INTERVIEW WITH VIRGINIA WOOLF
CONDUCTED BY ANONYMOUS INTERVIEWER (I)
VIRGINIA WOOLF (VW)
I: Hello, Mrs. Woolf! I’m so glad you could meet me here today.
VW: Hello!
I: We had better get down to business. Are you prepared to answer my questions?
VW: Definitely.
I: Can you shed some light on the time period in which you lived? Perhaps give us a rough sketch of the old ‘where and when’, if you could.
VW: Oh, I was an Englishwoman, through-and-through. I was born on January 25, 1882, at the address of No. 2 Hyde Park Gate (Bell, 1972) in Kensington. I lived under the roof of that house with seven other children – my half-siblings and full-blooded siblings alike. I suppose that’s what happens when your parents have both been married and divorced before they decided to give married life another try with each other. My parents were steeped in the Victorian Era, the old reign of stiff and staunch, my father especially. He sent my brothers to Cambridge, to get a proper formal education, but did he send me? No. I had to make do with a few tutors and whatever books I could get my hands on (“biography.com”). Oh, now I’m getting off topic. I’m terribly sorry. Where were we?
I: Oh, that’s fine! I was inquiring as to where and when you spent your life.
VW: Oh, yes. Well, I was a British woman. I spent my formative years in that house in Kensington, with the hordes of children scampering about the hallways and corridors. I spent my childhood summers in St. Ives, a lovely beach town in southwestern England. I wrote one of my books based upon my summers there –To the Lighthouse (1927), one of my better works, if I do say so myself. My sister Vanessa and my brother Adrian eventually sold that house in Kensington. They bought a new one in Bloomsbury, in London; a wonderful place, full of wonderful people. I always did love that house… But I digress (“biography.com”). I spent many years of my life in London – a marvelous city, you know, even after the Germans blasted it to bits during the Blitz in the Second World War. My own residence was destroyed in that infernal war; my home in Tavistock Square, where I lived with my husband, Leonard. All that was left of that beautiful house was ‘rubble where I wrote so many books. Open air where we sat so many nights, gave so many parties’ (Briggs, 2005). Of course, I did live away from London occasionally. Leonard made me move away from London to Richmond for a while – all that city excitement wasn’t good for my health, much as I loved it. And Leonard and I had a little house in East Sussex, a place called Monk’s House. I spent the last days of my life there (“infobritain.co.uk”).
I: Now, I’m curious. What happened in your childhood years to inspire you to become a writer – and a modernist writer, at that? It couldn’t have been easy, with such traditional parents.
VW: It wasn’t that my parents were… traditional. I’ll always resent my father for not sending me off to Cambridge to earn a formal education, as he rightfully should have done, the clodhopper, God rest his soul. But I was still taught. My family was well-to-do, you know – we had that lovely, large house in Kensington, on Hyde Park Gate. We didn’t want for money. Private tutors filtered in and out of the house. And I was constantly surrounded by visionaries… they crowded around me like bees swarming a hive. My parents were very well-connected; they were friends with novelists like George Meredith, Henry James, and Thomas Hardy. How could I be surrounded by such great writers as these and not feel a desire to write? And I had artists in my family history – my great-aunt was Julia Margaret Cameron, the famous photographer. She took photographs of figures such as Charles Darwin and Lord Alfred Tennyson (Heitman, “Virginia Woolf Was More Than Just a Women’s Writer”).
So of course I was surrounded by the arts from a very early age. My parents, restricted though they might have been, were remarkably open-minded in a bit of a paradoxical oxymoron. You must remember, it was the Victorian Era, ruled by a straight-laced queen with an iron fist. Everyone was conservative in those days; just in varying degrees. My father, Sir Leslie Stephen, was an English critic. He studied philosophy and was deeply invested in the controversy over Charles Darwin’s On the Origin of Species (1859) (“Encyclopedia Britannica Online”). My father was an avid reader, sometimes to an outrageous extent. He was obsessed with books, enraptured with them. He’d mumble poetry under his breath as he climbed the stairs or walked about the house. And his library, of course, was enormous. I had full range of the thing. I was a passionate reader from an early age. I never stopped loving books. They’re incredible objects (Heitman, “Virginia Woolf Was More Than Just a Women’s Writer”). My parents thought I was a dull, stupid thing when I was a babe – I didn’t learn to speak properly until I was three years old (Bell, 1972). But after I learned to read… Well, I write beautifully because I read beautiful things, if that makes a drop of sense (Heitman, “Virginia Woolf Was More Than Just a Women’s Writer”).
