Mrs Dalloway, You Have Made Me See..

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(For those of you who know me, you may be aware of my Virginia Woolf obsession and of 'Mrs Dalloway' being my favourite novel. I actually wrote this post about a year ago, and the fact that what I talk about here - about how this novel captures some of my soul - is still relevant today, shows the potency of such an authentic work of art. I truly love it. 'Mrs Dalloway' will always be my first love in literature).

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When I first read Mrs Dalloway, it gave me a continuous headache and a strong desire to throw the damn thing out my window, in the hope of ridding myself of such an unfathomable collection of the whispers of post-menopausal women and pathetic old men. But it was not until the second (and third, fourth, fifth...) reading and actual studying of it, when I became engrossed.

Then, having completely retreated from my formerly contemptuous 'I-don't-give-a-shit-Virginia' attitude of - in my newfound opinion, one of the greatest Modernist novels of all time - Mrs Dalloway, I decided that not only for the purpose of learning, but also for leisure it would be a good idea to watch the cinematic version.

In short, it majorly changed my apprehension of Peter Walsh. From my perception (something V Woolf, as I like to call her, is rather good at blurring and exploring in her novels), he was a pathetic, overly emotional wreck who spent his entire life chasing pretty women, pristine with their 'lips cut with a knife'; or to put it bluntly, an emotionally tarnished, perverse sugar daddy.

However, my eyes have been opened, as the pathos evoked from when he says with an admirable attempt to withhold tears, 'For God's sake, Clarissa, I love you!' reduced me to a crumpled heap soiled with the tears the fellow did not shed. I understand now. He really loved her - and that man, Richard, stole half of his heart before him. I can relate. He offers his soul to the one whom he cannot bear to live without and she scatters it into the 'mist' with the wave of her hand. And for what reason?

'You want too much' - surely, Clarissa, it is best to want the whole of a person rather than the just the qualities you can view from a safe distance, those which you can shape through a certain tweaking?

She broke his heart, and it took him 40 more years to realise just how much he loves her, whether he chooses to believe that those feelings are eternal or not. On their reunion these 40 later, he admits that the scarring yet significant memory of Clarissa's bitter rejection had 'spoilt his life'.

Arguably, I believe that as a consequence, this fateful decision spoilt Clarissa's life too. They both lament about how they think the other has wasted their potential by not achieving any of the things that they were capable of, therefore, to me it is obvious that the mistake lies in their failed conciliation of hearts; they should have married! Not Clarissa and Richard. And, as a result, Clarissa loses track of her true identity and Peter takes to creeping on attractive young women young enough to be his daughters.

Oh how the Fates are cruel!

Furthermore, what also captivated me was the chemistry and delicate romance between Clarissa and Sally. In the novel, the scene is candied with youthful ardency at that 'exquisite' moment when Sally's lips softly join Clarissa's, igniting a realisation that she undeniably was in love with her (though not fully appreciating this sensation at the time). In the film, this tender air of beauty and serenity manages to focus on the two girls, dancing, somehow innocently, yet as if intoxicated off each other's gaiety. During this moment, I felt caught up in the exuberance and let out an elated sigh. There is was. 'The most exquisite moment' of Clarissa Dalloway's whole life; and I felt it.

This scene, was not only touching, but I think one of the reasons I flashed a shade of euphoric gold was because it lead me to fantasise about my own 'exquisite' moment of love; the cornerstone moment when my fragile heart will be -finally- requited.

Seeing something I so much wish to experience in my own life through literature, cinema, music, even in someone else's life, makes the past mistakes of risking a broken heart undeniably worth it. 

The outcome of loving someone could indeed end disastrously, and, like Peter Walsh, you could spend the rest of your days living in a world tainted by pernicious remorse for that one person who denied you of everything: love (if there is such a thing).

Nevertheless, there is always a possibility of triumph: if they return your affections, like Sally and Clarissa, surely the grievous risk is justified?

I would rather have my heart broken a thousand times, existing with a slither of hope that an exquisite love will journey my way, than have my passions acquiescently, obediently ordered to the corner of my mind in self pity, the shadows of ethereal desire swimming around my head.

Love is worth everything.

 

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