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.

 

Copyright © JRFB 2013 

'Review' of an abstract beauty; common, yet an overlooked symbol of Nature's enticement...

[I recently published this via my friend Floraidh's blog - http://floraidhsuncensoredpen.blogspot.de/ but figured I should post it here too.... so here's a repost, enjoy!]

The day before yesterday I went to the most extraordinary event in my lifetime. I did have to travel to some distant field and queue for about three hours, but I can confirm that the discomfort and agitation stirred beforehand was totally worth it.

I had never heard of this event until the very night before. A rogue dressed in khaki bed sheets knocked on my door and offered me a pamphlet for the next day’s happenings. Well I say pamphlet, but it was actually a dried Horse Chestnut Leaf with faint words inked on (presumably this was done by organic means as later, the nomad tried to convert me to Veganism and I hadn’t the heart to point out that the leather jacket on my back and beef steak in the oven would forbid me to do so). I was rather intrigued, to say the least, and since this man seemed trustworthy - if you omitted the stench of horse manure and bare feet which were muddy like a Woodland’s floor and stumpy like a Hobbit’s - I gratefully thanked the rogue and delightfully decided to attend this fantastic affair the following day.

The map on the Leaf was rather peculiar; instead of showing roads and houses, it depicted footsteps, paddocks and cornfields. I know you may think that I am insane for accepting and attending such an obscure invitation to an event so unknown and so eccentric on my own, but I’ll have you know that the neighbour’s Springer Spaniel, Odysseus, barked at the chance to come with me (for this was a once in a lifetime opportunity). Whatever, we set off late that night or early the next morning, (depending on your own perception of Time) and bounded to the field in a state of dreamlike euphoria.

The invitation suggested that fancy dress was appreciated, for the theme was Mythical Beasts, and so I decided Woodland Sprite would be appropriate. I harnessed Odysseus into a dog-sized purple, scaly dragon bonnet, allowing his sun-tainted brown ears to flop around his elated face and I slotted an equally scaly tail over his own. It was dark when we set out, and so I used my luminous wand, crafted from the Stars, to guide the way and to allow my straining eyes to read the Leaf-invitation. I never lost sight of Odysseus, as his scales shone back the glow of magical exuberance from the wand.

We came across a multitude of Mythical Beasts all lined up in an urbane manner, which did not befit their costumes. I could see the licks of Flame of a bright Fire at the very front of the queue, the distant Smoke billowing and curling like the stems of the Wheat heads at my feet. Enriched by the magnificent spectres ahead and those which were still to come, I eagerly took my place in the queue and waited.

I got chatting to a few witches and they told me that they came every year to what they referred to as ‘The Illumination’ and that it was absolutely spectacular. One let out an exhausted sigh as she’d been forced into making small talk with vexing relatives whom one only hopes to see at Christmas parties where the occurrence is somewhat bearable as one tends to be intoxicated off Christmas ‘Spirits’. Sadly, just as she was going into explicit detail about how her Great Aunty Johanna has the niggling habit of exclaiming ‘Esmeralda you’ve grown so much since we last saw one another’, (albeit Esmeralda is in fact thirty-three and has had the same height, width and weight since she was fifteen), an anomalous bugle-like noise jangled through the air, vibrating in and out of our shivering skin.

It had begun. The crowd started heading towards the heavenly light of Flames and swirling grey Air ahead. Although this Smoke was engulfing my blue lungs, I felt as if I had inhaled an air of magic; I marched on with the crowd.

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When I entered the field with Odysseus, I saw it. There it was: the texture so exquisite, so enchanting, so impeccable that I could hardly believe that I was laying my transfixed eyes on it!

The green tufts were twisting and spiralling upwards like a new-born child’s soft fuzz of hair; the green rinds, so bright, so crystalline, so breath-taking seemed to glint at me coaxingly; it was sublime, surreal. The deep hue of the thick strands was mesmerising, elegant; yet it looked as sharp as a knife, mercilessly slicing the frigid air as it climbed into the Skies.

The warm Loam beneath effortlessly pulsed the opulent curls out from its depths, sighing with each collective movement, as if the Earth was smiling as it tensed and relaxed, the light tufts unwinding as they are nurtured by kisses from the velvet Air…

This event was not a manifestation of humanity’s ‘Creativity’, nor was it a vulgar display of Man’s skill in technology or cinematics; it was an illumination of Nature’s simplistic beauty, which charms those who take the time to value its magnificence. There was I, watching Grass bloom from Nature’s loving bosom: the mane of the Earth.

   



Copyright © JRFB 2012