly she maintains her role as Mrs. Richard Dalloway, inwardly she remembers Bourton and her moment of coming down the stairs in white. This image is invoked several times in the novel by her, as well as in the recollections of Sally and Peter, and points to a moment in time which was sublime for Clarissa, a moment when she was in love and loved by many: Richard, Sally, and Peter. It is the moment before she makes a choice between them, the stairs themselves a liminal space of transition. While Clarissa doesn’t specifically say she wishes she could marry all three, as the novel continues and under examination, one realizes the extreme expression of her fluid mental boundaries and emotional ties resembles a type of polyamory. Obviously her marriage to Peter, Sally, and Richard, the act of polygamy, would propel her to the far edges of society. Her plurality, however, allows her to maintain a type of mental polyamory, while living a monogamous life, and she can remain in connection with not just Peter and Sally, but whomever she wishes. In this way, Clarissa cuts a clear line between what she does and what she thinks and remains publicly within social constraints. The function of Clarissa’s multiple realities works to generate multiple sites of pleasure. Irigaray makes it clear how important this is to feminine expression 83 83 when she writes, “(Re-) discovering herself, for a woman, thus could only signify the possibility of sacrificing no one of her pleasures to another, of identifying herself with none of them in particular, of never being simply one” (31). Irigaray goes on to indicate this grants women a fluid identity. This fluidity is one possible realization of feminine discourse, which she describes as “com[ing] back in touch with itself in that origin without ever constituting in it, constituting itself in it, as some sort of unity. Simultaneity is its “proper” aspect - a proper(ty) that is never fixed in the possible identity-to-self of some form or other. It is always fluid . . .” (Irigaray 79, emphasis in original). As Clarissa remains in a place which is in- between, a place that indicates heterosexuality, homosexuality, polyamory, and connection with all her surroundings, she refuses to reduce herself. to one pleasure, one identity, and thus disrupts logical ordering or theoretical attempts to constrain her. Therefore, Clarissa, or any woman who is seeking feminine expression, if successful, will come out with a fluid reality, one that shifts and allows freedom from fixed gender roles, denoting a degree of plural realities in play. The figure of Septimus grants Clarissa another mode of plurality, that of additional identities. Most of the novel dwells on characters who have a relationship with Clarissa, but Septimus is a key figure whom Clarissa never meets. As Clarissa indicates she has connections with people she doesn’t know, it is plausible Septimus serves as one example. Like Clarissa, he has experienced homosexual love, is married in a heterosexual union, and struggles with an inner reality that is out of step with society; suffering from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, he has regular hallucinations, including those of Evans who was killed in battle just before the war ended. Unlike Clarissa, Septimus evades “human nature” (his appointed term for his doctors) by committing suicide near the end of the 84 84 novel. When Clarissa hears about his death, she acknowledges “she felt somehow very like him - the young man who had killed himself” (186), raising the possibility that Woolf has written in Septimus as a foil to Clarissa’s ability to cope mentally and emotionally with being out of step with social dictates. As Septimus suffers from madness but Clarissa does not, the implication is that Clarissa could, or might, if she cannot navigate the plural existence of her oppositional inner and outer reality successfully.

The Plurality of Silence One way Clarissa manages the disparity between her public and private life is through the vehicle of silence. In the previous chapter, I discuss how the compounding of labels within The Bone People allows for inclusion, but this is not the only means towards feminine expression. Silence also allows for plurality to occur and is itself fluid in nature. Richard is a quiet man and it is within his silence Clarissa finds a place to be herself: complicated, out of step at times, and multiplicitous. A telling scene is when Richard brings Clarissa flowers. It is here that Richard thinks, “she understood without his speaking; his Clarissa” (118), as he works himself up to say, “I love you,” but finds he cannot, instead handing her roses in silence. Clarissa’s response to Richard proves she understands, but it is more than his love she hears. She also perceives how their relationship, which leaves things unspoken, promotes her autonomy: And there is a dignity in people; a solitude; even between husband and wife a gulf; and that one must respect . . . for one would not part with it oneself, or take it, against his will, from one’s husband, 85 85