I: It does. Please, go on.
VW: I also loved the ocean. The summers I spent in St. Ives were among the best of my life. I believe I mentioned earlier that my inspiration for To the Lighthouse (1927) derived from those childhood summers spent along the southwestern coast of England (“biography.com”).
I: You did, yes.
VW: I wish all of my inspiration came from such kind experiences, but that’s not the case, I’m afraid. I was… mistreated… by my half-brothers. Gerald and George. And the death of my mother and father… it… it was difficult. I’m not – I’m not always well. Not in the head. Sometimes, I have dark spells. The writing helps. ‘The only way I keep afloat is by working. Directly I stop working I feel I am sinking down, down’ (Heitman, “Virginia Woolf Was More Than Just a Women’s Writer”). When I feel the madness, strange things happen. Birds speak to me in Grecian languages. My dead mother appears. My husband – my dear Leonard – and my lovely sister Vanessa, they become enemies. When I start to write, the sadness goes away, even for just a little while. The illness first started in my childhood, and writing provided a blissful escape. At least for a little while (McManamy, “Virginia Woolf and Her Madness”).
I: I’m so terribly sorry. That’s horrible.
VW: Yes. It rather is, I think.
I: So, tell me: who were your mentors? You must have had some guardian angel perched on your shoulder, assisting you in your art. Who were they? How did they aid you in improving your writing?
VW: My father, for a start. My father wasn’t an especially kind man – he was a bit of a bully at times, to tell you the truth. But he saw me as an extension of himself, and he gave me support when I needed him the most. He was one of the major contributing factors in my novel To the Lighthouse (1927). I identified with my father at an early age, you see. Because I was a feminist, I found it difficult to associate with most of the women in my generation. My father was independent and driven – however nightmarish he might be – and I wished to see those qualities in myself (“Virginia Woolf and Leslie Stephen: a father’s contribution to psychosis and genius”).
I: Fascinating. Who else do you credit with assisting you in your writing?
VW: It wasn’t so much that I had mentors as I had trusted friends. If you recall, my sister Vanessa and my brother Adrian sold the house in Kensington. After my father – God rest his soul – passed away in 1904, I moved into a small house in Bloomsbury, in London. I lived there with my siblings (“online-literature.com”). My brothers were both Cambridge-taught – my father made sure of that. Several of their intellectual friends frequented the house, and we eventually formed a group called ‘The Bloomsbury Group’ (“biography.com”).
I: How fascinating!
VW: It was a beautiful time. There were five of us – well, more than five, but we were the founders, the center. Lytton Strachey, Clive Bell, my brother Thoby – God rest his soul – my sister Vanessa, and me. We grew, of course; expanded as time went on. But we five were there from the very beginning. The Bloomsbury Group was an assortment of radicals. We debated homosexuality and feminism, daring to push the limits. Many dignified members of society called us quacks, dismissed us as busybodies, but it didn’t seem to matter. Back then, it was wonderful to just debate and shout at each other (“online-literature.com”).
I: So who, in particular, assisted you in this group?
VW: Clive Bell. He was my earliest reader. He read the stories I gave him, the first to really examine my work. But our relationship was never truly congenial. He was in love with my sister, Vanessa, and I was in love with him. I think, at times, that he loved me, too. He would get horribly envious of my suitors – sent me all sorts of nasty letters. It was as if I could hear his shouts through the paper at times. Clive had a wretched temper. You should have seen the shouting matches we used to get into. We both had explosive tempers. I was horribly jealous of Vanessa, the sister I worshiped more than anything. Clive married Vanessa, for a while, anyway. I eventually moved on – I married my husband, whom I loved deeply. But Clive was my earliest supporter. I’d always be in his debt (Briggs, 2005).
