Related ResearchA slim volume rarely exceeding two hundred pages, a cursory survey of Mrs. Dalloway hardly suggests the astronomical weight of literary and social importance that critics have reaped from the prose of Woolf since its publication in 1925. Both revered as the archetype of the post-war British elegy, a 20th-century feminist demand, and a courageous illustration of queer life blending into the fabric of a Western liberalism once monochromatic, Woolf's slender masterpiece unwaveringly rivals the meaning of even the most opaque. literary anvils among his stream-of-consciousness brethren. Say no to plagiarism. Get a tailor-made essay on “Why Violent Video Games Should Not Be Banned”? Get the original essay However, while feminists, queer theorists, and post-war philosophers defend the right to claim the novel as canonical to their own ideology, Mrs. Dalloway's remarkable ability to transcend and uniting social boundaries may simply stem from a simple – and decidedly less optimistic – truth. Beneath the differences of sex and sexuality, the characters of the novel are united – or rather estranged – by the isolation inherent in each individual. If Woolf transcends social boundaries, she does so only as a fortuitous by-product of revealing the ultimate isolation intrinsic to human consciousness. Although Mrs. Dalloway is an earlier manifestation of the stream-of-consciousness style of which Woolf eventually became a figurehead, the novel contains the same emphasis on the isolated nature of individual consciousness that would later dominate The Waves, in which six characters do not never address each other directly throughout the duration of the novel (Mulas, 75). Stream-of-consciousness storytelling itself produces and ensures isolation almost by definition, and although Ms. Dalloway's characters interact, it is not without difficulty – their often strained and unsatisfying dialogue bears out Kathryn Van's assertion Wert according to which “the primary interest of the novel is the nature of the mind” (Van Wert, 79). ). This inherent isolation, however, is not in itself the root of Mrs. Dalloway's human suffering. Like Albert Camus's "absurd"—inevitable suffering resulting from a conflict between man's desire for meaning in life and his inability to find it—Mrs. Dalloway's suffering results from a need of human connection and an inability to transcend the boundaries inherent in consciousness ( Camus, 11). Prey to “the feeling of dissatisfaction they had; not knowing people; not being known” and unable to fully accept the reality of their isolation, the characters repeatedly build fragile bridges across their gaps in consciousness in order to preserve an acceptable public image (Woolf, 152). Whether in the form of marriage, religion or parties, Woolf's characters seek in vain to fill the voids left by the impossibility of any human connection with an almost Lacanian futility. Ultimately, Woolf spares only one character from further Sisyphean torment, with the climax of Septimus Warren Smith jumping out of the window and uttering these final cryptic words: "I give it to you!" » Widely misunderstood by the other characters, Septimus' suicide is seen by the doctors as an act of cowardice and by Clarissa, initially outraged, as a rather unwelcome intrusion into her party. Although Clarissa later experiences a kind of telepathic empathy with Septimus, she too fails to fully understand his death – an act that John McGuigan describes as "neither an act of despair...nor of psychosis, [but] rathera cry of defiance against institutional society, an affirmation of free will in the face of the prospect of having none. »Essentially, Septimus escapes the cyclical masquerade with which the other characters continually struggle to veil their fractured existence. Septimus's death, far from being commonly greeted as "the decision of a shell-shocked veteran to throw everything away", is in reality a victorious leap towards freedom, something that only he among Woolf's actors dares to do (McGuigan , 123). In his suicide, Septimus leaves Clarissa “compelled to stand there in her evening dress” (Woolf 185) with the rest of Woolf's desperate ensemble, thus establishing himself – in relation to his double – as the true hero of the novel which bears his name. The notion of duality between Clarissa and Septimus is far from a new concept and is in fact one that Woolf herself timely clarified in her diary. This gift is not one that researchers have hesitated to take advantage of, with Alex Page prefacing his analysis of doubles in 1961 by acknowledging that "a number of important parallels have already been pointed out by eminent commentators." combined with decades of scholarly commentary, it makes almost any further discussion of the Septimus-Clarissa dichotomy patently superfluous. However, while the characters' dual natures lend themselves to a variety of interpretations, including feminist and queer readings, almost all analyzes rely on the same basic skeleton of "the eminently sane Clarissa and the pathetically crazy Septimus.” In essence, Septimus is regularly presented as a lesser, more dangerous or imperfect Clarissa, "a warning that beneath Clarissa's settled and brilliant life lies an abyss" (Page, 412; 413; 414). With this prototype of the Septimus-Clarissa duality, commentators fall into the same misconceptions about Septimus as those of the other characters themselves, perpetuating an image of Septimus as something to be pitied or feared. Contrary to Page's interpretation, Septimus is not the embodiment of Clarissa's "abyss." On the contrary, Septimus fights alone against the abyss. Moreover, unlike his double, Septimus manages to escape it. In this context, a general restructuring of the traditional Septimus-Clarissa model is necessary. Of the many parallels between Clarissa and Septimus, one of the most fundamental is a shared need for privacy. This observation in itself is nothing revolutionary, with