After learning a great deal about the radical leaders in England’s suffrage movement, Emmeline, Christabel, and Sylvia Pankhurst (as my main focal point), I was taken aback by the occurrences, such as arson and window breaking versus brute force and force feeding, respectively, committed by both sides—suffragettes versus government officials. I realized that the Pankhursts and several other women were impatient in getting their vote and, moreover, being treated as equals to their male counterparts, so suffrage tactics needed to change in order to gain attention. I further realize if the suffragettes did not take such action that lead to a chain of events, such as Black Friday, they may have waited longer than they had to obtain the vote (somewhat) in 1918. What would have happened if the suffragists continued to solely distribute pamphlets to support the suffrage cause?
I guess what I’m getting at is the differing literary approach that was taken by the Bloomsbury group (with a focus on the Woolves and Forster) as they take a much less physical approach to fighting for women’s rights and, above all, human rights. I only ponder the difference because of questions that I left with last week. As I learned where Virginia Woolf fit into the suffrage movement—“doing office chores” (Gilbert and Gubar, Norton Anthology: Literature by Women 1316) and host[ing] meetings “in her home” (Chapman and Manson 60)—I wondered why she wasn’t a more radical participant. This week’s readings served as a reminder and also shed a little more light to aid in my better understanding.
I believe, for the same reason Virginia Woolf appreciated Jane Austen as a writer over Charlotte Bronte, she preferred a less radical (less emotional) suffrage group, the Women’s Cooperative Guild. We discussed in class regarding Woolf’s interpretation of Austen as she wrote as an observer. Austen did not allow irrational emotion to interfere with the meaning she intended whereas Bronte did. This weakened her literary conveyances and art as a whole. Austen was a Classicist, and Bronte was a Romantic in terms of aesthetic rules. In making this parallel, I suggest that if the suffragettes were literary artists, they would be deemed Romantics. Further if suffragists were also literary artists, they would be Classicists. This being said, I do realize that I have taken suffragettes and suffragists out of context because they are not literary artists and, therefore, cannot be analyzed in accordance with aesthetic rules. Yet, I can’t help trying to make sense out of it in this way based on one of the initial questions in Sara Blair’s essay: “How does aesthetic activity categorized as modernist stand in relation to forms of power” (157). I refer to Wayne K. Chapman and Janet M. Manson’s article to come up with a more definitive answer.
[Virginia Woolf] may have seemed to her husband, on late reflection and relative to his career as an advisor to statesman, ‘the least political animal…since Aristotle invented the definition,’ but she was not, as he added, ‘a frail invalidish lady living in an ivory tower…and worshipped by a little clique of aethetes’ (Downhill 27). The roots of A Room of One’s Own and Three Guineas, went back to a tradition of pamphleteering and to Labour party and Co-operative Movement activities in which both were engaged during and after World War I (Chapman and Manson 59-60).
Woolf was influential in her husband’s work in addition to taking on her own. It was her writing and Leonard’s writing that spoke out to people on all levels. They crafted their political convictions through their literary art. Through their use of allusion and metaphor, they deliver a political message. We see this in Leonard Woolf’s “Fear and Politics” as he uses alludes to certain leaders as zoo animals. They maintained a (peaceful, yet poignant) political platform through written conveyance—something more than a simple article that appealed directly to the people and asked them to join their cause. I think we see this poignant appeal in Woolf’s “Thoughts on Peace in an Air Raid” as she goes from German’s flying over her house at night “with a gas-mask handy” to “send[ing] fragmentary notes to huntsmen.”
E.M. Forster also seemed to take a similar stance to Woolf in his essay “What I Believe” when he professes that he “do[es] not believe in Belief” (165). Instead, he abides by Montaigne and Erasmus and seems to follow similar threads in his essay when compared with Montaigne’s “Of the Useful and the Honourable.” I won’t go into the comparison, but what I do find useful is Montaigne’s introductory quote by Terrence, “No one is exempt from saying silly things. The misfortune is to say them with earnest effort” (Frame 599). I believe Forster addresses this on page 169: “…the evidence of history shows us that men have always insisted on behaving creatively under the shadow of the sword; that they have done their artistic and scientific and domestic stuff for the sake of doing it, and that we had better follow their example under the shadow of aeroplanes.” Forster doesn’t see much change from those who have come before him. He’s read it from Montaigne’s perspective and adapts it to fit his own, which doesn’t seem much different. Unfortunately, I don’t think Forster had an optimistic view, but he certainly seemed to maintain that violence wasn’t resolving anything for humankind.