I: Incredible. Now, you’ve mentioned a few times you considered yourself a feminist, and your parents were heavily influenced by the culture of the Victorian Era. Can you give us a little more information on the time period in which you lived – specifically, how writing was in your time period?
VW: The early twentieth century was a time of change. The Victorian Era was coming to a close when I began to pick up my pen and write in earnest. The Victorian Era was a time of prudish, narrow-minded notions. I won’t condemn an entire generation or two with punishing blanket statements – that wouldn’t be fair of me – but I also won’t deny the truth: the people of the Victorian Period were a staunch, stiff group of pound-noteish1 nebbishes2 (“The Victorian Period”).
I: Oh, my.
VW: Pardon. I slipped into a bit of slang for a moment there.
I: No; it was quite entertaining. Please, go on.
VW: Anyhow, the writers of the Victorian Era, authors, essayists, and poets such as Charles Dickens, Elizabeth Barrett-Browning, and Thomas Carlyle, were focused on one prominent theory: social change. Many intellectuals were concerned about the uneven terrain forming as the social classes of the nineteenth century emerged. They feared the class struggles would eventually come to a tipping point – perhaps in some reminiscent echo of the French Revolution of the late eighteenth century. The middle class, which had formed during the early nineteenth century, was thinning. The gap between the poor and the wealthy was widening once more during Queen Victoria’s reign (“online-literature.com”). Authors focused on the change in one’s social status, Charles Dickens in particular. It may be through financial means, or through marrying up a class, as exemplified in Charlotte Brontë’s classic novel Jane Eyre. But moving one’s social status must be conducted through proper means – no scandal of any sort was permitted under Queen Victoria’s stern code of conduct (“The Victorian Period”).
I: How fascinating.
VW: I think so, as well. It wasn’t until the last decade or two of the Victorian Era that writers began to mock the harsh social rules; turning them into satire, experimenting outside of boundaries set in stone. It was this movement that gave way to Modernism, the period in which I was a primary writer (“The Victorian Period”).
I: I see. And could you, perhaps, give us a bit more information on the Modernist Era in literature?
VW: Certainly. The Modernist Era was a time when writers began to experiment with structure, almost treating it as a game of sorts. For what was really the first time in history, writers were breaking up the archetypal narrative structure which had previously dominated all forms of fiction. We utilized ambiguous themes. We drew attention to our new, fragmented language. We used multiple perspectives; had poignant, half-formed ideas that created a moving storyline. Two major movements in this period included Dadaism and Surrealism. The former focused largely on challenging authority through breaking the barriers set up in art while the latter centered on the unconscious minds. Dream scenes, fantasy, and automatic writing were big parts of the Surrealism movement (“wwnorton.com”). As a Modernist writer, I am celebrated for my free form, nonlinear style of prose (“biography.com”). Which, if I do say so myself, is quite extraordinary.
I: I’ll second that opinion. But what about the rest of the world? What was the backdrop of this Modernist movement?
VW: The 1920s and 1930s were a period of remarkable change. By this time, the Industrial Revolution had swept through much of Western civilization and then some, and the world would never be the same. Populations had grown exponentially, social classes were revolutionized, and new inventions flooded the market (Ramírez, Stearns, and Wineburg, 2008). By the time the early nineteenth century arrived, the world was brimming with new industry. After the end of the First World War, earth – the Western world in particular – was making a slow recovery and transition back into the age of invention and new ways of thinking. Various progresses in the field of technology and human rights occurred; not the least of which was the feminist movement, for which I was a passionate supporter, and the development of medicines like insulin and penicillin, the founding of great magazines such as Time, and the emergence of popular culture icons such as Mickey Mouse. Not everything was good, of course – the Stock Market crash of 1929 brought a severe slump for the world, and Adolf Hitler was beginning to come into prominence (“about.com”). But overall, the early 1900s was a wonderful time in which to be living. And the goal of Modernist writers, in the most inherent sense, was to inflict positive change on society through their literature (“wwnorton.com”). I don’t think anyone could call that a negative thing.
