To the Lighthouseis at once a vivid impressionist depiction of a family holiday, and a meditation on a marriage, on parenthood and childhood, on grief, tyranny and bitterness. Its use of stream of consciousness, reminiscence and shifting perspectives, give the novel an intimate, poetic essence, and at the time of publication in 1927 it represented an utter rejection of Victorian and Edwardian literary values.
“Think of a kitchen table when you’re not there” – Mr Ramsay’s studies in ‘subject and object and the nature of reality’ are all through the book itself, especially in Time Passes, the section where we watch the slow decay of an empty house, from the slow swinging of a shawl as it comes loose, to the eventual invasion of thistles and toads coming through the floor – and in parentheses as swift asides, we learn of drastic events in the world and of the characters who no longer inhabit the house. This section is beautifully written. The book is worth reading for that alone. We can feel and experience the gradual draining away of meaning as the house lies empty for longer and longer. Its very stillness is a character of force.
(Mr Ramsey is so worried about whether or not his work will last – and yet his whole work is about the nature of reality itself, and the more we think of it the more everything starts to unravel).
There are thousands of voices and impressions here, as in life: voice upon voice weaving in and out, until one loses grip on the individual parts and suddenly, for a moment, one sees a greater whole… and then it’s gone and we’re back to the individual parts again. All those fragments have been swirling around – impressions, thoughts, the loving and repelling of people – and then right at the end there’s a brief, tiny moment of clarity. The painting is complete. And for what?
Part 2 is a short section called "Time Passes," in which the next ten years unfold in factual narrative. And yet this section, which unveiled a number of significant Ramsey family events, had a surprisingly emotional impact. This was followed by Part 3, with the Ramsey family once again at their holiday home, picking up the pieces of a life gone somewhat awry. The youngest children, now teenagers, accompany their father on a visit to a lighthouse near the island. They are filled with teenage resentment, pent up over years of somewhat tyrannical paternal rule. Their emotions ebb and flow like the waves lapping at the side of their boat.
And what happens, exactly? Not much. And yet, somehow, I was entranced by this family's life, from being made up of little separate incidents which one lived one by one, became curled and whole like a wave which bore one up with it and threw one down with it, there, with a dash on the beach (p. 47) This is a book best read, and re-read, and savored to glean new details and insights each time.
I guess it comes across that I'm a fanboy. Well, I am, so what?
This is the novel Woolf considered her finest, though I don't agree with that assessment, being a partisan of Mrs Dalloway for that title. I think she felt it was her finest because she was so much in it; it was a means of exorcising the ghosts of growing up in the Stephen household. It's set in the same place that the Stephens spent their summers, and most of the events are identical to events in Virginia's young life. I am glad that the book succeeded, artistically and psychologically and materially; but I don't find in it the sheer, rapturous joy that I find in Mrs Dalloway.
But it's not for everyone. Leave it alone until you're at a point in life where your own memories are soft and rounded; while they're sharp and painful, Woolf won't be likely to find room in your head to spread her soft cotton blanket of story.
The third person narrative is split between the perspective of some of the family and house guests, and the plot of the book is essentially the observation of the human condition. Each of the viewpoints layer vivid observations of Mr. and Mrs. Ramsay in particular, which combine superbly to depict how different people can have such disparate opinions of a person. For me this was one of two standout achievements of the novel - in most books the same side of a character are depicted through different narrators, but this novel so successfully depicted how beauty is so very much in the eye of the beholder.
The second way in which the book blew me away was through very thing I thought I’d abhor - Woolf’s stream of consciousness style. It took a while to get used to, but I found it resonated with me most unexpectedly, especially in the first part of the novel. I really connected with Mrs. Ramsay’s ‘internal chatter’ as a wife, mother and woman. I’m sure it’s not necessarily a good thing that many of Woolf’s autobiographical thoughts spoke to me, but I just “got" where she was coming from with many of these musings. For example, I too have looked at my young children absorbed in the happy straightforwardness of their childhood and wondered how ‘real’ life will turn out for them (yes, alas I am one of life’s worriers).
There is a short middle section to the book which I won’t comment on as it would spoil the book for anyone who hasn’t read it, and then the third part of the book observes a snapshot of some of the group’s life on another day in the island some years later, post WWI. Again, this just brilliantly captures human nature, especially how a seemingly innocuous exchange with a child can stay with them for life, and how people often struggle to be the person they want to be. Perhaps, even more poignantly, how we often struggle to show people our truly good side even though it’s there deep within us, and how many of us need a certain person to make us truly shine. In this section of the book the children are now grown up, and Woolf applies her lightness of touch to demonstrate how life’s people and happenings shape our characters.