I want to conclude with this final thought: it is not my intent to portray Virginia Woolf as lacking an emotional attachment to political actions taking place during her lifetime. I realize that the thought of war taking her life in addition to those around her has been stated/implied several times throughout the course of the semester. She simply seems to convey her position with such strength that one would think she would display some sort of irrational emotion as she wrote about women's rights and the war. On a slightly different note, perhaps her androgynous shift at the end of A Room of One’s Own is simply meant for her reader to pause and consider not only the women’s cause but humankind’s cause?
Monday, March 31, 2008
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
Austen and Bronte in the Room
I had read an exerpt from a “A Room of One’s Own” several years ago, and it interested me and continues to interest me even more now. It focused on Virginia Woolf’s character, Judith or Shakespeare’s sister, who could never be given the opportunity that her brother had. She could have equal intelligence and talent, but no one would ever discover this. “To have lived a free life in London in the sixteenth century would have meant for a woman who was poet and playwright a nervous stress and dilemma which might well have killed her” (50). I think this still rang true for women in later centuries. However, there were some, despite the depressed conditions of women writers, who were seemingly less affected and, therefore, admired by Woolf.
The author of her essay (in addition to several of her other essays) pointedly acknowledges her fondness and admiration for Jane Austen in the fourth chapter. She also pays respects to Charlotte Bronte—just not as wholly. Although the two authors stemmed from similar conditions, both writing within their nineteenth century confines, they wrote differently. She states, “…all the literary training that a woman had in the early nineteenth century was training in the observation of character, in the analysis of emotion” (67). Austen prevails over Bronte because how their ultimate truths through fiction were depicted. Austen had to “hid[e] her manuscripts or cover them with a piece of blotting paper,” yet her “circumstances were not “harmed in the slightest” (67-8). Woolf parallels Austen to Shakespeare. Austen was able to convey, clearly, human truths based on her observations without intertwining the irrationalities of emotion. I believe Woolf felt that if one mixes her personal emotions into her work, it will be discredited. “She will write foolishly where she should write wisely. She will write of herself where she should write of her characters” (69-70). This is the very problem that she has with Charlotte Bronte.
Bronte was not rational; she acted impulsively and seemingly incorporated too much of herself into her writings. “In other words, we read Charlotte Bronte not for exquisite observation of character—her characters are vigorous and elementary; not for comedy—hers is grim and crude; not for a philosophic view of life—hers is that of a country parson’s daughter…” (Gilbert and Gubar 1330). She failed to separate her emotions to convey a sense of truth to her reader. She contends that Villette is Bronte’s “finest novel,” which connotes her respect for Bronte. I have to wonder, however, if Woolf knew that Bronte’s ending was altered because of her father’s wishes—regardless of her own wants. “Mr. Bronte was anxious that her new tale should end well, as he disliked novels which left a melancholy impression upon the mind; and he requested her to make her hero and heroine (like the heroes and heroines in fairy-tales) ‘marry, and live happily ever after’ (Bronte 538). Bronte, it seems, was easily influenced and affected, which made her a better (romantic) poet than writer in Woolf’s opinion.
Although this was not included in her essay, Woolf was not alone in her opinions of Austen. One of her Bloomsbury male counterparts also held Austen in high regard—E.M. Forster. I bring this up because of some of the assertions Forster was included in Jane Marcus’ “Sapphistry: Narration as Lesbian Seduction.” She contends that “E.M. Forster, Lytton Strachey, Goldsworthy Lowes Dickinson, and their friends were misogynist in their lives as well as in their writing. Virginia Woolf, already exacerbated by her own sense of sexual difference was, I think, confused and disturbed by the woman-hating of her male homosexual friends….” (177). I am certain that there is truth to Forster’s misogynistic tendencies based solely on his preference for men, but Austen was influential in his writing. If he hated her, he would be either hypocritical or unconscious of his writing behaviors. He admits fully that he enjoys Austen’s humor. He even refers to himself as a “Jane Austenite” in a review published in 1924. He further explains in the same publication that he has “read and re-read” Jane Austen. He hasn’t done this in an attempt to deconstruct and destroy Austen as a woman writer. If anything, I believe he connects with her points of view on human nature and common observations—despite the 100-plus year difference. Possibly, we can see Forster just as much of a manx cat as any of the women—not that he lacks the “tail,” but he is different from his male heterosexual or bisexual Bloomsbury companions. He is an outsider on the Isle of (hetero)Man. Just as much as Austen had to hide her manuscripts from a busy room, I believe Forster had to hide his sexual preference from a busy hetero-man driven world.