I: Certainly not. However, I’m curious. Can you expound upon this idea even further? Tell me how the cultural, political, and economic situations of the time period impacted your writing. We’ve got the background and we know about the world of writing while you were alive, but how did these events influence your writing?
VW: Of course. As I said, I was an avid feminist. I never forgave my father for sending my brothers to be learned formally, but not me, his daughter. I wrote many essays on that matter. You see, I saw inequality everywhere I went. Women were but supporting characters in a drama composed of all male leads. It simply wasn’t fair that men got to be taught! They were just meshuggeners3, no smarter than the rest of us. I vented my feelings through various essays and literature (“yale.edu”). … I’m terribly sorry. I got a bit carried away.
I: I understand completely.
VW: The world was set on such an imbalance. Even from comfortably well-off women were expected to write memoirs about their fathers or edit correspondence. Pft! Had my father not died when I was young, I never would have become a writer. I even based characters – Mr. and Mrs. Ramsey – in my novel To the Lighthouse (1927) on my parents and their uneven marriage. Of course, Vanessa, dear sister though she was, didn’t like that one bit. But I saw no point in hiding from the truth. Our father had all the power in his marriage. He was a terrifying bully, and the household’s happiness depended upon his moods. I looked to the famous women writers of the past – Jane Austen, the Brontë sisters; Judith, Shakespeare’s sister – and worshiped them. I pitied them, just as I pitied myself, to be born into a man’s universe. The greatest writers, I think, are the ones who manage to throw away all pretense of gender. They write for women and men. They are understood by women and men. It is a terrible sadness there have not been more writers like Marcel Proust, William Shakespeare, and Jane Austen.
Sometimes, the unfairness of our world infiltrates the air, making it too thick to breathe. Women were expected to be kept ignorant of sex and for all that it stood, or at least those from respectable families. Never mind the fact that men talked about it at length. Never mind the fact that my half-brother George took the pains to educate me on the nature of sexual relations, and on his terms. Never mind… (“yale.edu”).
I: Virginia? Are you alright?
VW: What? Oh, yes. I’m sorry. I get a bit carried away sometimes. Where was I?
I: How the culture of the feminist movement influenced your writing.
VW: Oh, yes. I’m sorry; I do fear I’m going completely mad. Er…
I: Take your time.
VW: I’m fine, but thank you. It – It wasn’t just the feminist movement that influenced me. I was also greatly affected by the First World War. It was a horrible, terrible thing, you know. I once used a character – Clarissa Dalloway – in one of my stories, “Mrs. Dalloway in Bond Street” (1922), to express how hopeless one can feel during war. How can one hold any belief for a greater good with constant bloodshed?
I got inspiration for three of my novels – Jacob’s Room (1922), Mrs. Dalloway (1925), and To the Lighthouse (1927) – from the war. It was difficult to weave such a horrific thing into prose, to embrace modernism. I had been struggling with the movement prior to this, you see. In my previous novel, Night and Day (1919), I had dropped back into a Victorian style of writing. I was ridiculed for it, and I wished to change. I succeeded: to this day, those three novels are some of my most famous (“yale.edu”).
I: How interesting.
VW: World War II also influenced my writing; in particular the rise of Hitler. I wrote my book The Three Guineas (1938) on the tensions created by blasted Hitler and the anti-Semitic prejudice in the 1930s. I compared the prosecution of the Jews with the prosecution of women who dared to be original, bold, or different. And after that… Well, once World War II began, I became dreadfully bleak. It was a dark time for me (Briggs, 2005).
I: Fascinating. Now, what would you consider to be your major accomplishments?
VW: Well, I love many of my works, excepting those written just before the end of my life. Near the final, closing years of my lifetime, I had lost my ability to write. But in my earlier years, I crafted several brilliant novels. My favorites would have to be To the Lighthouse (1927), Jacob’s Room (1922), Orlando (1928), and The Waves (1931).
I: And what made you choose those books?
VW: I chose To the Lighthouse (1927) because of the memories that lie within. I believe I’ve mentioned quite a few times that my inspiration for To the Lighthouse (1927) comes from my childhood summers spent in the beach town of St. Ives (“biography.com”). It’s a very poignant, real thing for me; perhaps a memorandum of sorts.
