Celebrating Virginia Woolf’s Birthday!

This week brings us a wonderful celebration of Virginia Woolf’s birthday.

Nobody writes like that anymore — wonderful. One of my first reads of 2010 was Mrs. Dalloway. I wanted to read it because of it’s prominent influence on The Hours. As a writer, I read it with an eye toward the craft. It was fascinating to read an omniscient narrative. Contemporary style shuns head-hopping but Virginia Woolf delved into so many characters’ views, here. I really enjoyed the experience of learning about Clarissa Dalloway through all of the characters she encountered during the day of her party.

Clarissa Dalloway, the quintessential party-thrower is the perfect character to show a glimpse of in celebration of Virginia Woolf’s birthday. Here’s an excerpt.

“Hullo Elizabeth!” cried Peter, stuffing his handkerchief in his pocket, going quickly to her, saying “Goodbye, Clarissa” without looking at her, leaving the room quickly, running downstairs, and opening the hall door.

“Peter, Peter!” cried Clarissa, following him out onto the landing. “My party to-night! Remember my party to-night!” she cried, having to raise her voice against the roar of the open air, and overwhelmed by the traffic and the sound of all the clocks striking, her voice crying “Remember my party to-night!” sounded frail and thin and very far away as Peter shut the door.

Remember my party. Remember my party, said Peter Walsh as he stepped down the street, speaking to himself rhythmically, in time with the flow of the sound, the direct downright sound of Big Ben striking the half-hour. (The leaden circles dissolved in the air.) Oh these parties, he thought; Clarissa’s parties. Why does she give these parties, he thought. Not that he blamed her or this effigy of a man in a tail-coat with a carnation in his button-hole coming towards him. Only one person in the world could be as he was, in love. And there he was, this fortunate man, himself, reflected in the plate-glass window of a motor-car manufacturer in Victoria Street. All India lay behind him; plains, mountains; epidemics of cholera; a district twice as big as Ireland; decisions he had come to alone—he, Peter Walsh; who was now really for the first time in his life, in love. Clarissa had grown hard, he thought; and a trifle sentimental into the bargain, he suspected, looking at the great motor-cars capable of dowing—how many miles on how many gallons? For he had a turn for mechanics; had invented a plough in his district, had ordered wheel-barrows from England, but the coolies wouldn’t use them, all of which Clarissa knew nothing whatever about.

The way she said “Here is my Elizabeth!”—that annoyed him. Why not “Here’s Elizabeth” simply? It was insincere. And Elizabeth didn’t like it either. (Still the last tremors of the great booming voice shook the air round him; the half-hour; still early; only half-past eleven still.) For he understood young people; he liked them. There was always something cold in Clarissa, he thought. She had always, even as a girl, a sort of timidity, which in middle age becomes conventionality, and then it’s all up, it’s all up, he thought, looking rather drearily into the glassy depths, and wondering whether by calling at that hour he had annoyed her; overcome with shame suddenly at having been a fool; wept; been emotional; told her everything, as usual, as usual.” Excerpt, Mrs. Dalloway by Virginia Woolf

I hope you enjoyed this celebration of the life and beautiful writing of one of the masters of them all, Virginia Woolf.

Best to you,
Lisa Lipkind Leibow
Author of Smart Women’s Fiction
www.LLLeibow.com

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