Although fairly short, this novel took me quite a while to read as I found I had to have near silence to absorb myself in it. Normally I quite happily read away whilst my husband has the TV blaring at full blast, but Woolf’s prose was so profoundly beautiful I needed to take in every word.
If any of us are afraid of Virginia Woolf, it’s perhaps because she captures life with an alarming honesty. An absolute definite 5 star read for me.
From the very first page, Woolf immerses the reader in her radical style and approach: long, flowing, Proustian sentences that weave themselves around small events and snippets of dialogue. Never content to let the words speak for themselves, Woolf explores in great detail the mindsets of her characters, giving a level of interiority that is at once illuminating and almost overwhelming. Whether it is James's shocking anger, Lily Briscoe's consistent lack of confidence, or the unsettledness lying beneath Mrs. Ramsay's calm, collected exterior, each character is given more depth in his or her small portion of this slim volume than many authors can give to a single character of their own.
As if an intensely stream-of-consciousness novel didn't already imply this, Woolf's pacing is masterful and her use of time is, to be ever so slightly redundant, radical. "The Window" and "The Lighthouse," each of which take place over a single day, bookend the short interlude "Time Passes," which in 20 pages spans over 10 years and, in a simple and understated way, gestures towards the futility of human life in the face of the unending march of time. Yet the remainder of the novel puts so much emphasis on the everyday, the commonplace, that we never believe that Woolf finds any of these acts useless in the grand scheme. Rather, she manages to find the beauty and the significance in the smallest of acts, and draws them out with skill and pathos.
I could go on at further length, but the fact of the matter is that, like with Mrs. Dalloway, there is nothing that can be told about To the Lighthouse that cannot be more clearly understood by simply reading it. It is intense, it is engrossing, and it is intimidating -- but it is also worth every minute.
Reviewed January 28, 2014
I’m breaking all the rules with Virginia Woolf’s To the Lighthouse. A cold eye and heart would strip this book of its power. And if you want that kind of assessment, there’s an excellent one by Julia Briggs in the introduction to the Everyman’s Edition of this novel. To the Lighthouse is a book that’s meant to be felt, not simply read. The rhythm of its narrative needs to wash over and pull you down into it. Once submerged, what might have begun as a “difficult read” becomes second nature. I became so lost in each character. One moment I despised them and found dinner interminable, the next I was loving Charles for feeling so angry at their small talk, and so lonely all at the same time. I’ve soooo been there are dinner parties – not getting the drifts, but wanting to be there in the middle anyway. There were pieces of myself that I was finding in Lily and Mrs. Ramsey and Charles and James and Mr. Ramsey, in all of the characters, and I knew them all as much, or as little, as I know myself. The “Time Passes” section is so brilliant in structure and how it carries us through the difficult times, like the boat that in the end brings us to the lighthouse. I can’t wait to re-read this book – because I must. I know that I will find something completely different to love about it next time.
Mrs. Ramsay is beautiful, charming and headstrong, with an obsessive desire to see others married. She is an avid admirer of her even more headstrong husband, who is accomplished and valued in his philosophical field. She is patient and benevolent, he is rude, quick-tempered and all about himself. Both fill the rooms they are in and leave barely enough air for others. Only the successful poet Mr. Carmichael avoids their effect and simply eats and drinks at their expense. The others are torn between admiration and resisting the influence.
Part of the genius of the book lies in Woolf's giving us the interior perspectives of all the characters. We get to know Lily's passions and longings, Charles' frustrations, James' enmity toward and similarities to his father, as well as the views of peripheral characters like James' sister Cam, who is pulled toward both her brother and her father. The other part of the book's genius is the gorgeous writing.
"Night after night, summer and winter, the torment of storms, the arrow-like stillness of fine weather, held their court without interference. Listening (had there been anyone there to listen) from the upper rooms of the empty house only gigantic chaos streaked with lightning could have been heard tumbling and tossing, as the winds and waves disported themselves like the amorphous bulks of leviathans whose brows are pierced by no light of reason, and mounted one on top of another, and lunged and plunged in the darkness or the daylight (for night and day, month and year ran shapelessly together) in idiot games, until it seemed as if the universe were battling and tumbling, in brute confusion and and wanton lust aimlessly by itself."
Gorgeous, and also quite dense in the reading. I ended up with respect, not love, for this one. It made me think of Proust, with beautiful writing and not much happening. In the midst of such talented writing, it seemed sacrilegious to long for a shot to ring out, but long I did. Four stars.
