Sunday, February 12, 2012

(an excerpt from virgina woolf's

novel The Waves)

       "And time," said Bernard, "lets fall its drop.  The drop that has formed on the roof of the soul falls.  On the roof of my mind time, forming, lets fall its drop.  Last week, as I stood shaving, the drop fell.  I, standing with my razor in my hand, became suddenly aware of the merely habitual nature of my action (this is the drop forming) and congratulated my hands, ironically, for keeping at it.  Shave, shave, shave, I said.  Go on shaving.  The drop fell.  All through the day's work, at intervals, my mind went to an empty place, saying, 'What is lost?  What is over?'  And 'Over and done with,' I muttered, 'over and done with,' solacing myself with words.  People noticed the vacuity of my face and the aimlessness of my conversation.  The last words of my sentence tailed away.  And as I buttoned on my coat to go home I said more dramatically, 'I have lost my youth.'
     "It is curious how, at every crisis, some phrase which does not fit insists upon coming to the rescue- the penalty of living in an old civilisation with a notebook.  This drop falling has nothing to do with losing my youth.  This drop falling is time tapering to a point.  Time, which is a sunny pasture covered with a dancing light, time, which is widespread as a field at midday, becomes a pendent.  Time tapers to a point.  As a drop falls from a glass heavy with some sediment, time falls.  These are the true cycles, these are the true events.  Then as if all the luminosity of the atmosphere were withdrawn I see to the bare bottom.  I see what habit covers.  I lie sluggish in bed for days.  I dine out and gape like a codfish.  I do not trouble to finish my sentences, and my actions, usually so uncertain, acquire a mechanical precision.  On this occasion, passing an office, I went in and bought, with all the composure of a mechanical figure, a ticket for Rome.
     "Now I sit on a stone seat in these gardens surveying the eternal city, and the little man who was shaving in London five days ago looks already like a heap of old clothes.  London has also crumbled.  London consists of fallen factories and a few gasometers.  At the same time I am not involved in this pageantry.  I see the violet-sashed priests and the picturesque nursemaids; I notice externals only.  I sit here like a convalescent, like a very simple man who knows only words of one syllable.  'The sun is hot,' I say.  'The wind is cold.'  I feel myself carried round like an insect on top of the earth and could swear that, sitting here, I feel its hardness, its turning movement.  I have no desire to go the opposite way from the earth.  Could I prolong this sense another six inches I have a foreboding I should touch some queer territory.  But I have a very limited proboscis.  I never wish to prolong these states of detachment; I dislike them; I also despise them.  I do not wish to be a man who sits for fifty years on the same spot thinking of his navel.  I wish to be harnessed to a cart, a vegetable-cart that rattles over the cobbles.
     "The truth is that I am not one of those who find their satisfaction in one person, or in infinity.  The private room bores me, also the sky.  My being only glitters when its facets are exposed to many people.  Let them fail and I am full of holes, dwindling like burnt paper.  Oh, Mrs. Moffat, Mrs. Moffat, I say, come and sweep it all up.  Things have dropped from me.  I have outlived certain desires; I have lost friends, some by death- Percival- others through sheer inability to cross the street.  I am not so gifted as at one time seemed likely.  Certain things lie beyond my scope.  I shall never understand the harder problems of philosophy.  Rome is the limit of my travelling.  As I drop asleep at night it strikes me sometimes with a pang that I shall never see savages in Tahiti spearing fish by the light of a blazing cresset, or a lion spring in the jungle, or a naked man eating raw flesh.  Nor shall I learn Russian or read the Vedas.  I shall never again walk bang into the pillar-box.  (But still a few stars fall through my night, beautifully, from the violence of that concussion.)  But as I think, truth has come nearer.  For many years I crooned complacently, 'My children . . . my wife . . . my house . . . my dog.'  As I let myself in with my latch-key I would go through that familiar ritual and wrap myself in those warm coverings.  Now that lovely veil has fallen.  I do not want possessions now.  (Note: an Italian washerwoman stands on the same rung of physical refinement as the daughter of an English duke.)
