[Virginia Woolf]
[Virginia Woolf]
L. T. Hewitt
‘What’s her name, Virginia Plain?’ – Roxy Music
Story I
A house. Two figures. They are 1 and 2. 1 is sat on the furniture, reading Novel. 2 is outside. 1 adores Novel. By now, e thought, this must be the ordinal number time I've read Novel. Yet with every reading (every wonderful exploration into the realm of Character!) something new appears. A new thought emerges. A second story takes shape. Though by now dozens upon dozens of stories have taken shape, they are all within the pages of the one novel; eir holy book now being that named Novel.
2 enters. 1 and 2 are housemates, and had now lived together for time.
‘Hello,’ said 1.
‘Hello,’ said 2.
‘How was your day?’ asked 1.
2 sighed. E had had a long day, as the expression went: initially starting out with an unsatisfactory chronological arrangement, before moving on to a point where an acquaintance made a remark which changed the whole mood of the area entirely – the proceedings were topped off with an uncomfortable encounter with those unwelcome. ‘Bad. I could go into more detail, but I shan’t bother you.’
'No, do go on,' – that's what 1 would have said. But in reality e was too engrossed in Novel to care what was happening in the outside world. E continued to look down at the pages of the text. Each second drew em in like a mousetrap covered in pure ecstasy.
'As I say, I shan't bother you.'
1 didn't look up.
'I'll just head over to room on my own, shall I?'
1 remained locked in eir book. 'Hmm?'
It wasn't really a question, but showed e at least acknowledged e should be saying something – which wasn't at all similar to actually saying something.
Eventually, 1 found a position in which e could place a finger in the book; he reached the end of a paragraph (having started three since 2 started talking to em), placed a fleshy stop in the pages and looked up ready to listen.
'Yes.'
‘Everything has gone negatively.’
‘Oh, dear.’
‘Things are not particularly positive and I am feeling fairly negative about it.’
2 took a place on an item of furniture.
1 sat up, ready to listen. ‘Tell me about it.’
‘Oh, 1, you will not want to hear.’
‘No, I do.’
‘Okay, then.’ 2 cleared eir throat and began: ‘The day started off all right. You saw me this morning. I was okay. Then my breakfast was less than satisfactory. A little downturn, but insignificant enough that it did not ruin my day. The next event was the getting to the location. On the travel there, I had an unpleasant experience. This caused my positivity to lessen. Next, my peers brought me down further. The following events were bad. Overall, today has been a bit of an unpleasant one.’
‘Well, you are back home now,’ 1 said in an attempt to comfort 2, but also to allow emself the safe passage back into the literature of Writer.
2 saw this was going nowhere. E could be insightful at times – and not so insightful at others. At this moment, 2 was somewhere between the two and not prepared, after the day e had had, to sit here with an inattentive 1 and try to express emself.
2 took emself off to room. When there, e performed the task required of em (who is 1 to assume I will perform the task?; I will, of course, but because I want to) and felt the satisfaction of acting for oneself when helping others.
2 spent some time on the action – a perfectionist in some areas – and then drew a heavy sigh when the light toil was complete.
From here, 2 desperately needed to relax. E went through to a more personal room and picked up eir favourite book. It was a fine work. Eir favourite, a work perpetually able to conjure pleasure. Oh, Novel. Oh, Writer. Oh, beauty and passion. Oh, everything.
It was at this point, 2 melted. 2 simply collapsed, fell, slid into the book. Such a work of fiction – such a beautiful expression of art! How passionate it was that someone could put so much of themselves into fiction.
In the first room, 1 was sat on the furniture, reading some book e deemed good. But I know of true literature. I am the one who holds a true connection with art.
Meanwhile, 1 had no idea how arrogant 2's thoughts were getting. Instead, 1 had paid little attention to where and when 2 was. 1 was far too engrossed in eir book to care for the 'real' world. The book was Novel. Novel had always made 1 feel positive.
Novel had the perfect mix of characters. Those both relatable and distant. Obscurity and the everyday. Here and now. Life and the lifeless. Oh, to dwell within those pages. To sit for hours and simply read. But not simply read – reading was everything but simple. Reading was everything. But simple. To sit and read: that was the endgoal of every ambition. And 1 had accomplished this.
After some time, 2 was forced (or at least believed emself forced) into ending the reading session. There were pressing issues. There were things to do other than just sit around and indulge in literature. Novel was just a book. There was life to be lived.