The grumpy Mr Ramsey, an academic genius, spends all his time pacing the garden poking hedges while internally angsting about not being a ‘Z’. The rest of the time, he’s a pitiful attention-seeker. His grand wife is in awe of him, yet consumed by her own vanity (when she’s not staring at mundane things and thinking how they are like other things). Lily, a young family friend, takes ten years to decide where to paint a line on her canvas and so is doomed to a single life. Everybody else is equally nuts. For the first half of the book we float from the daydreams of one oddball to another while a book is read to a child, the father wanders about annoying people, people look out to sea, a girl loses a ring, then they all have dinner.
Reading Woolf is a particular experience. You have to go with the flow. Once you get used to it, it’s an immersive, dreamlike ride. Addictive. It’s one of those books you want to keep on your shelf because you *know* you will revisit it. Her skill is such that it ought to be compulsory reading for writers. I hope I’m able to somehow learn from it. To use Mr Ramsey’s alphabet metaphor of accomplishment, Woolf is probably an ‘X’ or ‘Y’.
There were times, however, when I wished the thought patterns, voice and vocabulary were more distinctive between the characters. The six year old boy’s thoughts were as eloquent and sophisticated as his parents. It also took me a while to realize it was Mrs Ramsey who had gone upstairs to check on the children after dinner, and not Lily.
The short chapters of the central second part of the book are so exquisite they read like a series of sublime poems.
The writing of Virginia Woolf is not to everyone’s taste, but everyone ought to have a taste of it, and give it time to develop on the palate.
Although I've read only a handful of stream of consciousness novels, I'm fascinated by the technique. Done well, it really does mirror the activity in my own head. I'm an introvert, so I tend to spend a lot of time there. I'm not sure that this technique will appeal so much to extroverts. I think stream of consciousness novels may be books by introverts for introverts.
I should very much like to see Lily Briscoe's painting.
There isn't much to the actual plot, but that isn't the point; the "plot" is the interior struggle we all have grappling with life and those around us. Woolf is masterful at flushing out her major themes, which are the transience of life and the complexities of the relationship between men and women. Her stream of consciousness technique, as in Joyce and Faulkner, is sometimes hard to follow, but this book is well worth reading.
"What is the meaning of life? That was all - a simple question; one that tended to close in on one with the years. The great revelation had never come. The great revelation perhaps never did come. Instead there were little daily miracles, illuminations, matches struck unexpectedly in the dark; here was one...."
"...this scene on the beach for example, this moment of friendship and liking - which survived, after all these years complete, so that she dipped into it to re-fashion her memory of him, and there it stayed in the mind affecting one almost like a work of art."
On motherhood and children:
"They came to her, naturally, since she was a woman, all day long with this and that; one wanting this, another that; the children were growing up; she often felt she was nothing but a sponge sopped full of human emotions."
"Oh, but she never wanted James to grow a day older! or Cam either. These two she would have liked to keep for ever just as they were, demons of wickedness, angels of delight, never to see them grow up into long-legged monsters. Nothing made up for the loss. When she read just now to James, 'and there were numbers of soldiers with kettledrums and trumpets,' and his eyes darkened, she thought, why should they grow up, and lose all that? ..... Why should they go to school? She would have liked always to have had a baby. She was happiest carrying one in her arms. Then people might say she was tyrannical, domineering, masterful, if they chose; she did not mind. And, touching his hair with her lips, she thought, he will never be so happy again...."
"...children never forget. For this reason, it was so important what one said, and what one did, and it was a relief when they went to bed."
"...so that the monotonous fall of the waves on the beach, which for the most part beat a measured and soothing tattoo to her thoughts and seemed consolingly to repeat over and over again as she sat with the children the words of some old cradle song, murmured by nature, 'I am guarding you - I am your support,' but at other times suddenly and unexpectedly, especially when her mind raised itself slightly from the task actually in hand, had no such kindly meaning, but like a ghostly roll of drums remorselessly beat the measure of life, made one think of the destruction of the island and its engulfment in the sea, and warned her whose day had slipped past in one quick doing after another that it was all ephemeral as a rainbow..."
"Indeed he seemed to her sometimes made differently from other people, born blind, deaf, and dumb, to the ordinary things, but to the extraordinary things, with an eye like an eagle's. His understanding often astonished her. But did he notice the flowers? No. Did he notice the view? No. Did he even notice his own daughter's beauty, or whether there was pudding on his plate or roast beef? He would sit at table with them like a person in a dream."
"At the far end, was her husband, sitting down, all in a heap, frowning. What at? She did not know. She did not mind. She could not understand how she had ever felt any emotion or affection for him. She had a sense of being past everything, through everything, out of everything, as she helped the soup, as if there was an eddy - there - and one could be in it, or one could be out of it, and she was out of it."