Woolf establishing Clarissa's need for privacy early on, particularly in the depiction of her marriage. Reflecting on her choice between two suitors, Peter and Richard, Clarissa reaffirms her decision by remarking: "In marriage there must be a little license, a little independence between people living together every day in the same House ; that Richard gave her, and she gave him. Clarissa maintains this opinion, later stating: “There is a dignity in people; a loneliness; even between husband and wife, a gulf; which must be respected... because we would not part with it... without losing our independence, which after all is priceless. Clarissa goes on to define this sacred independence as “the intimacy of the soul” (Woolf 8; 120; 127). Clarissa's double, Septimus Warren Smith, exhibits similar qualities of introversion and fear of the outside world. From his first appearance, Woolf depicts Septimus as a worried figure, whose very eyes echo the question: “The world has lifted its whip; where will it go down? This question reflects Clarissa's own fear that "it was very, very dangerous to live even for a day." While Clarissa ultimately defines her ultimate goal as "privacy of the soul," Septimus defines the ultimate threatfor privacy as "human nature", explaining that "human nature, in short, was on him... Once you stumble, human nature is on him." you” (Woolf 14; 8; 92). Both fearing the inauthenticity of the public domain and the threat it poses to privacy, the main distinction between Clarissa and Septimus appears in their very different methods of dispelling this fear. Septimus's attempts to maintain privacy are thwarted by Dr. Holmes – a character so menacing that Septimus comes to view him as the embodiment of human nature itself, asserting: "Human nature was upon him, the brute disgusting, with blood-red nostrils. . Holmes was on him. Recognizing, as Septimus points out, that "once you trip" the threat to privacy is intensified, Clarissa attempts to protect herself from the outside world by sacrificing some of her privacy by throwing parties, explaining simply: "These are an offering” (Woolf, 92; 121). This notion of Clarissa's parties as a form of personal sacrifice that Jacob Littleton largely overlooks in his assertion that the parties are in fact "a means for her to strengthen the collective being... Her parties are her art." Littleton's analysis paints a picture of Clarissa Dalloway as a kind of existentialist hero, whose "very existence profoundly contests the ideology and power relations of her cultural sphere." Littleton bathes Clarissa's parties in a pool of optimism, citing them as evidence that their hostess "rejects the common accoutrements of society into emptiness." Littleton's eulogy continues, exalting her existentialist heroine as one who "must face a messy reality without accepted props and create her own meaning for it." » Among these “props” that Clarissa supposedly rejects so courageously, Littleton includes the religious fervor of Doris Kilman as well as that of Peter. Walsh's Loves. Indeed, Clarissa directly condemns Kilman and Walsh for their dependence on these institutions, implicating them both with the indignant admission that "love and religion would destroy the intimacy of the soul, whatever it may be." either” (Woolf, 127). However, neither Clarissa nor Littleton manages to provide any evidence that Clarissa's parties are not themselves simply another "support against the void." Ultimately, Littleton himself even acknowledges that Clarissa's parties "stem from Dalloway's sense of isolation as an individual" (Littleton 42, 36, 37, 46). Kilman's religion, Peter's engagement, and Clarissa's parties are therefore mere props—unsteady bridges across the gaps separating their isolated consciousness. In their attempts to fill these voids, the characters unwittingly enact their own type of Lacanian cycle. Flowers are a particularly prominent Lacanian symbol throughout the novel, appearing repeatedly as stand-ins for a lack of intimacy or real meaning. This symbol of course makes its first appearance in the novel's famous opening sentence, "Mrs. Dalloway said she would do it herself by the flowers" (Woolf, 3). Ostensibly a declaration of free will and independence, this assertion is tempered in the following paragraph, with the narrator listing the reasons—reading instead excuses—that led Clarissa to this decision. . The reasons given by the narrator in favor of Clarissa sound unsubstantial and unconvincing, with Clarissa's final reason – good weather – striking a final hollow note (Woolf, 3). Essentially, from the first page of the novel, Clarissa is already using flowers as a substitution – this time, as an excuse to act when she really doesn't need to. The flowers make anothernotable appearance later, presented in the significant absence of real intimacy. In perhaps the novel's most egregious depiction of a failure of communication, Richard Dalloway finds himself unable to tell his wife that he loves her, content to instead present her with roses. The roses resurface in Clarissa's focused consciousness for some time after their initial reception, perhaps more tellingly than in the seemingly fragmented thought: "There were her roses." Its parties! (Laouf, 121). Here, Woolf directly connects Clarissa's parties to the roses, uniting them in their futility as substitutions for human connections. The roses function not only as a substitution for the lack of true intimacy between Clarissa and Richard, but also as a symbol of the general pattern of substitution that lurks throughout the novel. It is here, of course, that Clarissa and her double split. While Clarissa gives in to the demands of the public domain, Septimus maintains his aversion to the “inauthentic connection and failed intimacy” that Clarissa fosters – both in her marriage and in her parties. Where Clarissa accepts roses in place of love, Septimus ultimately refuses to compromise. Realizing that he