Narrative Authority in Virginia Woolf's A Room of One's Own

   

     I really enjoyed reading the first chapter of Virginia Woolf's essay A Room of One's Own. In particular, I was struck by how she did such a wonderful job of making her fictional descriptions of the colleges of Oxbridge and Fernham realistic that I found myself in a quandary about whether or not to believe her claim that they were completely invented. In fact, though she grounds them as inventions early in the chapter, I found myself interpreting the experiences of the speaker literally. I think it shows her mastery of the writing process that she was able to enact her own argument about women and fiction through showcasing her own ability to write so well that the line between fact and invention is blurred. Ultimately, her essay's compellingly realistic and evocative tone illustrates exactly what heights female writers can attain when they have money and a room of their own to facilitate their careers.
     When Woolf first stated that "Oxbridge is an invention; so is Fernham" I couldn't help but wonder if she was not only invoking a comparison to Oxford University and a similarly existing women's college, but obliquely implying that she was relating a number of factual details about those institutions. Of course, the incident with the beadle directing her off of the turf reserved for male students, and likewise the old gentleman who refused her entrance to the hallowed library, indicate that Woolf certainly wouldn't have been invited to a luncheon with the "Oxbridge" students. However, her descriptions of the food and conversation at that lavish luncheon are so redolent with sensory detail that it is easy to begin to wonder if she spied on such a gathering or perhaps received a description of the luncheon from an acquaintance. Though that is an interesting matter to ponder, the literal truth is most likely that Woolf invoked that very specificity of detail in order to highlight her own skill as a writer, which should in turn have gained her admittance to that gathering. Yet again, she uses the format of her essay to support her thesis that women deserve to have the same educational and career opportunities as men.
     Later, when Woolf chronicles the speaker's return to the humbler women's college, she states that "Fiction must stick to facts, and the truer the facts the better the fiction--so we are told." On the surface, it seems that her description of Fernham adheres to this maxim and, in this case, Woolf could very well have dined at the women's college. However, Woolf again resists the patriarchal framework that presumably created that maxim when she begins her description of Fernham's grounds as a beautiful springtime bower and later states that it was actually an October evening. Her idealization of the women's college, to the point that she places an unnamed and eminent female author in the springtime grounds, shows how a skillful writer of fiction can manipulate language to give the impression of a factual scene. She inverts that maxim in the face of contemporary writing conventions, and it makes her argument for women being afforded the same advantages as men all the stronger.
     Overall, I found this essay a fascinating enactment of its own argument about women being just as good or better writers than men if given the right tools. Woolf's skill in blending fact and fiction to the point that the reader begins to question the narrator's veracity and has to reflect on the motive behind that blending results in a much more nuanced argument. In other words, she not only illustrates what female writers can achieve when given the chance, but also inverts patriarchal standards while doing so.

The Importance of the Backstory in Understanding Victorian Poetry

     Since the Victorianism unit came to a close, I've been trying to think of an overarching theme or characteristic that I can use to sum up the pieces we read in class. I couldn't think of anything that applied to both prose and verse pieces, but I was able to come up with a trait that a number of poems in this unit share. This trait is the dependence upon the backstory to create meaning. In other words, a number of Victorian poems rely upon either a preexisting piece of literature or a historical occurrence as background for the events portrayed in the poem. In specific, Alfred Tennyson's "The Lady of Shalott," Robert Browning's "My Last Duchess," and Matthew Arnold's "Dover Beach" all depend upon a backstory to some extent.
     Tennyson's "The Lady of Shalott" is a prominent example of a poem whose construction relies upon a preexisting piece of literature, in this case on the Arthurian legend of Elaine of Astolat from the Italian novella Donna di Scalotta. The title character in this poem is modeled on Elaine herself and her problematic relationship with Lancelot. Also, there is the fact that many of the references within the poem assume a familiarity with the basic framework of Arthurian legends, specifically the tales relating to Sir Lancelot and his preference for Guinevere over all other women. Without the backstory of Elaine and her unrequited love for Lancelot, Tennyson's poem would lose much of its thematic resonance and thus be a less influential work.
       Robert Browning's "My Last Duchess," unlike Tennyson's poem, relies upon an actual historical figure for the poem's premise. The word "Ferrera" preceding the poem is the first indication that the duke in the text is most likely the sixteenth-century duke of Ferrera, Alfonso Il d'Este. Proceeding from this fact, it is possible to reconcile his "last duchess" with the fourteen-year-old Lucrezia di Cosimo de' Medici whom he married for her substantial dowry. Without having this information, the poem is rather confusing, especially when trying to figure out just whom the Duke is addressing in the dramatic monologue. With the historical backstory, however, it becomes possible to ascertain that the Duke is speaking to the envoy of the Count who is responsible for arranging the Duke's next marriage.
     The backstory in Matthew Arnold's "Dover Beach" is less central in the process of understanding the poem than in "My Last Duchess," yet the poem still loses impact without several historical footnotes. For example, when the poem references Sophocles also hearing the "eternal note of sadness"  it is important to know that he was a Greek playwright who wrote heavily about fate and the will of the gods since this fact adds significance to Arnold's overall theme of a doomed and faithless world. Also, there is another ancient Greek reference that also foregrounds the timelessness of Arnold's message: that of the "ignorant armies" which refers to the Peloponnesian War fought between Athens and Sparta.
     Overall, all three of these poems would lose impact were it not for the ability of the audience to refence their respective backstories. The poems would still be lovely examples of verse composition from the Victorian era, but their thematic messages would either be lost or profoundly lessened without the presence of those backstories and their historical and literary reverberations. 