without losing one’s independence, one’s self-respect—something, after all, priceless. (120) The in-between space that Clarissa recognizes, this “gulf,” is the liminal which silence accommodates: a space allowing ambiguity, opposites, and creativity. As all three characters, Richard, Peter, and Clarissa, appreciate being understood without words, it is evident silence potentially gives a feeling of validation. In contrast, looking at Clarissa’s relationship with Peter, speech works to constrain her. The novel begins with Clarissa buying flowers, an act that takes her back to Bourton in her mind and to Peter, thinking how he commented on “the defects of her own soul. How he scolded her! How they argued! . . .with Peter everything had to be shared; everything gone into . . .it was intolerable” (7-8). In the silence of his absence, she argues with him in her mind, defending her choice not to marry him, later defending her party. Peter thinks, “They had always this queer power of communicating without words. She knew directly he criticised [sic] her” (60), because, in fact, the words have already been spoken and the echo of his sentiments remain in Clarissa’s mind. Even though Clarissa catches herself wishing for the “gaiety” that Peter brings into her day, his speech also brings a controlling influence. Peter admits to himself that he makes “absurd” demands on her and, “asked impossible things. He made terrible scenes” (63). Their conversations have given Clarissa little respite and speech is used to draw boundaries, put up defenses, and challenge each other, rather than silence. Therefore, while Richard is less passionate and leaves Clarissa longing at times, her decision to marry him is based on her choice for freedom rather than what she calls “horrible passion” (127). Silence allows what exists to go unchallenged. Consequently, in the silence of Peter’s absence, his past words leave her on the defensive, but Richard’s silence makes her think of her independence 86 86 and self-respect. Silence grants Clarissa room to breathe. Silence is the space where she has freedom to define herself and remain fluid and ambiguous. We pick friends and lovers at times because we can tell them anything, but this is not the case in Clarissa’s world. Clarissa prefers silence, choosing to marry a man whose quiet presence encourages her self-authorship. Clarissa thinks, “quite often if Richard had not been there reading the Times, so that she could crouch like a bird and gradually revive . . .she must have perished (185). His silent presence is what she requires, not his voice in her life. Even though Clarissa feels a greater sense of freedom within silence, Woolf makes it clear that silence can also be negative. This further demonstrates the simultaneity of silence itself, silence being potentially both beneficial and detrimental. Clarissa’s relationship with Sally is marked by words, as Sally and her stay up for hours at night talking. “Sally it was who made her feel, for the first time, how sheltered life at Bourton was. She knew nothing about sex—nothing about social problems” (33). Words are also present within texts, as Sally brings Clarissa forbidden books to read wrapped in brown paper. The words of scholars and intellectuals expand her reality and ignite her imagination, and the two women “meant to found a society to abolish private property, and actually had a letter written” (33). Here, then, the silence in Clarissa’s life before Sally has promoted her ignorance is negative in its effects, and words work to expand Clarissa’s reality and grant her additional modes of freedom. Silence, therefore, allows plurality and simultaneity (feminine expression) and retains characteristics of the feminine itself in its plural influence, its effects. Peter demonstrates how, in the case of negative labels or judgments, silence allows what has been spoken to go unchallenged; Richard demonstrates how silence can validate a person through the assumption of being understood; and Sally 87 87 demonstrates how silence perpetuates ignorance. Silence can convey multiple things in the same moment and different things to different people. It is a place where opposites may exist. While multiplicative labeling, demonstrated in The Bone People, allows for layered meanings, the plurality of silence is significantly greater. Once again, it becomes apparent how the simultaneity of feminine expression serves to disrupt logic through a tolerance of coexistent meanings. Silence facilitates the private and inner world, which may not be subjected to a dominant right or wrong, while equally facilitating a patriarchal gaze which objectifies and owns those under its influence. Because this line of thinking becomes increasingly complicated, increasingly difficult to pin down as One or the Other, it is evident silence is in-line with Irigaray’s idea of feminine discourse, as she argues against our current framework of language as adequately able to capture the feminine. This is evident when she says: Let us say that every dichotomizing—and at the same time redoubling—break, including the one between enunciation and utterance, has to be disrupted. Nothing is ever to be posited that is not also reversed and caught up again in the supplementarity of this reversal. To put it another way: there would no longer be a right side or a wrong side of discourse, or even of texts, but each passing from one to the other would make audible and comprehensible even what resists the recto-verso structure that shores up common sense. (79- 80) Silence, as demonstrated within Mrs. Dalloway, evidences this type of reversal and “recto-verso structure.” The effect of both silence and speech together is one example of how harmonious coexistence of opposites is not only possible, but necessary. Both 88 88 speech and silence occur together: oppositional, complimentary, in tension, yet harmonious. Kristeva’s work begins with her discussion of the symbolic and the semiotic, two interwoven aspects of language. The symbolic is the linear, concrete, spoken and phonemic form of language and the semiotic is the emotional impulse, the drive to be understood, which propels and motivates expression. As Kristeva defines the symbolic and the semiotic as reliant on each other and inseparable, so is speech and silence. The multiplicity and simultaneity of feminine expression allow for oppositional states of being, allows for Clarissa’s plurality. Clarissa is potentially both monogamous and polyamorous, both individual and many.

Managing the Abject Through Privacy It is clear that Woolf, through her writing, is focused on the ways people negotiate their public and private identities. Clarissa recognizes these two sides, thinking, “the part of us which appears, are so momentary compared with the other, the unseen part of us, which spreads wide” (153). Within the privacy of the mind she can stretch out; she can not only acknowledge what is hidden, but also explore it without recriminations from others. According to Peter, “it is the privilege of loneliness; in privacy one may do as one chooses. One might weep if no one saw . . .[he] could now dissolve in tears” (151). For Peter, and most people, pain is something relegated to the private world. Without this space of privacy to tuck one’s unsociable aspects into, people are continually revealed to society’s gaze. As society requires conformity, it serves as a powerful influence which potentially inhibits individual needs. The notion of privacy connects to Kristeva’s theorizing about the abject, as what we hide, what must remain private, can often be a result of shame or fear. 89 89