     "But let me consider.  The drop falls; another stage has been reached.  Stage upon stage.  And why should there be an end of stages?  and where do they lead?  To what conclusion?  For they come wearing robes of solemnity.  In these dilemmas the devout consult those violet-sashed and sensual-looking gentry who are trooping past me.  But for ourselves, we resent teachers.  Let a man get up and say, 'Behold, this is the truth,' and instantly I perceive a sandy cat filching a piece of fish in the background.  Look, you have forgotten the cat, I say.  So Neville, at school, in the dim chapel, raged at the sight of the doctor's crucifix.  I, who am always distracted, whether by a cat or by a bee buzzing round the bouquet that Lady Hampton keeps so diligently pressed to her nose, at once make up a story and so obliterate the angles of the crucifix.  I have made up thousands of stories; I have filled innumerable notebooks with phrases to be used when I have found the true story, the one story to which all these phrases refer.  But I have never yet found that story.  And I begin to ask, Are there stories?
      "Look now from this terrace at the swarming population beneath.  Look at the general activity and clamour.  That man is in difficulties with his mule.  Half a dozen good-natured loafers offer their services.  Others pass by without looking.  They have as many interests as there are threads in a skein.  Look at the sweep of the sky, bowled over by round white clouds.  Imagine the leagues of level land and the aqueducts and the broken Roman pavement and the tombstones in the Campagna, and beyond the Campagna, the sea, then again more land, then the sea.  I could break off any detail in all that prospect- say the mule-cart- and describe it with the greatest ease.  But why describe a man in trouble with his mule?  Again, I could invent stories about that girl coming up the steps.  'She met him under the dark archway. . . ."It is over," he said, turning from the cage where the china parrot hangs.'  Or simply, 'That was all.'  But why impose my arbitrary design?  Why stress this and shape that and twist up little figures like the toys men sell in trays in the street?  Why select this, out of all that,- one detail?
      "Here I am shedding one of my life-skins, and all they will say is, 'Bernard is spending ten days in Rome.'  Here I am marching up and down this terrace alone, unoriented.  But observe how dots and dashes are beginning, as I walk, to run themselves into continuous lines, how things are losing the bald, the separate identity that they had as I walked up those steps.  The great red pot is now a reddish streak in a wave a yellowish green.  The world is beginning to move past me like the banks of a hedge when the train starts, like the waves of the sea when a steamer moves.  I am moving too, am becoming involved in the general sequence when one thing follows another and it seems inevitable that the tree should come, then the telegraph pole, then the break in the hedge.  And as I move, surrounded, included and taking part, the usual phrases begin to bubble up, and I wish to free these bubbles from the trap-door in my head, and direct my steps therefore towards that man, the back of whose head is half familiar to me.  We were together at school.  We shall undoubtedly meet.  We shall certainly lunch together.  We shall talk.  But wait, one moment wait.
      "These moments of escape are not to be despised.  They come too seldom.  Tahiti becomes possible.  Leaning over this parapet I see far out a waste of water.  A fin turns.  This bare visual impression is unattached to any line of reason, it springs up as one might see the fin of a porpoise on the horizon.  Visual impressions often communicate thus briefly statements that we shall in time to come uncover and coax into words.  I note under F., therefore, 'Fin in a waste of waters.'  I, who am perpetually making notes in the margin of my mind for some final statement, make this mark, waiting for some winter's evening.
      "Now I shall go and lunch somewhere, I shall hold my glass up, I shall look through the wine, I shall observe with more than my usual detachment, and when a pretty woman enters the restaurant and comes down the room between the tables I shall say to myself, Look where she comes against a waste of waters.  A meaningless observation, but to me, solemn, slate-coloured, with a fatal sound of ruining worlds and waters falling to destruction.
      "So, Bernard (I recall you, you the usual partner in my enterprises), let us begin this new chapter, and observe the formation of this new, this unknown, strange, altogether unidentified and terrifying experience- the new drop- which is about to shape itself . . ."

(to be continued)