2 left the leisure zone and engaged emself in activity. Work, labour, toil. That was life, and such a life must life be.
2 looked across at 1, and all e could feel was rage. That lout, lying around, absorbed in a good book, when other people have real work to do. Real lives to live. Reality to face…
But it did seem fun. Lying back and absorbing fine literature. And, in a sense, it almost seemed useful. After all, is one of the functions of life to find some pleasure, or some meaning, or something somewhere in some way. But, of course, 2 had more important things to do.
Out the corner of eir eye, 1 noticed that 2 was employed in menial labour. What a waste of time. Pointless motion and action with no overall aim but the prolonging of the same actions.
What a waste.
Inevitably, the irritation became too much for 2. 2 could never bear to watch people in any level of comfort for any length of time. E stepped over towards 1.
'What you doing?' 2 asked. 2 sounded angry.
'I'm reading,' 1 replied. 'It's a concept you may or may not be familiar with.'
'I’m familiar with reading,’ said 2, littering her every word with all eir excess spite. ‘What I’m not familiar with is lazing around.’
‘Who’s lazing around?’
‘There is work to be done. I can’t stand timewasting.’
‘Neither can I,’ said 1. ‘That’s why you should lie down and read a book.’
2 groaned and sighed in one painful bundle. ‘Can’t you just answer me plainly once, please?’
‘I’m being serious,’ 1 clarified. ‘Sit down and read a book.’
‘I can’t just laze about. They are other things to be doing.’
‘Well what’s the point of them if they don’t allow you to read a book?’
Some days 2 was convinced 1 spent all days actively calculating everything e could do to annoy 2, and only began to be slobbish once 2 came home.
‘Sit down,’ 1 said, almost a forceful command. Almost. ‘Read a book. There are plenty of great books to be getting on with.’
‘1, I’m sure we don’t read the same sort
‘Wha’ ye’re tal’in’ aboot?’
‘Well,’ 2 began, ‘yous are a slob, what wi’ yer lazin’ aboot—’
‘Lazin’ aboot, lazin’ aboot; all I ever ‘ear aboot is your tellin’ me Ah’m lazin’ aboot. Lazin’ aboot, mah foot.’
2 was in a huff. ‘Fine. Justify why this ain’t lazing about.’
‘Why on Earth would reading ever be considered lazy?’ asked 1. ‘Reading is the only productive thing you can do. It’s the only real activity with any worth.’
‘What?’
‘It opens the
mind – or closes it where necessary. Reading teaches you facts, emotions and methods of perception. What would you have me do instead?’
‘Well...’ 2 tried to think of an alternative. E had talked on and on about all the work which needed doing instead of reading, but when it boiled down, 2 could not think of anything which really needed doing besides reading. ‘It’s just not real. Reading is not reality. It is creating useless fantasy worlds. What a waste of time. I like to read, but only once everything else is already done. You cannot go out of your way to read. You have to read to fill any gap which arises. You have no gaps to fill. There is still work. Stop reading. Come back to reality.’
1 leant over the back of the furniture, half-closing eir eyes to view the world and would reopen them fully when e later returned to the book, to the wonderful world of Novel. ‘2, reality is what I choose to do in the moments between reading.’
1 returned to the book. 2 sighed and returned to work.
A moment of external peace fell upon the room. 2 worked and worked. 1 read and read. There was a silence not unpleasant to the ear – no extended strain of soundlessness, but the gentle denouement of a conversation break.
Internally, of course, irrational fires blazed. 2’s bitterness about having to do work e volunteered to do but felt awful for doing was overshadowed in the ether only by 1’s mild annoyance and complete violent ignorance of every fibre of 2’s being and string of eir mental turmoil.
2 wandered around the room, making a note of every spot e stepped into. Inevitably, e could not stand the silence any longer.
E walked up to the music player and put a piece of audio beauty on to play. It was eir favourite piece. The perfect composition. The most excellent work of art ever observed by ear.
‘Turn it off,’ said 1.
It was an elegant work, was ‘Song’. The mystery. The splendour. The ardent artism of acoustics. Every wave which reached eir ear brought into life a whole new reason to live.
‘Turn it off.’
‘What?’
‘I hate it.’