The abject as defined by Kristeva is “horror, a mixture of revolt against the limits imposed and fear at the reminder of the forbidden realm of fusion, the maternal continent” (Smith 33). As connection to the mother, this fusion of identity occurs before an infant’s sense of self, the maternal and all reminders of fusion with her violate a rational world which has become attached to an outside world, outside of one’s self, generating an identity which is separate and connected to an outside, symbolic logic. Fusion with the maternal is intrinsically related to feminine expression, however, and works to disrupt boundaries. Fusion, in terms of the abject, accepts simultaneity and oppositional states. Additionally, fusion with the maternal is knowing the body, acknowledging physical needs, feeling a sensory closeness consuming in its inclusiveness, and involves a move of turning inwards, following the reasoning of Irigaray. Therefore, the quest for feminine expression must take into account the abject and find a means of its resolution. While it is apparent that Clarissa pushes her homosexuality out of the public eye, it is difficult to tell how much she accepts and how much she represses from her own awareness. As she thinks about her feelings for women, she says, “Then, for that moment, she had seen an illumination; a match burning in a crocus; an inner meaning almost expressed. But the close withdrew; the hard softened. It was over—the moment” (32). She is aware of sexual knowledge, which withdraws. She constrains it to a “moment,” as opposed to an ever present element. She is aware of the potential, but she doesn’t pursue it. Does she relegate it, then, to a mere curiosity? Or is this just a flicker into an alternate self before she moves into a physical existence of heterosexual? Her thoughts seem to indicate it is significant, beyond a passing phase, therefore this aspect is potentially connected to the abject as it complicates Clarissa’s knowledge of herself, 90 90 trespasses boundaries which are socially acceptable, and generates enough anxiety within Clarissa that she pushes it aside. Along these lines, one interesting possibility to consider is that within Clarissa’s life, her homosexuality may be analogous to a connection to the feminine. Sally herself might represent the feminine, even the abject; her kiss an embrace of all the feminine represents. Clarissa is drawn to Sally the instant they meet, recollecting, “But all that evening she could not take her eyes off Sally. It was an extraordinary beauty of the kind she most admired . . .with that quality which, since she hadn’t got it herself, she always envied—a sort of abandonment, as if she could say anything, do anything (33). Sally is not only beautiful; she is also unrestrained: Sally is knowledgeable of the world, yet trespassing its boundaries in her physicality. Through the memories of Peter and Clarissa, we discover that Sally smoked cigars in her bedroom, gave birth before she was married, had dared to run down the corridor naked when she forgot her sponge, as well as consistently pushed for her own space in a world of men. She is forcefully opposed to Hugh Whitbred in particular, telling him he “represented all that was most detestable in British middle-class life” (73) and accused him of “kissing her in the smoking-room to punish her for saying that women should have votes” (181). But Clarissa knows she wants to be more than Sally is during the summer at Bourton, eventually putting Sally’s social faux pas as a wedge between them. Unlike Sally, Clarissa wants social approval as well as a bit of license and is willing to make sacrifices to maintain it. With this in mind therefore, on the day of the novel, Clarissa has managed the abject through her plurality, a type of “psychic bisexuality” to use Kristeva’s term, and her use of privacy. Her sexuality is relegated to a private inner world, 91 91 but Clarissa has small outlets that are places of fulfillment, her love of Sally now whittled down to her love of flowers, an essential aspect of Sally’s character: Sally’s power was amazing, her gift, her personality . . .her way with flowers . . .Sally went out, picked hollyhocks, dahlias—all sorts of flowers that had never been seen together—cut their heads off, and made them swim on the top of water in bowls. The effect was extraordinary. (33-34) As Clarissa begins her day choosing flowers for her party, and Richard later speaks through the roses he hands her, it appears that Clarissa has appropriated aspects of her abject desires into socially appropriate ways that still escape the boundaries of a patriarchal symbolic order because of her ability to handle two realities simultaneously. Silence, flowers, privacy—each holds a place for Clarissa to allow the flow of feminine expression and a connection to the maternal. As mentioned previously, other characters serve as a contrast to Clarissa, and Septimus is clearly unable to manage the abject in a way that allows him to thrive. Woolf’s depiction of Septimus illustrates the truth that the feminine is not housed within woman simply, is not gender dependent. Both men and women face the abject, face limitations as a result of separation with the maternal body, as well as hold a potential for feminine expression. Before the war, Septimus had “lit in him such a fire as burns only once in a lifetime,” inspired to become a writer, “devouring Shakespeare, Darwin, The History of Civilizaion, and Bernard Shaw” (85). His boss, Mr. Brewer, worries he needs a change: needs the masculine influence of football. But, it is the war which produces this change: “instantly; he developed manliness,” and manliness is that “he cannot feel” (86). Now, on the day the novel takes place, he cannot find his way towards managing a plural existence, the antipathy of Evans death too much to face, forcing Septimus to 92 92 remove himself from his body, distancing himself from a maternal body, committing the crime that “he cannot feel,” a crime he believes is too awful to admit aloud. Silence becomes both a place of safety and his prison. The horror of the abject is upon him and he cannot compartmentalize it, repress it, or manage it: Look the unseen bade him, the voice which now communicated with him . . .Septimus, lately taken from life to death . . .who had come to renew society . . .suffering for ever, the scapegoat, the eternal sufferer, but he did not want it, he moaned, putting from him with a wave of his hand that eternal suffering, that eternal loneliness. (25) Septimus cannot face the abject, the anguish a result of his separation from Evans, because to do so would acknowledge his body, acknowledge he is out of step with patriarchal social demands. If society might tolerate the expression of the abject which Septimus represents, the novel might require a different turn. In society’s need to repress the abject, Septimus finds himself continually existing in the rupture of disconnection, ultimately lives outside of reality altogether, in contrast to Clarissa’s plurality. Septimus lives, both publicly and privately, as a victim of the abject. Septimus is insane as a result of the discord between his inner and outer world. He is incoherent within his world, out of sync, once seeing beauty, now he sees threats all around. The layer of privacy is peeled back and all he sees is “human nature.” While feminine expression unhinges logic, embodies a comparatively incoherent existence compared to a linear phallocratic existence, madness may be the social label for the failure to find a resolution between a feminine and masculine world, a failure of harmonious coexistence. His later suicide becomes yet another expression of the abject, death a separation from life and the ultimate annihilation of identity. 93 93

Miss Kilman, in a different way, presents an abject figure as well. As a woman who wears a mackintosh in the heat of summer, is “degradingly poor . . .[has] never been happy . . .[and] never been able to tell lies” (123), she also cannot find a plural existence which allows for a connection to the maternal body. She has been unable to maintain a private truth unshared, has taken sacrifice as her means of consistency, believes she has suffered, and uses religion as her measuring stick. As a result, she has expelled the feminine from herself, which has left her body starving, “the pleasure of eating was almost the only pure pleasure left her” (130). As she tutors Clarissa’s daughter, Elizabeth, and they go on outings, Miss Kilman wishes “to grasp her, if she could clasp her, if she could make her hers absolutely and forever and then die; that was all she wanted” (132). Her disconnection from the maternal has left a void, and in the manner of colonialism she objectifies those around her. Her attempts to convert others are so she may own them, and thus ingest them, her stomach a symbolic womb she seeks to fill. And, like Septimus, she moves towards a place where she will not feel, contemplating inside the Abbey; “the light . . .was bodiless, to aspire above the vanities, the desires, the commodities, to rid herself both of hatred and of love” (134). Clarissa finds her daughter’s connection to Miss Kilman unsettling, yet Elizabeth gives indications that she is not as adoring as Clarissa imagines. While still having an awareness available to the young, relatively unreflective and under developed, Elizabeth is described by Woolf with an edge sardonicism. After having been in Miss Kilman’s company, the reader is told, “And did Elizabeth give one thought to poor Miss Kilman who loved her without jealousy, to whom she had been a fawn in the open, a moon in a glade? She was delighted to be free. The fresh air was so delicious” (135). Thus, despite Clarissa’s concern about their 94 94 relationship, Woolf puts Elizabeth in contrast to Miss Kilman, showing her as vibrant and alive, able to indulge in pleasure and take charge of her surroundings, boarding an omnibus “in front of everybody. She took a seat on top” (135), making it clear that Miss Kilman cannot manage her desires similarly. Unlike Elizabeth, whose “beautiful body . . .responded freely like a rider” (136), Miss Kilman has repressed the abject to such a degree to raise her as an object of derision. Thus, what becomes noticeable under scrutiny is how the management of feminine desire potentially creates vastly different realities. The examples of both Septimus and Miss Kilman demonstrate the necessity of Clarissa’s plurality in managing the abject, as the private world is the only socially acceptable place to house the feminine in a patriarchal society. Miglena Nikolchina explores connections between Woolf’s life, her writing, and Kristeva’s theory within her book Matricide in Language. According to Nikolchina’s reading of Kristeva, women must murder the feminine as a result of phallocratic demands, resulting in “asymbolia.” Nikolchina defines asymbolia as “the condition of woman with regard to a symbolic that functions through the exclusion of the feminine” (24). In Mrs. Dalloway, Miss Kilman and Septimus must move to a place where the symbolic exists without the semiotic, that is, the masculine order requires they depart from the emotional, depart from their body, in order to achieve one reality: they do not feel. In other words, according to the phallocratic demands of language, emotion or the semiotic impulse impedes clarity, thus emotion has no place in a rational order. So, in fact, Miss Kilman and Septimus always feel too much, but have no way to manage their emotions, their desires, the semiotic, within an extreme patriarchal structure which exiles the individual from the maternal, which pushes the maternal and the emotional into a state of abjection. 95 95