The Lady of Shalott & Ophelia

     As I was reading through Tennyson's "The Lady of Shalott" for the first time I couldn't stop thinking about how much she reminded me of the character of Ophelia from Shakespeare's Hamlet. I think that the first thing that caused me to draw parallels between them is the way the Lady of Shalott is so persistently described as an ethereal, fairy figure, much in the way that Ophelia is described and portrayed in many adaptations of Shakespeare's classic play. There is also the fact that both women have such an otherworldly quality about them that they seem to inhabit their own reality; the Lady of Shalott has an isolated existence in her tower which is juxtaposed with the commonplace activity in the surrounding countryside, while Ophelia occupies an alternate reality within the confines of her own mind. Lastly, there is the fact that both women come to their ruin through the agency of men.
     It is when the Lady first glimpses Lancelot that she truly realizes for the first time the limitations and loneliness imposed upon her by the curse that confines her to the tower, contemplating the activity of life through a mirror while weaving in her solitary prison. Of course, the statement she makes before his appearance about being "half-sick of shadows" indicates that she was restive before he happened by her tower, but there is a substantial difference between restlessness and deliberately invoking a fatal curse. When the Lady looks towards Camelot and purposely brings the curse upon herself it is apparent that she chose to do so out of her hopeless love for Lancelot. Essentially, she knew she could not have him and chose to end her suffering rather than pine away for him in her lonely chamber.
     Ophelia does not choose her fate in as active a manner as the Lady, yet she most definitely descends into madness following Hamlet's contradictory treatment of her. Hamlet goes from longing for her intensely, to the point that he urges her to escape to a nunnery to guard her virtue from him, to dismissing her presence callously. He becomes so wrapped up in the drama of his uncle and mother, as well as his philosophical musings, that he neglects her feelings. As a result, Ophelia retreats into the confines of her mind and begins to act erratically and childishly. For example, she prances around and hands out flowers to members of the Danish court, which seems superficially harmless yet is foreshadowing her own funeral after she dies by drowning.
     It is the combination of flowers, death, and water which is perhaps the most striking similarity between the fates of the Lady of Shalott and Ophelia. The Lady is described in a prophetic way as living in "a space of flowers" which "the silent isle imbowers," both of which seem to refer to her flower-surrounded chamber yet also evoke images of the Lady lying inside the flower-filled boat that becomes her casket. Ophelia, like the lady, dies in the water with her strands of "crow-flowers, nettles, daisies, and long purples" enclosing her in a last embrace. It is this very image of Ophelia that the Pre-Raphaelite painters chose to represent during the Victorian era, just as they chose to depict the Lady of Shalott and her tragic end. It is fitting that these two tragic literary figures should be not only joined together by their similar aspects and fates, but also by artists who understood that the striking similarities between the women would resound all the more when immortalized on canvas.    

Rachel's Revelations: More Confusing than Enlightening?