‘You hate it?’ 2 had never considered that anyone could hate ‘Song’, but their mutual contempt for each other’s conditions with respect to any interests and levels of activity meant it was unsurprising they differed in opinion. ‘I can’t believe you hate it.’
‘Why is dat soh sorprisang?’
‘It’s surprising because “Song” is perfect. It is the greatest expression of identity known to mankind.’
‘Is no. Is bery bad work. Da song “Song” is jus’ de worse.’
‘You’re wrong.’
‘I not wrong. Is my biew and my biew is what is right. Go back to you owan opinion and leabe me alon.’
‘I am leaving you alone. I like “Song”; I want to play “Song”; I will play “Song”.’
1 got out eir seat and switched the piece off. ‘Don’t put it back on again. Leave me in peace. Read if you want. In fact, I encourage you to read. Please do. Just don’t make me listen to that awful thing you were just playing.’
2 left the room in a huff.
Reading, reading. 2 went back to eir room and read for some time. Then e stopped. E wanted to defy 1’s orders. E went back into the main room and then made as much noise as possible without switching ‘Song’ back on. E rattled plates, e knocked over every loud thing. E was generally a nuisance, but did not switch the song back on. Then e decided e should not have to follow 1’s orders. So 2 switched ‘Song’ on. 1 got up and switched it off again. They did this a few more times. Then 2 left the room and spent the next period of time reading.
Then it happened. The event which shook the foundations of their relationship and slashed the heart of the atmosphere.
It. The great it occured.
‘What on Earth is it?’ asked 2.
‘Isn’t it obvious?’ asked 1, fully aware that it was not completely obvious to 2, but wanting to sound reassuring at the same time as timidly comforting. ‘It is it.’
It is it. Never a truer word spoken. It was as clear as night and life-affirming as a gravestone; the simile running, of course, as the fact that the presence of a gravestone was the most accurate indicator of a life having taken place.
The event of life, the warm lingering around until the inevitable conclusion: nothing but the conclusion could more accurately prove that the original run of life had taken place.
It. The all-powerful force which blasted them into a new age of being – a baptism of fire in a candle-snuffer.
Nothing had ever made 1 and 2 question life as much as it.
‘Oh, 1,’ said 2. E opened eir mouth to speak, but the words never apparated.
‘It’s okay. Don’t be afraid.’
‘I am afraid,’ said 2. ‘I don’t think I can ever be anything other than afraid. Not now. Not again.’
‘Then if you must be afraid, be afraid with others.’
They held each other tightly.
When it occurred, nobody but those at the centre knew quite what had happened. It had its positives and negatives. It had its precursors and consequences. It had its attack and response. There were numerous theories as to why it happened. All 1 and 2 could say for certain was that it had happened.
The shock rippled through every inch of their bodies. A colossal vibration which turned their cells to jelly and their minds to dust.
All they could do was huddle close together and hope the world didn't end. Or, if the world did end, they would be beside each other.
In time, it came to pass that not everything was bad in the world. Overall, the mood was temperate. There were good times and bad times and all right times and mediocre times. There was Heaven and Hell, the Earth and the outside. The everyday and the great unknown.
1 and 2 came to realise that, indeed, they could cope.
‘What do we do now?’ asked 2. ‘How on Earth can we cope?’
‘There’s only one way to move past this event,’ 1 explained. ‘We read.’
1 came to think that perhaps there was good in the world. E picked up the book e had been reading just before it had happened.
‘Oh, 1,’ said 2, from the next place on the furniture. ‘I don’t want to be left alone.’
‘You aren’t alone. You never have to be alone. I am here and you are here and so we are together.’
‘But I’m alone.’
1 put an arm around 2. ‘Read and you’ll never be alone. You’ll be in perpetual dialogue with the immortals.’
1 delved into Novel. Oh, Writer. Only Writer could express what e felt – well, that was never truly true. Writer, 2 and 1 emself could all feel the same. But they were individuals. Each of them was an independent being united in thought; not just in having the same thoughts, but that they thought at all.
2 retrieved eir book. It was Novel. The most perfect work ever perceived. It spoke of life and death. It spoke of birth and decay. It spoke of innocence and experience. But most of all it spoke to 2, and that was the most important thing.
‘I lied.’
‘What?’
‘Earlier, when I said I hated “Song”. That was complete rubbish.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes. “Song” is my favourite song ever. I listen to it practically every day. I was overjoyed when I discovered you liked it too, but we were blanking each other and our shared joy made me detest you more.’