Whereas Clarissa evidences a removal from her body through her marriage, she remains aware of her desires and tolerates their existence to a degree that neither Septimus nor Miss Kilman exhibit. She resists the demand to cease her longings, to stop feeling, and maintains a type of mental polyamory in a place which is private. If I were to say “to love is feminine,” this would be too extreme, yet Woolf seems to make a connection to the problem of Septimus and Miss Kilman as being unable to feel, of having no acceptable internal or external outlet for their feelings. As the novel comes to a close, however, it becomes evident that Clarissa’s parties are a socially acceptable outlet for her abject desires.

Self-Authorship: Clarissa’s Parties In many ways the novel’s climax is the occasion of Clarissa’s party. As Clarissa moves in the crush of people, she is buffeted by varying emotions and a tangible experience of her ethereal connection to others. She is centered in a community, flowing from person to person, first Peter, then Richard, then Sally, her identity fluid and meshed with those she encounters. She is immersed in a sensual experience, one involving all of her senses, and appreciates the relationships around her, thinking about Lord Lexham and his wife, “It was delicious how they petted each other, that old couple” (168). While Kerewin in The Bone People creates community through the building of the marae and later her spiral home, Clarissa brings people together through her parties: What she liked was simply life . . .could any man understand what she meant either? about life? . . . . But to go deeper, beneath what people said (and these judgments, how superficial, how fragmentary they are!) in her own mind now, what did it mean to her, this thing she called life? Here was So-and-so in South Kensington; and one up 96 96

in Bayswater; and somebody else, say, in Mayfair. And she felt quite continuously a sense of their existence; and she felt what a waste; and she felt what a pity; and she felt if only they could be brought together; so she did it. And it was an offering; to combine, to create. (121-22) Her role as hostess is one she writes onto herself, an act of creativity and agency. To organize a party and bring people together is her purpose, “her gift” (122), and she believes this is her best work. She unites diverse individuals under one roof, a fitting symbolic representation of feminine expression as the harmonious coexistence of opposites. Her aim is to “combine” and “create” and we see this occur, as, during the party Peter and Sally are reunited, not having seen each other since their summer at Bourton, Richard renews his bond with his daughter, and Clarissa discovers Septimus and his death. Joining is happening, people notice each other, and connections are created and strengthened. Her party is a gift to those around her, as well as to herself. While the party itself involves creativity in the selection of details for the event, Clarissa has also used creativity and self-authorship in finding a liminal space. Robert Torrance posits that the quest is undertaken as an attempt to transcend our human limitations. Significantly, Clarissa finds the boundaries of her internal and external self more porous and loose, thinking “every time she gave a party she had this feeling of being something not herself, and that every one was unreal in one way; much more real in another . . .it was possible to say things you couldn’t say anyhow else . . .possible to go much deeper” (170-71). Since a party is different from a formal meeting where there is an agenda or a goal, it becomes a space for play and spontaneity. Because the liminal allows for multiplicity and ambiguity, it serves to ease the tension of Clarissa’s plurality, not 97 97 resolve it, and enables fluidity to a degree that is not available at other moments in her life. As men, not women, were ushered into political, economic, and social avenues of influence at the time Mrs. Dalloway was published, Clarissa’s party becomes Woolf’s demonstration of ‘turning the tables’ on the order of things. Merry Pawlowski brings to light Woolf’s thinking about public and private space within her article, “Woolf’s Veil: The Feminist Intellectual and the Use of Public Space.” This looks at her work Three Guineas, written after Mrs. Dalloway, which clearly articulates a philosophy about women in a man’s world that is relevant to our discussion. Pawlowski states that Woolf’s writing “functions on multiple levels that call into play text and context, seen and unseen, absent and present” (723), and demonstrates that Woolf herself is navigating within plurality. Additionally, through Three Guineas, Woolf creates a setting where men are on the inside, a space Woolf has transformed into one of objectification, and women are on the outside looking in with the gaze that is usually permitted men only. Pawlowski argues, “Women, in Woolf’s view, have been both locked in and locked out” (739). Within Mrs. Dalloway, a similar occurrence happens as Clarissa claims a public space of influence, one in which even the Prime Minister attends. While Richard is undeniably essential to Clarissa’s life and her access to the role of Hostess, it is evident that her involvement is far from passive, nor is her influence insubstantial. Additionally, because Woolf writes a text which allows the reader to see both the seen and unseen, readers are granted an even greater appreciation of Clarissa’s influence as many of the guests dwell on her, not Richard. Through this, Woolf unlocks traditionally masculine roles of leadership and directs the focus towards Clarissa, and thus to women. The fact that so many come to Clarissa’s party proves she is not closed off from society, rather she is a 98 98 functioning member within it with a role to play and expectations to fulfill. As her guests encounter Clarissa, they are drawn to her and see her as both aloof, yet vibrant. Peter sees her and thinks she has, “the most perfect ease and air of a creature floating in its element. There was a breath of tenderness . . .an exquisite cordiality; as if she wished the whole world well, and must now, being on the very verge and rim of things, take her leave” (174). And Peter is right that Clarissa is in her element, as her day comes to its fruition in an event which embodies her desire. Even though her party is a public space, Clarissa threads the private and public a little closer together and puts her private desires on public display. Her parties cement her social role, grant a connection to the maternal, and serve her inner polyamory. Sally, potentially symbolic of the feminine and the abject, comes without an invitation because she doesn’t need one. Clarissa’s home becomes a space for the feminine, for the unplanned and unstructured, as well as the sensuous. When she sees Sally, they were “all on top of each other, embarrassed, laughing, words tumbled out” (171). It is a greeting of intimacy and joy. Sally acknowledges their connection despite distance, asking, “did absence matter? did distance matter? . . .for people understand without things being said” (189). She shares Clarissa’s intuitive knowing, seeing with an inner eye, they feel in their body that the connection exists. As people enter her home, all Clarissa’s energies are towards making the evening one of sensual delights for her and her guests. The mingling of bodies, the noise of a discordant variety of voices, the eating of food, and the smell of flowers all work on the senses to bring the body to the fore, to bring her guests to a place of feeling. 99 99