     I have to confess that up until the section of The Moonstone detailing Franklin Blake's version of events, particularly that of the confrontation in the music room between himself and Rachel, I have been under the impression that Rachel was complicit in the theft of the diamond. I found this an unsettling suspicion to entertain as I liked Rachel's spunky, unconventional manner from when she was first introduced in Betteredge's narrative; however, I couldn't piece together any other likely reason for her histrionic behavior following both the theft of the Moonstone and the revelation of public suspicion against Godfrey Ablewhite. Having cast Rachel in such a guilty light, I then proceeded to mitigate that suspicion by coming up with scenarios in which Rachel was merely an accessory after the fact rather than the actual thief. Oddly enough, each time I tried to think up a scenario, the only character that it made sense for her to be assisting was Franklin (due to her romantic attachment to him). Therefore, it was with a simultaneous sense of comprehension and puzzlement that I read the section in which Rachel reveals her odd behavior as having been aimed at protecting Franklin, the man she loves, from the consequences should the rest of the world find out what she saw with her own two eyes: him stealing the Moonstone.
     This revelatory scene made sense to me because it fully explained Rachel's desperate and distraught manner, as well as falling in line with the theory of Franklin as the thief, yet it failed to explain why Franklin did not remember either stealing the diamond or his motives for doing so. In essence, Rachel's revelation, while following the factual framework of my scenario, does not fall in line with either her character or Franklin's. In Rachel's case, the point can be made that she acted contrary to the reader's initial opinion of her as a strong and independent woman, namely when she allowed the burden of the secret of Franklin's guilt to weaken her judgment and disposition, because of the love she has for him. That is definitely a mitigating factor in her favor. Franklin's actions in stealing the Moonstone out of Rachel's bureau in full view of Rachel herself, however, are not in line with anything we as readers know of his character, particularly as he himself does not remember doing so. It would make much more sense were we to find out that he stooped to stealing the diamond out of financial desperation following threats from creditors on the Continent.
     Overall, it is frustrating to have the mystery of Rachel's conduct explained, and her character satisfyingly vindicated, and then immediately have a confusing and unflattering light thrown upon Franklin. Though I have to admit that I am glad that my first impression of Rachel as a straightforward and honorable character was correct, it is difficult to quickly reconcile myself with the concept of Franklin as an unwitting perpetrator. Paradoxically, it would have been easier to handle had he been revealed as lying in his narrative about his innocence. If Franklin's actions were motivated by financial need and desperation it would be possible to eventually gain some sort of sympathy for him depending upon the exigency of his situation; however, as things stand with him in a state of ignorance as to his actions, it brings in all manner of speculation on his mental state and calls into question all of the positive descriptions of his character.  Therefore, Rachel's revelations are double-edged in their function of simultaneously clearing her name and implicating Franklin's in a way which is far from clear.
       
        

Keats's Method of Writing "Ode to a Nightingale": Factual or Romantic Fancy?

     When we studied John Keats's poem "Ode to a Nightingale" in class last week, we also touched briefly on his method of composition and the issue of whether or not that was a Romantic-era construction or more factual in nature. Specifically, Keats's friend Charles Armitage Brown stated that after Keats had spent time sitting under a plum tree in the grass-plot and listening to the nightingale's song while composing his poem, that he'd come inside and thrust the scattered pieces of paper he'd used to jot down the poem behind some books in Brown's library. Brown then takes credit for recovering those pieces of paper with the ode written upon them and urging Keats to write them down properly and publish them. However, it was a known convention of Romantic writers to provide some sort of preface, mostly fictional, that lent more poetic impact to the following poem.       
     For example, when Samuel Taylor Coleridge wrote "Kubla Khan" he included a preface entitled "A Vision in a Dream" in which Coleridge asserted that he'd been in ill health and had fallen into a sleep colored by the opium his doctor had prescribed, during which he composed two or three hundred lines of the poem with no conscious effort. While Coleridge was indeed an opium addict and that substance has the effect of hallucinatory dreams, it is unlikely that he composed an entire poem during an opium dream and then could only recall part of it upon waking. It's not impossible, of course, but when you consider that Coleridge's statement of dream composition has the effect of manipulating the situation of author and reader, namely through promoting a more active role of the audience of filling in the supposed gaps of the story, it becomes possible to examine Coleridge's veracity. His intriguing preface makes poets seem like divine channels for the Muses, keeps the reader(s) actively engaged in creating additions to the poem within negative space, and also provides an all-encompassing excuse for any areas in which the poem may fall short. Now, the question is whether or not Charles Brown's statement about Keats's method accomplishes something similar and can be thus considered as not entirely factual.
     The idea that Keats just jotted "Ode to a Nightingale" down idly on four or five sheets of paper which he then carelessly shoved behind some books does seem to highlight the divine genius of the poet as it implies that such a wonderful and complex poem was nearly an afterthought for Keats. The average reader would of course be amazed by Keats's poetic powers when considering that he could jot down profound poems as effortlessly as they themselves would a list for the market. Therefore, this act does have the same effect as Coleridge's preface when it comes to exalting the poet above the rest of mankind. However, it must be considered that Keats, unlike Coleridge, did not fabricate this preface to his poem and have it disseminated along with his ode. Brown seems to have been the primary agent in that process, and though the story was circulated informally following the poem's publication it is still a very prevalent view of Keats's creative process.
     The next thing to consider is whether or not the story of Keats's rather offhand treatment of the text of the poem accomplishes anything besides exaltation of poetic genius. Coleridge's account of the inspiration behind "Kubla Khan" definitively results in a sort of mediation between the poet and his audience, which of course results in a more favorable reception of the poem. The story of Keats's inspiration from nature which he jotted down and then stashed does not manipulate the audience of the poem in any way; it merely directs focus to his genius in coming up with such a deft and complex poem as well as illustrating that such commonplace treatment of the text must come from his ability to produce such creative works on a regular basis. Therefore, when added to the fact that it was Brown and not Keats who spread the story of the ode's composition, it can be said that though the story may be less than factual and aimed at deifying the poet it is not as alarmingly manipulative as that of Coleridge.
    