cannot escape the threat of human nature as Homes approaches the stairs, Septimus leaps to his death "with his personal sovereignty intact" (McGuigan, 133). Although this uncompromising sovereignty is not something Clarissa shares with her double, she does. – at least partially – recognize it. Upon hearing of the suicide, Clarissa instinctively recognizes that it is an act of preservation, observing: “There was one thing there that mattered…That was the thing he had preserved. Death was a challenge. There was an embrace in death. Taking an intimate moment with her guests, Clarissa cements Septimus's duality by asserting, “she felt in some way very like him… She was happy that he did it; I threw it away. However, Clarissa's moment of intimacy is only temporary. Unlike Septimus, who refused to compromise, Clarissa is in the middle of a sacrifice to which she must return. In death, Septimus absolutely outwits human nature and envelopes himself in total privacy. Clarissa, for her part, remains chained to the public domain and must return to her guests and the outside world. Through his suicide, Septimus achieves the goal that Clarissa's "horror of death" prevents him from achieving. By triumphing over this fear and achieving his goal before Clarissa, Septimus establishes himself as the true hero of Woolf's novel (Woolf 184, 186, 153). This “horror of death” is a fundamental aspect of Clarissa’s character – the decisive factor that cements her fate in contrast to that of Septimus. This factor is often overlooked in analyzes like Littleton's, in which Clarissa-the-artist is fundamentally defined by "the pleasure she takes in physical and sensual existence." Littleton even cites flowers among the supposedly defining aspects of this “sensual existence,” completely ignoring the novel's repeated references to flowers as symbols of inadequate substitutions. In essence, Clarissa's indulgence in the sensual world is not "the most fundamental fact of [her] psyche." ”, but rather simply another substitution (Littleton, 37). Recognizing the lack of inherent value in life, Clarissa accepts the physical world as a substitution for deeper meaning, just as she accepts Richard's flowers in the absence of genuine emotion. Although Littleton cites Clarissa's "horror of death", he attributes it to a "fear of the end of the existence she loves so much" (Littleton, 38). However, given the previous thoughts ofClarissa on the danger of life, it is clear that in fact she does not like her existence – she is simply torn between equal fears of life and death. Noting that both Clarissa and Septimus reject life, the question is therefore not why “Septimus disintegrates and Clarissa does not,” but rather why Septimus escapes and Clarissa does not (Wolfe, 44). The answer, of course, is that Clarissa remains paralyzed by her fear of death, which Septimus overcomes. The common idea of ​​Clarissa Dalloway's admirable resilience in the face of bourgeois monotony quickly disintegrates with the revelation that Clarissa's perseverance in life is motivated solely by an equal and opposite fear of death. With this reversal of the traditional Clarissa-Septimus framework, the different interpretations it has spawned and suddenly begin to ring hollow. In the absence of the shell-shocked veteran who succumbs while Clarissa perseveres, typical postwar feminist and queer readings seem in themselves to be mere Lacanian substitutions for the emptiness at the heart of Woolf's novel. These readings seek to provide answers, to explain Mrs. Dalloway's pervasive isolation. While comforting, these interpretations are no different from the substitutions that Woolf's characters themselves attempt to enact – simple roses placed in a vain attempt to adorn Mrs. Dalloway's otherwise empty mantle. Typical readings of the postwar novel are perhaps the most practical. interpretations for readers who reject the nihilistic undertones of the novel. This analysis provides an overall explanation for both Septimus's madness and the general disillusionment of the novel's other characters. Drawing on the monumental significance of the historical and social cornerstone of the Great War, readers can be reassured that Mrs. Dalloway's emptiness and madness are simply the result of boredom after -war. Feeling that war is perhaps a little too convenient. In a context for explaining Woolf's novel in its entirety, Kathryn Van Wert challenges common postwar readings, suggesting that Woolf's primary use of war is simply "a trope of psychic turbulence... functioning as a metaphor for other forms of alienation. Van Wert notes the insignificant textual presence of war, ultimately suggesting that, rather than illustrating a collective consciousness "encroached by war", the majority of Woolf's characters rarely display anything other than relatively fleeting, even offhand, recognition, of the event. In his analysis of Septimus, the presumed shell-shocked veteran, Van Wert points to early versions of Mrs. Dalloway that include sketches of the Septimus character before the war. Van Wert argues that the war "functions as a metaphor for the complex metaphysical alienations that defined [Septimus] long before the war." Ultimately, Van Wert asserts that “the fact that people do not experience lasting emotions…is not something that is learned in the field” (Van Wert 75, 72, 71, 73). Although a heartwarming read, Mrs. Dalloway's suffering cannot be adequately attributed to war any more than flowers can replace love. Likewise, feminist and queer readings of the novel also tend to gloss over the isolation at Mrs. Dalloway's heart. . As noted previously, Littleton's analysis paints an incomplete portrait of Clarissa as a feminist heroine whose party art form is a deliberate subversion of "the ideology and power relations of her sphere" (Littleton 36). Littleton's analysis, while edifying, completely ignores the fact that Clarissa herself views her evenings as an offering – a sacrifice. 2016.