Yet not all emotions are enjoyable, and it is evident that Clarissa experiences both the pleasant and unpleasant results of a plural existence and her myriad connections to those around her: Indeed, Clarissa felt . . .with Sally there and Peter there and Richard very pleased . . .she had felt that intoxication of the moment, that dilatation of the nerves of the heart itself till it seemed to quiver, steeped, upright . . .still these semblances, these triumphs . . .had a hollowness . . .suddenly . . .brought back Kilman with a rush; Kilman her enemy. That was satisfying; that was real . . .She hated her: she loved her. (174-75) Clarissa doesn’t close off pain for the sake of pleasure. Here she can be sensuous and multiplicitous. Her plurality is expressed in her inconsistencies, how she loves everyone, yet hates Miss Kilman, then comes to realize she hates her because she loves her. The tension her plurality produces is evident throughout the party, yet the physicality and the diversity of the experiences are satisfying to her. Clarissa believes it will be a failure when Peter enters, beginning to criticize herself, defend herself, because Peter doesn’t know anyone. She continues to worry and dread until Richard and Peter are together, two men she loves in connection with each other resolving her turmoil. As Sally enters, she is struck by her presence, yet recognizes a sense of depletion because she isn’t moved physically by her like when she was younger. For Clarissa, a room full of people is a place of turmoil as well as delicious excitement. Logic dictates to choose pleasure is to omit pain, but Clarissa chooses one and accepts the other. She maintains connections, nurtures them by her philosophy, reaches out with her soul, a private finger to touch those around her. Each sees validation for themselves, and with it, a potential reflection of the maternal. 100 100

And what does she say to people? “How delightful to see you again!” She says it over and over, sounding insincere to Peter, having only one sentence she employs, but there is so much underneath, in the silence of what she doesn’t say. She cannot be together with Sally, be together with the feminine completely, but in her refusal to deny herself, brings people to each other and to her. In this way, the abject finds a way to exist within Clarissa’s external world, her party a connection to life and thus to the maternal. Fire becomes her term to use about her soul or the abject, “Why seek pinnacles and stand drenched in fire? Might it consume her anyhow! Burn her to cinders! Better anything, better brandish one’s torch and hurl it to earth than taper and dwindle away like some Ellie Henderson!” (167-68). Ellie Henderson is Clarissa’s cousin who Clarissa describes as “weaponless” earlier in the novel because she cannot earn a living for herself, is not independent. This elucidates Clarissa’s need to be autonomous, a quality intrinsically connected to her most intimate desires being “brandished.” She accepts the abject, accepts her internal dictates, and her parties serve to foster a connection to them. Specifically looking at Clarissa’s connection to a maternal figure, this connection is made in a literal sense during her party. Throughout the novel, Clarissa’s father is mentioned several times in conjunction with memories of Bourton, but not her mother. During the party, however, Clarissa is likened to her mother, evoking a sense of connection that makes “Clarissa’s eyes fill with tears. Her mother, walking in a garden!” (176). The abject is welcome and, with it, the pain. In the course of her party, she moves from person to person receiving fulfillment and validation. Clarissa’s discovery of Septimus’s death and her way of coping with it is a critical moment within the climactic event of her party, generating a circular 101 101 enfolding of experience. Sir William, Septimus’s doctor, speaks to Richard, and the sight of them together makes Clarissa “curl up” and she thinks, “one wouldn’t like Sir William to see one unhappy. No, not that man” (182). When his wife, Mrs. Bradshaw tells Clarissa that a patient died, Clarissa reacts in alarm, thinking, “in the middle of my party, here’s death” (183). In the crush of her polyamory, she isolates herself in the library. As Helen within Tenant retreats to solitude, so Clarissa moves to resolve her confrontation with death at her party. Using the image of fire again, Septimus’s death connects to the abject and to Clarissa: Always her body went through it first . . .her dress flamed, her body burnt. He had thrown himself from a window. Up had flashed the ground; through him, blundering, bruising, went the rusty spikes. There he lay with a thud, thud, thud in his brain, and then a suffocation of blackness. So she saw it. (184) The reader is given more visual details from Clarissa’s perspective than when Septimus actually kills himself earlier in the text. Her vivid experience demonstrates the strength of her connection, but also her willingness to face the abject, her body knowing it more than her mind. It is here she recalls Richard reading The Times and notes his influence in her ability to remain sane. As she faces “an awful fear,” she also thinks of her time at Bourton when she was loved by many. Her life, which functions in a fluid state of tension between oppositional realities, makes her confrontation with death become infused with life. “But this young man who had killed himself -- had he plunged holding his treasure? ‘If it were now to die, ‘twere now to be most happy,’ she had said to herself once, coming down in white” (184). Ultimately, Clarissa faces the abject and makes a connection to life and her plurality as a means of coping. In her gratitude to Richard, she doesn’t reject the phallocratic 102 102 order or patriarchy, but accepts him as a structure that prevents her insanity. “It was due to Richard; she had never been so happy” (185). Language and the male body act as a boundary for her so that she isn’t swept off into the abject without hope of return. She requires an anchor to return to. The maternal body pleasurable, a patriarchal, symbolic structure necessary, both living together rather than a dismissal of one. There is no preference, just a need to coexist. She is alarmed at death and turns it around to celebrate life. Clarissa, in order to manage her plurality, must have a focus which is two- spirited. She must have both an outward and inward gaze, accepting society and herself as oppositional cohabitants of public space. As she moves towards a fuller expression of self, she must find a way to manage them simultaneously, allowing for a fluid sense of identity that permits her to function within an ever changing creative process of the spiritual quest where “human beings continually remake themselves” (Torrance 57). Clarissa rejects Peter, who would “stifle her soul” in a way that Sally believes Richard will do, while Richard, by his lack of passion and seeming indifference, actually grants her the space to mentally, if not physically, nurture a love of the feminine. Clarissa utilizes the structure of her married life to grant her a sense of solidity. The feminine is seen as chaotic, emotions and fluidity oppositional to the masculine, yet Richard provides the boundaries within which she can be free. In this she manages the oppositional nature of desires out of conformity with social demands. Clarissa accepts Richard as her mask, taking on pieces of her gender role to allow her a bit of license but also maintain a role in society. She is everywhere—she is both traditional and not. She navigates a fine line. She has given up Peter and Sally to allow security. When Richard decides to give her flowers, he symbolically confirms his love for her as his wife, and as a 103 103 woman. He cannot speak the words, trusts they understand each other in a place of the semiotic. The flowers themselves touch Clarissa. The inner workings of a person is referred to as “the soul” within Mrs. Dalloway, and to Clarissa, and thus to Woolf, it is the soul which is private, which is sacred. Clarissa thinks of Miss Kilman as “one of those spectres who stand astride us and suck up half our life-blood” (12), driven by religious fervor which propels judgment and thus conformity. Later, as Clarissa thinks again of Miss Kilman, she says, “love and religion would destroy that, whatever it was, the privacy of the soul” (126). Ironically, Woolf must give her reader a glimpse into her character’s private world in order to propel her own hope towards preserving the soul.

