Today, let’s talk about the big,
bad Virginia Woolf. Woolf graced the
world with her presence in 1882 and graced the literary community with her
first published work in 1990. She couldn’t vote, but she could certainly write.
Much of her work touts the *radical* notion that women can do things well. The
catch? Women’s limited resources inhibit their intellectual potential.
In A Room of One’s Own, Woolf argues that “a woman must have money and
a room of her own if she is to write fiction” (Woolf, 6). The extended essay
comes from lectures she gave to women’s colleges in 1928. It explores the
conditions required to produce a creative work and emphasizes the necessity of literal
space and privacy, which women simply did not have at the time. She invents the
fictional sister of Shakespeare—Judith. Judith might have the same skills and
ambitions as her sibling, but because she has meals to cook, children to raise,
and shelves to dust, she is forced to squash her imaginative spirit. William is
over here whipping out sonnets on the regular, and all she can do is call him
Bill behind his back to belittle him. She laments her wasted talent so much
that she kills herself.
Of course, the gender dynamics of
the sixteenth century differ from that of her own generation. In the early
1900s, there were some—though, not many—female writers. But even then, a woman
had a pickaxe in her hand instead of a pen (Woolf, 80). Her writing served as a
therapeutic exercise in which to (rightfully) bitch (however unconsciously)
about her inferior position in society. She wasn’t creating art with
unperturbed vigor; she was constantly grinding against a strong patriarchal current
that guffawed at her attempts. To highlight the prevailing sexist mentality,
Woolf smugly quotes a contemporaneous male preacher, who said, “‘A woman’s
composing is like a dog’s walking on his hind legs. It is not done well, but
you are surprised to find it done at all’” (Woolf, 56). Actually, sir, there
are some that do it quite well:
Woolf also observes the strange
contradiction between the way females are depicted in literature (by male
authors) and the way they’re considered in real life. Poets prattle on about
the magic splendor of women. If that’s how men really feel, then it’s
nonsensical that “the spirit of life and beauty [is left] in a kitchen chopping
up suet” (Woolf, 45). A male chopping his own suet?! The horror. [What is suet,
and is it the same as the System of a Down song "Chop Suey"?]
I find Woolf’s perspective
particularly interesting because she has her own room and she has money—her
aunt died and left her the big bucks. These opportunities provide her clarity
of mind in such a drastic way that she can’t deny their importance. It’s nice
when someone gets ahead in life and doesn’t forget about the little people.
Even more curious is the fact that Virginia Woolf suffered from bipolar
disorder, which contributed to her suicide by drowning. Might I point out the
irony of The New Yorker’s recent article “The Bath: A Polemic”**, which was originally shared on Facebook with the caption “There’s a reason Virginia Woolf
insisted on a room of one’s own, and not a bubble bath”? Perhaps there’s more
than one reason why Woolf isn’t associated with bubble baths? Might I also
point out that the article is pretty stupid/useless?
Drowning jokes aside, I think that
this woman is excellent. She says things like “we burst out in scorn at the
reprehensible poverty of our sex” and she lights a fire in my soul
that’s grounded in tangible frustration (Woolf, 22). Her brilliance is timeless because she
attacks the root of the problem: people who are at a disadvantage culturally
and financially have physical and spiritual barriers that prevent them from
entering a mental space that allows for pure creativity. Because this situation
disproportionately affects women, where does that leave us? Her lectures
culminate in an inspirational urge to move forward. She encourages listeners to
write despite circumstance, but also strive to speak out against those
circumstances and thereby incite social progress.
The essay is relatively short (my
copy is 112 pages). I think that it should be mandatory reading in high school;
understanding how populations are deprived is hugely essential to interacting
with them in a non-douchey way. Additionally, Woolf knows how to slip humor
into her writing, and I respect any author who can simultaneously speak about a
serious subject with deference and interweave an appropriate light heartedness.
Woolf’s impressive and sensitive dexterity make A Room of One’s Own four out of five humps. I’m docking her
one hump because I don’t agree with everything
she says. I appreciate that she starts a much-needed conversation about a
subject that’s not easily definable—creative poverty—but I don’t necessarily think
that it’s inextricably linked to financial poverty. I think that Woolf wrote
what she wrote with an enlightened perspective of her time. That perspective can
help us today as a launch pad, but I think that it’s imprudent to view it as
the end-all-be-all feminist doctrine.
*Woolf, Virginia. A
Room of One’s Own. New York: The Fountain Press, 1929. Print.
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