I: How fascinating.
VW: As for the others… Jacob’s Room (1922) was my first real break with the Victorian-style fiction. It was my debut experimental novel (“mantex.co.uk”). My earlier novels – Night and Day (1919) in particular – had been chock-full of Victorian-era writings. My old friend (and I use that term loosely) once gave me a rather horrid review on Night and Day. Her name was Katherine Mansfield. She’d criticized me for my lack of references to World War I. I had retreated back into the days of the Victorian Era in my writing, before the war had begun. At the time, I had written it off as spite on Katherine’s part, but I continued to ponder this (2005, Briggs). In Jacob’s Room (1922), I began to experiment with my writing. I also published it myself, which made a rather large difference. For the first time, I was able to write exactly as I wished (“mantex.co.uk”). It was a protest on the First World War (2005, Briggs) as well as a way of remembering my brother Thoby, God rest his soul (“mantex.co.uk”). It was that novel, I think, that set me off into greatness.
And as for Orlando (1928), that book was more of a long love letter than anything else. I’d once had… well, I’d once had a female lover (“mantex.co.uk”).
I: Did you really?
VW: I did. Her name was Vita Sackville-West. A wonderful woman, full of life, though our relationship was not an easy one. Orlando (1928) was both a note of revenge and love. I wanted to honor Vita, and based my character Orlando off of her, but I also used it as a way to exact vengeance for Vita’s many infidelities. She used to make me horribly jealous on purpose, teasing me about the other lovers she was visiting. Orlando (1928) was a way to get all of my thoughts off of my chest (Briggs, 2005).
I: How interesting.
VW: And lastly, The Waves (1931) was my favorite for a much simpler reason than the others: it was unique. I had tossed away all pretense of having a traditional novel, making it utterly and completely extraordinary. I experimented. I had such fun with it. I don’t have a longwinded backstory; The Waves (1931) was just an exciting ride (“mantex.co.uk”).
I: Incredible. What were some major opportunities that led to major turning points in your life as well as your art?
VW: That’s a difficult question. However, if I had to pick one major opportunity that really changed my life, it would be Hogarth Press.
I: Embellish, if you will.
VW: After my husband Leonard and I were married, we lived in London. We were happy here; I was working on my novel The Voyage Out (1915) while Leonard had his own book. But finishing The Voyage Out (1915) brought upon me a horrible panic attack. Finishing a book was difficult for me. It brought me great anxiety. While in London, I… took an overdose of Vernol ("infobritain.co.uk").
I: What’s Vernol?
VW: A sleeping draught. After this, Leonard thought it might be best for us to move away from the excitement of the city for a while. He brought me first to Richmond, and later to Hogarth House. And it was here, at Hogarth House, where my writing really began to flourish ("infobritain.co.uk").
I: How so?
VW: We started our own little writing press. It was difficult – we were rejected from schools of printing because we were not union apprentices, and as such we had to buy the materials on our own. When our typing press was delivered, it was smashed in half! But we eventually succeeded and began to print small novels (“yale.edu”). Here, I was able to publish my own novels, and I was able to write exactly as I wished (“mantex.co.uk”). The opportunity to set up Hogarth House was among the greatest in all my life.
I: How marvelous Tell me – what were some big hardships you had to overcome in order to become a writer?
VW: That’s easy. I had to conquer my mental illness.
I: Can you give me some background on that?
VW: My manic depression haunted me all of my life, since I was a child. I had a disorder which today would likely be qualified as bipolar; or an extreme form of bipolar disease. My childhood traumas had fostered my hypomanic surges (Heitman, “Virginia Woolf and her Madness”). My half-brothers George and Gerald were rather… unkind to me as a child (“yale.edu”), and as I mentioned before, my father was an old-fashioned bully (“Virginia Woolf and Leslie Stephen: a father’s contribution to psychosis and genius”). But it was the death of my mother that really made my madness manifest (Heitman, “Virginia Woolf and her Madness”).
I: How terrible. I hate to intrude, but… do you think you might give us some insight on what your manic fits might have been like?