CHAPTER 5: A NEW BEGINNING

Within this study, I’m particularly interested in feminine expression as an alternative to patriarchal, linear modes, specifically the way these alternative forms facilitate transformative effects for the individual. This becomes evident as texts, written by women and about women, are examined, which may or may not touch on spirituality specifically, are placed in conversation with the feminist theories of Luce Irigaray and her feminine discourse model; Julia Kristeva’s abject as discussed by Anne Marie Smith; as well as anthropological theories of Arnold van Gennep and his study of rites of passage, and Victor Turner’s elaboration of Gennep’s state of liminality. These work together to form a foundation by which I explore subjective forms of agency: those actions that are consciously performed which promote a unique sense of identity for women, and the social implications of those actions. Gloria Anzaldúa’s writing pushes the theories I’ve used to a new end, that of alliance building, also known as “bridge methodology.” Her voice naturally pushes us from an idea of fixed categories and into an amorphous space that serves to build relationships. Anzaldúa describes herself as a “tejana patlache (queer) nepantlera spiritual activist” (602) within her anthology this bridge we call home: radical visions for transformation. She uses the term nepantlera to indicate her position as mediator between individuals or groups. She does not italicize non- English words, but consciously chooses to blend Spanish, Native-American, and English in her sentences as an act of agency, refusing to prefer one over the other through signaling difference. Nepantlera is a liminal position, in-between, one she likens to being a bridge for others to cross. Additionally, she uses the term conocimiento to refer to spiritual knowledge, an essential element within her role 105 105 as a nepantlera, inseparable from her ability to reside in this space successfully. Her writing sets forth a model which emulates and complicates the theories of feminine discourse (Irigaray 1985), rites of passage (Gennep 1975), as well as demonstrates one possible means (that of being nepantla and utilizing conocimiento) towards acceptance of both commonalities and differences, the individual and society, and models interconnectedness that extends beyond patterns of linearity and dominance. Thus, an examination of her theory uncovers a deeper understanding of alliances and raises questions around feminine discourse’s role in bridge building, as well as the cost incurred to the individual as a result of their simultaneity. Being able to exclude those aspects which are undesirable to society, to hide them from ourselves and others, provides a sense of safety and security – of acceptance by others, or an illusion of perfection. Simultaneity, as has already been demonstrated, is to accept both the favorable and the undesirable. Anzaldúa’s bridge methodology is best explored by focusing on her essay, “now let us shift . . . the path of conocimiento . . . inner work, public acts”, written in 2002, which is the last essay included in the aforementioned anthology. This piece is one of her latter works, written before her death in 2004, and represents her understanding of nepantla in a way which is elaborated on more fully than in her earlier work. In this essay, she articulates a call for conocimiento, or spiritual knowledge, which: comes from opening all your senses . . . Breaking out of your mental and emotional prison and deepening the range of perception [and] enables you to link inner reflection and vision—the mental, emotional, instinctive, imaginal, spiritual, and subtle bodily 106 106