To end, I believe there was an unforeseen foreshadowing to Woolf’s statement concerning Judith in relation to the author’s own life. Although she wrote as more in Austen’s steady and effective likeness versus an emoting Bronte, her society and emotional mentality created the “stress and dilemma” which led to her untimely death. I wonder how she would feel about the progress that has been made in the literary world today.
The author of her essay (in addition to several of her other essays) pointedly acknowledges her fondness and admiration for Jane Austen in the fourth chapter. She also pays respects to Charlotte Bronte—just not as wholly. Although the two authors stemmed from similar conditions, both writing within their nineteenth century confines, they wrote differently. She states, “…all the literary training that a woman had in the early nineteenth century was training in the observation of character, in the analysis of emotion” (67). Austen prevails over Bronte because how their ultimate truths through fiction were depicted. Austen had to “hid[e] her manuscripts or cover them with a piece of blotting paper,” yet her “circumstances were not “harmed in the slightest” (67-8). Woolf parallels Austen to Shakespeare. Austen was able to convey, clearly, human truths based on her observations without intertwining the irrationalities of emotion. I believe Woolf felt that if one mixes her personal emotions into her work, it will be discredited. “She will write foolishly where she should write wisely. She will write of herself where she should write of her characters” (69-70). This is the very problem that she has with Charlotte Bronte.
Bronte was not rational; she acted impulsively and seemingly incorporated too much of herself into her writings. “In other words, we read Charlotte Bronte not for exquisite observation of character—her characters are vigorous and elementary; not for comedy—hers is grim and crude; not for a philosophic view of life—hers is that of a country parson’s daughter…” (Gilbert and Gubar 1330). She failed to separate her emotions to convey a sense of truth to her reader. She contends that Villette is Bronte’s “finest novel,” which connotes her respect for Bronte. I have to wonder, however, if Woolf knew that Bronte’s ending was altered because of her father’s wishes—regardless of her own wants. “Mr. Bronte was anxious that her new tale should end well, as he disliked novels which left a melancholy impression upon the mind; and he requested her to make her hero and heroine (like the heroes and heroines in fairy-tales) ‘marry, and live happily ever after’ (Bronte 538). Bronte, it seems, was easily influenced and affected, which made her a better (romantic) poet than writer in Woolf’s opinion.
Although this was not included in her essay, Woolf was not alone in her opinions of Austen. One of her Bloomsbury male counterparts also held Austen in high regard—E.M. Forster. I bring this up because of some of the assertions Forster was included in Jane Marcus’ “Sapphistry: Narration as Lesbian Seduction.” She contends that “E.M. Forster, Lytton Strachey, Goldsworthy Lowes Dickinson, and their friends were misogynist in their lives as well as in their writing. Virginia Woolf, already exacerbated by her own sense of sexual difference was, I think, confused and disturbed by the woman-hating of her male homosexual friends….” (177). I am certain that there is truth to Forster’s misogynistic tendencies based solely on his preference for men, but Austen was influential in his writing. If he hated her, he would be either hypocritical or unconscious of his writing behaviors. He admits fully that he enjoys Austen’s humor. He even refers to himself as a “Jane Austenite” in a review published in 1924. He further explains in the same publication that he has “read and re-read” Jane Austen. He hasn’t done this in an attempt to deconstruct and destroy Austen as a woman writer. If anything, I believe he connects with her points of view on human nature and common observations—despite the 100-plus year difference. Possibly, we can see Forster just as much of a manx cat as any of the women—not that he lacks the “tail,” but he is different from his male heterosexual or bisexual Bloomsbury companions. He is an outsider on the Isle of (hetero)Man. Just as much as Austen had to hide her manuscripts from a busy room, I believe Forster had to hide his sexual preference from a busy hetero-man driven world.