VW: They ranged. My husband Leonard took careful note of everything I did. He was my most constant protector, bless his soul. Sometimes, I would see birds begin to speak to me in Grecian languages, or see the ghost of my dead mother come to haunt me. Other times, it was not so much physical manifestations as wild bursts of energy. When I first began a novel, I was excited and energetic; I’d talk without stopping for a few days at a time. But when I ended my novel, I would sink into a deep depression. I would go to concerts and stay up all night and then take to my bed for two months afterward. The madness got so bad that I attempted to commit suicide a few times. The first time, I failed, eventually, I was successful. I suppose you could say I never really conquered my madness, as it led to my death, but for a time, I had my psychotic urges under control, enough so to let the creativity flow out of me (Heitman, “Virginia Woolf and her Madness”).
I: How terribly sad. But surely you have some sort of anecdotes that tell us of your successes in the arts? You must almost certainly have had some good stories to tell.
VW: Oh, I’ve many little stories. I can share quite a few with you, if you’d like.
I: Yes, please do.
VW: Well, in 1909, I was involved in a rather fun game with the Bloomsbury Group; the close-knit gathering of friends I had formed in London while living with my siblings. This was near the beginning of my literary career. I – along with the rest of the Bloomsbury Group – would create fictional characters; crafting them out of thin air. We would then attempt to write a novel by sending letters to each other (“59 Things You Didn’t Know About Virginia Woolf”).
I: Oh, my!
VW: Yes; it was quite interesting. Let’s see… Well, another story has to do with my feminist tendencies. Even though I was beginning to emerge as a distinguished literary mind at the time, I would do anything to help feminist causes. I would spend hours upon hours scripting addresses upon envelopes. It was horribly menial work, but I didn’t care. I was aiding the cause of women’s independence, and that was more than enough for me (Hiebert, “59 Things You Didn’t Know About Virginia Woolf”).
I: Please, keep the stories coming!
VW: Alright, I’ll share one more apologue. Hmmm… Well, I used to keep numerous journals when I was younger. I would write nearly every detail of my life. Once, I came upon a journal entry written when I wasn’t quite so mad. Looking back on it, I laughed! Oh, I was on the verge of insanity then. But my journals were wonderful things. I used to write essays in them, detailed and proofread enough as if they were about to be published in a magazine or newspaper, though they weren’t. Or I’d write stories. I’d detail listening to the music or a day in the country. My, even back then, I loved writing. Then again, I always loved writing (Hiebert, “59 Things You Didn’t Know About Virginia Woolf”).
I: How amusing! But now for my final question – and it’s a doozy –
VW: I’m hanging on the edge of my seat.
I: How do you think your writings impacted the world of art, or the world in general?
VW: Well, I think I did that in a plethora of ways. The first would be that my modernist writings helped to inspire further generations. I was one of the foremost up-and-comers in the modernist movements (“yale.edu”). But in a much more real sense, it was in my controversial novel elements that I really left my mark.
My book Orlando (1928) had a plot line in which a character changed gender partway through (“mantex.co.uk”). The 1920s was a period of raucous challenge to the rules of the previous, stiff-necked generations, but a gender change was still revolutionary (“sparknotes.com”). My novel Mrs. Dalloway (1925) reflected mental insanity – some of the same I found lurking within myself – and the struggle of a society to go on living after a horrible, terrible war. I mercilessly attacked World War I (“yale.edu”). In Between the Acts (1941) I combine comedy with critique on the English upper-class (“mantex.co.uk”). Again and again, I challenge previous conceptions about life. The traditional was not for me.
I: How beautifully spoken. Thank you for your time, Mrs. Woolf.
VW: My pleasure. I hope I was of some service to you.
I: More than words can express.
Bibliography:
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2. “Virginia Woolf Biography.” Biography.com. A&E Television Networks, n.d. Web. 8 Nov. 2015. <http://www.biography.com/
3. Briggs, Julia. Virginia Woolf: An Inner Life. London: Penguin, 2005. Print.
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Published on Sunday, November 8, 2015.
ReplyDelete1 [pound-noteish]
ReplyDelete2 [nebbishes]
3 [musheneggers]
The above is slang frequently used in London in the early twentieth century.