'That's all right with me.'
The two were transfixed for some time in listening to the wonderful music of ‘Song’ – their shared passion – and reading works of literature.
1 delved deep into Novel, eir favourite novel by eir favourite writer, Writer. 2 did the same, also reading Novel by Writer. After a good period of time spent reading, 1 and 2 put their books down and looked at each other.
‘Did you enjoy?’ asked 1.
‘Yes. It’s a great work. My favourite. I’ve read it loads of times before. ’
‘I sometimes feel like Character is the only person I can connect
to. Nobody else appears to understand me. I do not wish to whine, but the story displayed here in the life of Character – while not identical to my own – is at least an exploration of what it is about, which is currently the only thing I can identify with.’
2 looked both alarmed and emotive. ‘What did you say? That’s just what I want to say.’
‘I said I feel a deep connection with Character. Something which goes beyond observer status. I am living in the world of Character. Not merely that; I am living in eir soul and eir mind.’
‘Character?’
‘Yes. Character is a character.’
‘As in the character Character, from the novel Novel?’
1 sat up abruptly. ‘Yes.’ A warm glimmer appeared in eir eyes. ‘Do not tell me you are also reading Writer.’
‘Yes! I love Novel. It is my favourite book ever.’
1 was so taken aback, e no longer had any words to say. ‘Oh, 2!’
‘1! If only we had known earlier that we had this connection.’
‘How strange this all is.’
‘Of course,’ said 2. ‘I was reading Novel by Writer.’
1’s face lit up. ‘Really? You like Novel?’
‘Yes. It’s excellent. Why?’
‘I like Novel. It’s what I was just reading.’ 1 picked up the book e’d just put down and showed the cover, displaying the luxurious words:
Novel
by Writer
2 delicately took the book out eir hands. ‘That is beautiful.’
‘I read it for the first time a few periods of time ago. It was very uplifting.’ 1 twisted eir face. ‘But now I think about it, I analyse it very differently to how I did the first time.’ E turned to 2. ‘Do you ever find you read a book differently on the second run through?’
‘I rarely have the opportunity to read a book more than once, so I don’t have the experience.’
‘You should read more,’ said 1. ‘Spend more time with Character.’
‘I would love to spend more time with Character. E’s my favourite element of Novel.’
‘You like Character?’
‘Oh, 1,’ said 2. ‘Character is not just what makes Novel; Character is Novel.’
‘I had no idea you were into Novel or the works of Writer at all.’
‘Oh yes, it’s the greatest.’
‘The most beautiful work.’
‘The most perfect expression of existence.’
‘Life bound in a spine.’
They sat in silence a moment more, listening to the mellowing force of 'Song'. It made the moment. Music forged the experience of life. Then 1 turned to 2 and said, 'Did you know that "Song" was written by Writer?'
'That makes everything in the world greater.'
1 sat and pondered. Then e announced, ‘All this experience. All these events. All these thoughts. Flowing back and forth between the two of us, 1 and 2. And all this happening right here in a single household in a single settlement over the reading of a book in year.’
List A
1 James Joyce
2 Virginia Woolf
Novel The Odyssey
Writer Homer
Character Odysseus
‘Song’ Odysseus
It World War I
furniture chaise longue
period of time a month
year 1914
location Hogarth House, Richmond
List B
1 Sarah from Essex
2 Charles from Chelsea
Novel Angel
Writer Katie Price
Character Angel
‘Song’ ‘Free to Love Again’
It a blind date
furniture bed
period of time two days
year 2014
location Chelmsford
List C
1 Sylvia Plath
2 Ted Hughes
Novel On the Road
Writer Jack Kerouac
Character Sal
‘Song’ ‘American Haiku’
It Plath’s suicide
furniture a river bank
period of time a year
year 1956–1998
List D
1 Cleopatra, Sandra, Sam, Richard and Capacity
2 Vaclav, Maria, Lisa, Jean-Luc and Retina
Novel all literature
Writer all writers
Character the outsider figure
‘Song’ ‘Don’t Stop Me Now’, poetry, dubstep
It a dream, moving house, the end of a party, midnight and losing hope
furniture sofa, table, worktop, bed, staircase, door, bathtub, dance floor and dart board
period of time one day
year 2014