    

Bonus: Explication of Keats's "To one who has been long in city pent"

"To one who has been long in city pent,
'Tis very sweet to look into the fair
And open face of heaven, -- to breathe a prayer
Full in the smile of the blue firmament.
Who is more happy, when, with heart's content,
Fatigued he sinks into some pleasant lair
Of wavy grass, and reads a debonair
And gentle tale of love and languishment?
Returning home at evening, with an ear
Catching the notes of Philomel, -- an eye
Watching the sailing cloudlet's bright career,
He mourns that day so soon has glided by:
E'en like the passage of an angel's tear
That falls through the clear ether silently."
- John Keats

     John Keats's poem "To one who has been long in city pent" is a sonnet in which the speaker, in this case the poet himself, extols the virtues of nature over those of the city. The speaker finds a worshipful kind of peace when he is able to escape to the country and reaffirm the joys of existence in a natural setting. The audience the speaker intends seems to be anyone who is receptive to the influence of nature upon human sensibilities, and who would thus be sympathetic to both his feeling of confinement in the city and his exultation in a natural setting. In order to communicate that message of affinity for nature to his intended audience, the poet used a number of specific strategies throughout the body of the poem.
     The poem as a whole is in the form of a Petrarchan sonnet, in which the rhyme scheme is as follows: abbaabba for the first eight lines, and cdcdcd for the last six. This specific rhyme scheme is accompanied by the use of iambic pentameter throughout the poem's entirety, excepting the third line which contains eleven syllables. This line marks a shift in the poem's theme as it moves from purely secular descriptions of being in "city pent" and finding joy in looking at nature to such religious references as heaven and prayer. Indeed, it is the two syllables of the word "prayer" which end the third line and push the syllable count to eleven; this leads the reader to especially note the speaker's worshipful tone while out in nature.
     As the speaker continues to enlarge upon nature's virtues in such lines as the fifth and sixth in which he questions "who is more happy, when, with hearts content, fatigued he sinks into some pleasant lair," he also utilizes alternation between end-stopped and enjambed lines to highlight the lines which bring with them a sense of completion and peace. For example, the seventh line continues the above description of the "pleasant lair" as grassy and introduces a "debonair tale" with an enjambed line, while the eighth completes the four-line question (from line five to line eight) with a specific description of the book. This technique lends the poem a balance in which the reader tranquilly follows the progression of the speaker's mind toward peace as he relates the pleasures of the natural world.
     The language of the poem also lends itself to a balanced tone as it consists of both simple and elevated diction. For example, the only word which stands out as particularly elevated in the first four lines is the reference to the "firmanent" in the fourth, which is in place mostly to ground the comparison of nature with a place of worship. Later, the speaker describes the tale as "debonair" and makes an elevated reference to "Philomel," or the nightingale from Ovid's Metamorphoses, but those are the only notable uses of exalted or exclusive language. Overall, the poet's mixture of common and elevated words strikes the perfect balance of approachability and exclusivity which is likely to appeal to the widest ranging audience.
     The balanced word choice is offset by the deft use of metaphor and personification which lends itself to the peaceful flow of the poem from start to finish. For example, in the first four lines heaven is personified as having a "fair and open face" and a "smile" as well; this figure of speech is followed very fluidly by the simile in the last three lines comparing the quickness of the day to "the passage of an angel's tear." This very fluidity results from the poet's adherence to the overall theme of comparing nature to religious concepts; thus, the different figures of speech are not jarring in their presentation but flow smoothly from the concept of heaven to the related description of the angel. This results in a cohesive poem whose deft use of figurative language borders on the utilization of an extended metaphor throughout the whole text.
     Overall, all of the above referenced strategies result in a poem whose message as to the peaceful joys to be found in nature is supported by a structure with just the sort of balance and serenity that the theme espouses. The speaker's journey from confinement in the city, to contentment in the meadows, and finally to nostalgia in the wake of a beautiful day is echoed by every poetic device and resounds all the more fully as a result.   
    