awareness—with social, political action and lived experiences to generate subversive knowledges. (542) At a point in her life after having spoken at various universities, including Yale and Stanford, but still without her PhD from University of California, Santa Cruz, she writes an essay which intermingles personal narrative, spiritual practice, and theoretical concerns in an attempt to allow others to cross a bridge to greater tolerance via increased understanding. As such, this essay serves as a witness to her own role as nepantlera: her simultaneity, subversiveness, and liminal existence. Looking specifically at the nepantla state, Anzaldúa claims it is necessary to create a bridge for others, because it is here that both sides are visible to the nepantlera. In a position of ambiguity, because of the lack of certainty, it is easier to remain open to other points of view: In a to-and-fro motion they shift from their customary position to the reality of first one group then the other. Though tempted to retreat behind racial lines and hide behind simplistic walls of identity, las nepantleras know their work lies in positioning themselves— exposed and raw—in the crack between worlds, and in revealing current categories as unworkable. Saben que las heridas that separate and those that bond arise from the same source. (567) Therefore, to be a bridge is a liminal position, one requiring fluidity. This directly ties to feminine discourse as simultaneous and works against labeling. Irigaray, within her work This Sex Which is Not One, posits that phallocratic law is directed by a gaze ever turned outward, which leads to goal- orientated, dominant, objectifying patterns. Within language, this is seen in the need to label, to categorize and compartmentalize. Irigaray writes, “this 107 107 domination of the philosophic logos stems in large part from its power to reduce all others to the economy of the Same” (74), something that feminine expression works against, as “[woman’s desire] really involves a different economy more than anything else, one that upsets the linearity of a project, undermines the goal- object of a desire, diffuses the polarization toward a single pleasure, disconcerts fidelity to a single discourse” (29-30). Ironically, and it must be said, Irigaray is guilty of generating categories, drawing lines, and utilizing labels as she separates feminine from masculine discourse. In the necessary use of language, I include myself with Irigaray and others, who struggle to generate ideas with permeable categories. However, putting various theory in conversation with each other builds a theoretical bridge, a means to cross over to a deeper understanding, in this case, of feminine discourse as facilitating alliance. Rather than regard her theory as essentialist, I rely on her concept of simultaneity as a means of showing an alternative, while still remaining confined within patriarchal forms of communication (an expository essay). In the concept of simultaneity, neither is preferred, as both can exist together. It is the coexistence of opposites, the movement to and fro, that is a pattern that demonstrates how people of difference might find common ground, which is often in the middle, on the bridge. As the bridge itself creates transformation, other-consciousness becomes more incorporated into identity and available for the person who acts as a bridge. Those who cross over have the benefit of assistance, but may not have the transformative effects to a similar degree. However, having crossed, the hope is they might better facilitate crossing for someone else. Significantly, this study is inherently cross-cultural, using the writing of a woman-of-color, theories outside of American perspectives (at times male), examined by myself (a white woman), written linearly to meet a patriarchal 108 108 university standard. Thus, my examination furthers a new tradition of incorporation, albeit limited, including a feminine discourse and alternatives without a need for dominance, preferring instead a peaceful coexistence of oppositional or differential states of being, creating a potential consciousness of Other. In this conclusion, I hope to engage my subject so as to make visible the nepantla, mestiza, conocimiento state, the simultaneity of performance modes via Irigaray’s discourse model, and their combined role in bridge methodology to increase awareness of the significance of alliances in terms of experience, agency, and mutual understanding. Anzaldúa’s self-created labels, her mestiza consciousness (one of blended cultures), works to construct agency and subvert her objectification. Simultaneity is present in the body/spirit connection, and in work in the collaborative elements, but it is expressed naturally, obviously, in language. Through her writing of herself and her experience, she creates potentially alternative and subversive social scripts for others who read her work: From the in-between place of nepantla, you see through the fiction of monoculture, the myth of the superiority of the white races. And eventually you begin seeing through your ethnic culture’s myth of the inferiority of mujeres . . . You begin to see race as an experience of reality from a particular perspective and a specific time and place (history), not as a fixed feature of personality or identity. (549) In this way, her mestiza consciousness, expands outward to create community, which she terms new tribalism. Not only she, but others, are able to employ the term mestiza, as demonstrated by Veena Balsawer and Rebecca Feng Xiaolin, who use the term mestiza to discuss Canadian immigrants and their struggles with complicated, hyphenated identities in their essay, “Hoping for and Against Hope: 109 109

Lived Experiences of Hyphenated Dislocated Identities.” New tribalism is the act of dismantling the labels that are assigned to a person and choosing one’s own affiliations and loyalties, an act that is concurrently inclusive and exclusive, as alliances are made and new connections are fostered, and old, dysfunctional realities are sloughed off. While the theory of Gennep indicates that aggregation is the final stage of a rite of passage, Anzaldúa complicates this by demonstrating that her liminal state, nepantla, is ultimately more beneficial to society. “Living in nepantla, the overlapping space between different perceptions and belief systems, you are aware of the changeability of racial, gender, sexual, and other categories rendering the conventional labelings obsolete” (541). In the process of aggregation, society once again is solid and affixes labels and categories to identity. Napantla, however, is a continual state of flux and change, which renders the nepantlera open to affective relationships and transformation. As our society is currently reluctant to maintain this on a large scale, nepantla is one means towards change. Anzaldúa makes it clear we must first reconcile ourselves to our own differences, then we can reconcile ourselves to difference in a collective body. If the goal is tolerance, then aggregation is counter-productive, imposing a finality and rigidness that resists change, therefore unaccommodating to fluid differential realities. However, the state of nepantla, while preferable, has a cost. “Exposed, naked, disoriented, wounded, uncertain, confused, and conflicted, you’re forced to live en la orilla—a razor-sharp edge that fragments you.” (547). The limin, in its ambiguity, works to separate a person into aspects of self which continually shift. The process of aggregation, a return to dominant culture and acceptance of socially prescribed roles and scripts, may require some of those fragments be left behind. As a result of Anzaldúa’s determination to retain all of her identity, to see 110 110 herself as multiplicitous, she endures marginalization by the outsider’s gaze. She will not become only woman, because this erases her color and she perceives white women as belonging to the world of white men. The cost of leaving a nepantlera state, of crossing to the other side is to accept an incomplete self (546). She states, “Once crossed, it can’t be uncrossed . . . You’ll have to leave parts of yourself behind” (557). With change and the acceptance of a liminal identity, the nepantlera is forced to confront the gap between reality and fantasy continually. When faced with new knowledge, with the truth, we must abandon fantasies that we use to shield ourselves from the pain of reality. The fact that Anzaldúa has found “home” in the middle ground further complicates Gennep by turning a three step process into seven, which can happen simultaneously and unsynchronistically. These steps are as follows: 1) crisis, 2) nepantla (liminal), 3) Coatlicue (despair and self-loathing), 4) a call to action, 5) arrange understanding into a pattern which articulates reality as you understand it, 6) share this with others, and 7) transformation through holistic alliance (543-545). Throughout this process, however, napantla occurs most often, as a space between each step. Gennep makes it clear his stages are moved through always “synchronically and in succession” (Gennep 189), clearly marked and separate. Anzaldúa blurs the lines of boundary, mashes them together and makes them able to occur simultaneously, as a person may be transforming in multiple ways, incorporating multiple realities, fluid in identity and time. For her, alliance is part of the process and complicates Gennep’s stage of aggregation to be a “holistic” one that involves both the bridging person and the social construction that determines the opposing connections of the bridge. In other words, the person who works as a bridge has some agency in the movement of society, laying themselves down between a chosen difference, displaying a fully 111 111 personal reality that incorporates a snapshot of wholeness in the moment before folding into another crisis of identity. To her, remaining on the bridge is bridge work. One crosses over and goes back, spending most of the time in transition. Its liminality is evident in the fact that one must remain open to emotions while also distant, not over run, remaining in a neutral stance. To better exist between spaces, simultaneity is intrinsically a part of alliances, not the completion, or goal, of crossing over. It is the middle space we must learn to call “home.” The “success” of bridging is in the agency, the choices, the control, that reaffirms identity and alliance as written in the sand, not stone. This builds on Irigaray’s notion of identity, as she writes, “[Woman’s] Nearness so pronounced that is makes all discrimination of identity, and thus all forms of property, impossible. Woman derives pleasure from what is so near that she cannot have it, nor have herself. She herself enters into a ceaseless exchange of herself with the other without any possibility of identifying either” (Irigaray 31). Anzaldua’s nepantla state is one example of Irigaray’s theoretical claim, as it is here that labels fail to maintain any permanence. Returning to spiritual knowledge in this process, Anzaldúa believes alliances are facilitated by the incorporation of conocimiento. Many assume a successful resolution of identity is a sense of peace, yet it would seem that Anzaldúa, in her positing of nepantla, sees this as a problem, that the real success is found in fluidity—in perpetual transformation. To remain in transformation, however, is to remain in places of pain. This pain is seen as both a trigger for compassion, but potentially as a source of victimization. Conocimiento is the way to turn the pain into a “conduit to recognizing another’s suffering, even that of the one who inflicted the pain” (572). This is because conocimiento is the source of “hope, purpose, and identity” (573). 112 112