"The truth was that he did not enjoy family life. It was in this sort of state that one asked oneself, What does one live for? Why, one asked oneself, does one take all these pains for the human race to go on? Is it so very desirable? Are we attractive as a species? Not so very, he thought."
"She would never know him. He would never know her. Human relations were all like that, she thought, and the worst (if it had not been for Mr. Bankes) were between men and women. Inevitably these were extremely insincere, she thought."
"It came over her too now - the emotion, the vibration, of love. How inconspicuous she felt herself by Paul's side! He glowing, burning; she, aloof, satirical; he, bound for adventure; she, moored to the shore; he, launched, incautious; she, solitary, left out..."
"She was glad, Lily thought, to rest in silence, uncommunicative; to rest in the extreme obscurity of human relationships. Who knows what we are, what we feel? Who knows even at the moment of intimacy, This is knowledge?"
On the transience of life:
"And his fame lasts how long? It is permissible even for a dying hero to think before he dies how men will speak of him hereafter. His fame lasts perhaps two thousand years. And what are two thousand years? (asked Mr. Ramsay ironically, staring at the hedge). What, indeed, if you look from a mountain top down the long wastes of the ages? The very stone one kicks with one's boot will outlast Shakespeare."
"...she must admit that she felt this thing that she call life terrible, hostile, and quick to pounce on you if you gave it a chance. There were the eternal problems: suffering, death; the poor. There was always a woman dying of cancer even here. And yet she had said to all these children, You shall go through it all."
"How could any Lord have made this world? she asked. With her mind she had always seized the fact that there is no reason, order, justice: but suffering, death, the poor. There was no treachery too base for the world to commit; she knew that. No happiness lasted; she knew that."
I love the feeling this evoked at the end of part one:
"With her foot on the threshold she waited a moment longer in a scene which was vanishing even as she looked, and then, as she moved and took Minta's arm and left the room, it changed, it shaped itself differently; it had become, she knew, giving one past look at it over her shoulder, already the past."
"Rubbing the glass of the long looking-glass and leering sideways at her swinging figure a sound issued from her lips - something that had been gay twenty years before on the stage perhaps, had been hummed and danced to, but now, coming from this toothless, bonneted, care-taking woman, was robbed of meaning, was like the voice of witlessness, humour, persistency itself, trodden down but springing up again, so that as she lurched, dusting, wiping, she seemed to say how it was one long sorrow and trouble..."
"...she could not shake herself free from the sense that everything this morning was happening for the first time, perhaps for the last time, as a traveller, even though he is half asleep, knows, looking out of the train window, that he must look now, for he will never see that town, or that mule-cart, or that woman at work in the fields, again."
by Virginia Woolf (1882-1941)
audio - full cast dramatization (BBC Radio Classics)
considered modernist literature (origins in the late 19th and early 20th centuries) primarily in Europe and North America.
Modernism in literature is characterized by an intentional break with traditional styles of poetry and verse.
It expresses belief that the world is created in the act of perceiving it; that is, the world is what we say it is.
Concerned with the stream of consciousness, we (the reader) listen to her characters' "perception of the moment"
We visit their emotional responses to what they see.
We're given the opportunity to understand people when they are engaged in the art of looking.
Although both To the Lighthouse and Mrs. D. are written in the stream-of-consciousness style for which Woolf is famous, I connected with To the Lighthouse on a visceral level while Mrs. D's middle-aged inter-war ruminations on preparing for a dinner party left me cold.
On the Isle of Skye, a rift arises between Mr. and Mrs. Ramsay over a disagreement about whether to visit the lighthouse. Ten years later, after the war has begun and ended, and Mrs. Ramsay has passed away, Prue has died in childbirth and James in the war, painter Lily accompanies Mr. Ramsay and the remaining family members to attempt the journey once more. The novel is concerned with thought, loss, and perception, especially perception of others. Read it to examine your own inner life, your perceptions of loss, and the vast intractable tundras that separate you from the secret inner lives of others. Read it to learn how to write, lyrically.
I've had to change my rating from four stars to five because I realized that some of its descriptions have never left me, and have appeared unbidden during an afternoon on the beach, or a rainy family reunion, so familiar now that I forgot that I co-opted my flitting emotions from this novel.
"but at the moment her eyes were so clear that they seemed to
go round the table unveiling each of these people, and their thoughts
and their feelings, without effort like a light stealing under water so
that its ripples and the reeds in it and the minnows balancing
themselves, and the sudden silent trout are all lit up hanging,
trembling. So she saw them; she heard them; but whatever they said had
also this quality, as if what they said was like the movement of a
trout when, at the same time, one can see the ripple and the gravel,
something to the right, something to the left; and the whole is held
together; for whereas in active life she would be netting and
separating one thing from another;"