To end, I believe there was an unforeseen foreshadowing to Woolf’s statement concerning Judith in relation to the author’s own life. Although she wrote as more in Austen’s steady and effective likeness versus an emoting Bronte, her society and emotional mentality created the “stress and dilemma” which led to her untimely death. I wonder how she would feel about the progress that has been made in the literary world today.
Monday, March 3, 2008
An Untitled Attempt at Understanding Eliot's Land
Again, I find myself searching for Eliot’s meaning. I do not think that I will find a parallel that works as smoothly as Emily Hale did for his “La Figlia che Piange.” I initially misinterpreted the meaning in that poem. I am certain I will do the same here, but I am going to try.
During my last two years of my undergraduate career, I found my way through Shakespeare's works, Erasmus’ Praise of Folly, Giovanni Boccaccio’s The Decameron, and a variety of other Renaissance related pieces. This is what I bring to the literary table when reading Eliot. As such, I can only attempt to relate to T.S. Eliot through what I have come to learn and somewhat understand. I am certainly not a Latin scholar and am not versed in an assortment of other languages. I am not the erudite reader; I confess. In turn, I read and re-read T.S. Eliot’s “The Waste Land” to find meaning. I further tried to find connections of Eliot through biographical links, but I found, in order to make these connections, one must weed through his great work of erudition. As I attempted to plow my way through Eliot’s plaguing masterpiece, I could not help but think that this scholar conveyed layers upon layers of meaning and could be playing with his readers as they attempted to unearth meaning beneath the literary strata—specifically his learned critics who would analyze his cryptic piece. Was he trying to dupe his fellow scholars by making them scrutinize not only his work but all the other works he placed within the lines of his own? Once again, I found myself turning to Lyndall Gordon’s biography of Eliot to answer this and other questions:
It was fashionable for long stretches of the twentieth century to read the poem as an intellectual game for scholars who could identify allusions. Lesser readers were to have access to it only through their guidebooks. Many erudite readers of Eliot’s century actually had no idea what the poem was about, while readers with any sort of religious background knew at once: they saw through the crust of erudition to the residue of timeless forms—sermon, soul history, confession—almost drowned out by the motor horns, pub talk, and the beguiling patter of a bogus medium, all that noise of wasted lives” (148-9).
Gordon’s assessment of past scholars made my thoughts validated, at least. Yet, I found comfort in knowing that Eliot’s elegy was not a game and held more value than to simply play with all of the concepts—literary and biographical—that he had come to know in his life. I, unfortunately, still find myself in need of a “guidebook” to find my way through Eliot’s 433 lines of searching through this poet’s land of life and death. I turn to both Philip R. Headings excerpt and, again, Gordon, to clarify any connection I might possibly make.
I turn to the second section of this piece, “A Game of Chess,” because of its seemingly biographical linking. I realize that there is a more allegorical thread to follow, and I will take the word of the more learned critics on this level. For now, however, (and as I am reading this poem for the first time) I will stick to a more biographical reading. Headings notes, “‘A Game of Chess,’ depicts the stunting effects of improperly directed love or of lust mistaken for love. In this section we see the pawns moving about in two games that end not in checkmate but in stalemate” (61). This section could seemingly portray the stale relationship that existed (and, eventually, ended) between Eliot and Vivien. “For a year and a half after Eliot’s marriage he felt as if he had dried up” (Gordon 157). It is further explained by Gordon that “Eliot’s most confessional fragments have to do with a mismatched couple…the wife is playing a scene in a love-drama while the husband is absorbed in a quite different, more sinister plot of life and death” (158). We hear the disenchanted discourse between a man and woman/husband and wife in lines 111-125 within this section of Eliot’s work. There is a further connection with the inability to have children in reference to line 164 when the question is posited: “What you get married for if you don’t want children” (10). Seemingly, this line could suggest that there is not a lack of desire for children but an inability to procreate—just as there is an inability to refresh the notion of (mismatched/mistaken) love between the man and woman viewed earlier within this section. It is also interesting to note, when examining the Gliederung as it refers to this section, that it begins with the upper class, finds its way into the middle class, and ends with the lower class—a digression and downward spiral of sorts.