Equally significant, conocimiento is seen as a way to confront a Western system of thought. Her incorporation of the spiritual is inseparable from her writing, often done and presented to academic audiences, which subverts discourse prevalent within the university: You attribute this shift to the feminization of knowledge, one beyond the subject-object divide, a way of knowing and acting on ese saber you call conocimiento. Skeptical of reason and rationality, conocimiento questions conventional knowledge’s current categories, classifications, and contents. (541) Anzaldúa subverts dominant discourse by her simultaneity, her choice to remain in a liminal space, and by her incorporation of the spiritual into a rational academic world. Her fluid identity allows her to widen the borders and unlock the cage of identity (558). For her, a permeable and changeable identity equals freedom. Feminine expression, her mestiza consciousness as fluid, layered, and simultaneous, is the napantla of bridge existence: By using information derived from multiple channels and different systems of knowing you collectively create new societies. Together you attempt to reverse the Cartesian split that turned the world into an “other,” distancing humans from it. Though your body is still la otra and though pensamientos dualisticos still keep you from embracing and uniting corporeally con esa otra, you dream of the possibility of wholeness. (562) The notion of a spiritual quest is still relevant today and theory is useful for its exploration. However, bridge methodology pushes theory to become less individualistic and more focused on communal implications. To work towards an 113 113 alliance is to foster simultaneous understandings and move towards coexistence, including the acceptance of differences. In order for alliances to work, tolerance for ambiguity must be continually present, not just for women, but for women-of-color, for men of multiple identities, for everyone due to a shifting existence we manage in our postmodern world. While we have increasingly complex understandings of identity and expression which propels a resistance to the black / white binary, elements of bridge methodology can be troubling, particularly the vulnerability of affective relationships, the emotional pushing in and navigating we must exercise. One thing that seems to arise out of an examination of feminine discourse is that alliances seem a natural outcome of simultaneity. Unlike phallocratic patterns, tangents are encouraged. Repression becomes nearly impossible as all aspects must be taken into account. Audience and transmission are lesser priorities than to be true to the self, which is a potential pitfall of simultaneity, yet its embrace of otherness actually works as a check/balance to itself. Freud’s work claims the ego prevents socialization as total selfishness makes compromise challenging. Yet a paradox exists in the affective element of alliances as it recognizes that vulnerability equals potential pain, but to guard against it, to protect the ego, is counter-productive. So while a turning inward has deep shades of narcissism and reminds us of Freudian warnings, the infinite self-embrace forces an acceptance of our fluid nature and fickle identity constructs making phallocratic logic shatter as an illusion of unrealizable stability. The patriarchal order is called into question by feminist theories, but the addition of Gloria Anzaldúa uniquely complicates the idea of liminality and a rite of passage because she posits the nepantla state as a means towards alliance, which inherently involves conocimiento, spiritual knowledge. While her bridge 114 114 methodology involves service, it also empowers Anzaldúa as a subversive voice within patriarchal power structures and propels a method to positively affect the equality that has long been the hope of individuals. The significance is inherent in the conversation, but to be clear, it would seem that a paradoxical, fluid brand of scholarship works to create better adjustment and relational bonds than the assumed solidity of unchangeable determinants and labels. Like flexible foundations that can adjust during earthquakes, an all-encompassing coexistence works better than one in cement which cracks and crumbles under stress, the strength of fluidity coming from the multiplicitous voices involved. I believe that which is rendered invisible is often perceived as neutral. In other words, we focus on and make visible those ideas and practices that somehow call our attention, those that beg an affective response. As Lily S. Mendoza, Rona T. Halualani, and Jolanta A. Drzewiecka state in “Moving the Discourse on Identities in Intercultural Communication: Structure, Culture, and Resignifications,” “How is identity multilayered in terms of both the visible and the invisible, or rather, communication practices and rhetorical expressions of identity and power dimension, structural constraints and constructions, and historical limits that frame identity?” (314). Within a postmodern world, questioning is imperative, transformation eternal. What was assumed must be reexamined in order to recognize its harmfulness or its helpfulness. To bring the theories of Irigaray, Gennep, and Anzaldúa together, while seemingly in conflict at times, actually works to layer truth and permeate notions of indisputable fact. Each individual’s perception has elements of reality and fantasy, but change arises out of what can be imagined, out of creative spaces of the limin, which are available to those in threshold identities and occupations.

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