  

    

Coleridge's "Work Without Hope": A Caution to Potential Poets

     Samuel Taylor Coleridge's sonnet entitled "Work Without Hope" seems, on the surface, merely to juxtapose nature with his own dejected state of writer's block. The parallel is very striking, as are his images of nature, to the point that it is easy to get caught up in his descriptive phrases and polarities of emotion and lose the significance of the final couplet. The last two lines state that "Work without Hope draws nectar in a sieve, And Hope without an object cannot live" (Coleridge 614). A specific interpretation, in which the lines relate only to Coleridge as the speaker, applies the concept of fruitless hope without an object to Coleridge as he is "the sole unbusy thing" in the poem and thus doomed to wish for a poet's laurel wreath while self-doubt results in unproductiveness. However, a more universal interpretation allows for the inclusion of the penultimate line, and its inherent association with pointless labor, as the "nectar" remains uncollected. This universal interpretation, in turn, is aimed specifically at aspiring poets.
     In this more universal sense, the nectar can be equated with poetic inspiration which remains elusive despite pointed effort; this is then inverted in the final line in which the inspiration is unfocused and thus just as ineffectual. The juxtaposition in this universal reading is between the classic "rock and a hard place" as both the uninspired labor and the unfocused yearning result in the same thing: absolutely nothing. As a result, the broader interpretation of the lines seems to be less about Coleridge than about the futility of attempting to achieve greatness as a poet. Even with the application of this less specific reading, however, there remains the question as to who Coleridge actually intended for his primary audience to be.
     The most accessible interpretation, namely that of Coleridge lamenting about his own specific dilemma with futility in composition, allows for the inference of a sympathetic audience of fellow poets, acquaintances, and strangers who are all able to relate to Coleridge's feeling of helplessness in his chosen field. Using this lens, it is possible to picture Wordsworth listening to Coleridge read this piece and understanding exactly why he chose images of industrious creatures in nature to highlight his own inactivity and hopelessness. This interpretation definitely contains a lot of pathos, but it is not the only message that Coleridge intended to evoke with the final couplet.
     Coleridge's intended audience for the deeper message contained within the final couplet is assuredly the population of aspiring poets. The first intimation of this appears in the line before the beginning of the final couplet: "And would you learn the spells that drowse my soul?"(Coleridge 614). This is subtly hinting at those who would wish to learn to write poetry, as who else would want to "learn the spells" of Coleridge? The fact that Coleridge refers to his vocation and its inherent practices as "spells" hints at their power to bewitch their recipient until he or she falls into the drowsy stupor of helplessness which afflicts those who are unable to reconcile their high aims with true productivity.
     The subtle intimation of a warning in the line preceding the final couplet is of course enhanced by the message in those final two lines: that of the impossibility of combining both inspiration and industry in order to produce a laurel-worthy poem. This message of futility is aimed at aspiring poets in order that they might more fully examine their motives in choosing that profession, and either rethink their choice or go into it with open eyes and the knowledge it takes to combat hopelessness. In this way, Coleridge serves as a beneficent mentor who uses his own wealth of experience to prepare others who would follow in his footsteps.