This is solely my novice attempt to find meaning in Eliot’s fragmented journey through time and place, which seemingly discovers an answer and supersedes secular realities. Maybe I will find clarity in class and/or through other blog postings. I can only hope.
During my last two years of my undergraduate career, I found my way through Shakespeare's works, Erasmus’ Praise of Folly, Giovanni Boccaccio’s The Decameron, and a variety of other Renaissance related pieces. This is what I bring to the literary table when reading Eliot. As such, I can only attempt to relate to T.S. Eliot through what I have come to learn and somewhat understand. I am certainly not a Latin scholar and am not versed in an assortment of other languages. I am not the erudite reader; I confess. In turn, I read and re-read T.S. Eliot’s “The Waste Land” to find meaning. I further tried to find connections of Eliot through biographical links, but I found, in order to make these connections, one must weed through his great work of erudition. As I attempted to plow my way through Eliot’s plaguing masterpiece, I could not help but think that this scholar conveyed layers upon layers of meaning and could be playing with his readers as they attempted to unearth meaning beneath the literary strata—specifically his learned critics who would analyze his cryptic piece. Was he trying to dupe his fellow scholars by making them scrutinize not only his work but all the other works he placed within the lines of his own? Once again, I found myself turning to Lyndall Gordon’s biography of Eliot to answer this and other questions:
It was fashionable for long stretches of the twentieth century to read the poem as an intellectual game for scholars who could identify allusions. Lesser readers were to have access to it only through their guidebooks. Many erudite readers of Eliot’s century actually had no idea what the poem was about, while readers with any sort of religious background knew at once: they saw through the crust of erudition to the residue of timeless forms—sermon, soul history, confession—almost drowned out by the motor horns, pub talk, and the beguiling patter of a bogus medium, all that noise of wasted lives” (148-9).
Gordon’s assessment of past scholars made my thoughts validated, at least. Yet, I found comfort in knowing that Eliot’s elegy was not a game and held more value than to simply play with all of the concepts—literary and biographical—that he had come to know in his life. I, unfortunately, still find myself in need of a “guidebook” to find my way through Eliot’s 433 lines of searching through this poet’s land of life and death. I turn to both Philip R. Headings excerpt and, again, Gordon, to clarify any connection I might possibly make.
I turn to the second section of this piece, “A Game of Chess,” because of its seemingly biographical linking. I realize that there is a more allegorical thread to follow, and I will take the word of the more learned critics on this level. For now, however, (and as I am reading this poem for the first time) I will stick to a more biographical reading. Headings notes, “‘A Game of Chess,’ depicts the stunting effects of improperly directed love or of lust mistaken for love. In this section we see the pawns moving about in two games that end not in checkmate but in stalemate” (61). This section could seemingly portray the stale relationship that existed (and, eventually, ended) between Eliot and Vivien. “For a year and a half after Eliot’s marriage he felt as if he had dried up” (Gordon 157). It is further explained by Gordon that “Eliot’s most confessional fragments have to do with a mismatched couple…the wife is playing a scene in a love-drama while the husband is absorbed in a quite different, more sinister plot of life and death” (158). We hear the disenchanted discourse between a man and woman/husband and wife in lines 111-125 within this section of Eliot’s work. There is a further connection with the inability to have children in reference to line 164 when the question is posited: “What you get married for if you don’t want children” (10). Seemingly, this line could suggest that there is not a lack of desire for children but an inability to procreate—just as there is an inability to refresh the notion of (mismatched/mistaken) love between the man and woman viewed earlier within this section. It is also interesting to note, when examining the Gliederung as it refers to this section, that it begins with the upper class, finds its way into the middle class, and ends with the lower class—a digression and downward spiral of sorts.
This is solely my novice attempt to find meaning in Eliot’s fragmented journey through time and place, which seemingly discovers an answer and supersedes secular realities. Maybe I will find clarity in class and/or through other blog postings. I can only hope.
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