Novel A
Virginia Woolf stepped up to Hogarth House; it was her home, alongside her husband Leonard in Richmond, London.
They worked side by side in Bloomsbury, in the sweet literary airs of the suburban luxury. Leonard read the books which would not be published by others; the works rejected by the mainstream presses; those stories which would have formerly gone ignored, but which were now handed to the small publishers; the voices yet to be heard; the unknown; the uncommon; the imaginative.
Virginia entered the house; she called ‘Leonard! Leonard! Leonard!’ thrice like the owl in so many poems and curses; he did not respond. Virginia made her way through into the back room, where Leonard was scanning through sheets and sheets of prospective literature.
‘It’s fantastic,’ he announced as Virginia entered the room.
‘What are you reading?’
‘This book; another writer dropped it over earlier and asked if I would read it and review; I am doing so.’
‘That’s fantastic,’ said Virginia. ‘I shall read it after you if they’d like some more feedback.’
‘Ooh, one more thing,’ Leonard gasped, placing a finger in the book to save his space in preparation for a short conversation. ‘James Joyce is here to see you.’
Virginia Woolf groaned.
‘Do you not get on with James? I thought you were well acquainted.’
‘He views writing neither as expression nor relief; to him, writing is a challenge to prove himself superior.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that. He’s in the living room. He says he wants to discuss literature with you.’
‘Of course he wants to discuss it now; he just published a book a month ago.’
‘Ah.’
Virginia walked through into the living room and found herself face-to-face with an Irishman looking smugly at his own self-worth.
'Very good to see you, Mrs Woolf.'
'Virginia, please.'
'Oh, Virginia. Have you heard the great news of my new collection?'
'What news is that?'
Virginia gazed into the brandy bottle sat on the book shelf. It was far from literary, yet held a revered spot there; a work waiting to be created. She wondered how long it would sit there, and if it would be drunk in happiness or sorrow. She saw her future in the swirling brown liquid, and it was bleak; many hours sat listening to Joyce's bragging.
'It's selling perfectly! Everybody wants to hear the imaginative story of the Dubliners.'
‘Do they? What is it about?’
James Joyce sighed the gently demeaning sigh of someone about to argue for argument’s sake; Virginia Woolf could relate of course, but her arguments had a social purpose; she believed her discussion of life’s tiresome details added to life itself; if Virginia could address the role of women in literature, maybe she could make the fair sex equal as writers.
'Dubliners is not one mere story; it is all manner of stories, detailing the aforementioned Dubliners.' The phrase ‘all manner’ had long eluded Virginia; surely a manner is singular; or else, the phrase may be better explained as ‘all manners’; it seemed unlikely that James Joyce himself understood the expression ‘all manner’; but, of course, he used it anyway; in all likelihood, he used it purely because he did not understand it; Virginia Woolf fancied that Joyce was using the term purely for self-gain; the arrogance of him to believe he had dumbfounded Virginia Woolf was certainly telling.
‘Okay. I am sure it is fascinating.’
‘It certainly is; a thrilling series of windows into the lives of people in our fair city.’
'That is good to know.' Virginia wished she could exit the room and occupy herself with some reading; she had far better manners than to actually do so. 'What have you been reading lately?' she asked with genuine interest; hearing other people's experiences of reading always sparked her creative mood.
'I have been back in The Odyssey.'
'Homer's Odyssey?'
'Do you know of any other Odyssey?'
'I suppose not.'
'You will do soon. I am writing my own version of the tale; set in Dublin.'
Virginia Woolf was genuinely excited; she was unsure whether to show that or not; in a sense, it seemed that expressing interest in Joyce’s new work would be feeding his arrogance; in other sense, Virginia knew how it felt to be ignored as a writer; and she would certainly never wish to impose that feeling upon anybody else.
‘I read The Odyssey in my younger days; when I looked fondly upon the history of literature and never upon the future.’
‘Ah,’ Joyce said either dismissively or thoughtfully; Virginia would have to wait for the next comment to know which; even then, it probably wouldn’t be clear; Virgina had often found ambiguity about intent and opinion to be a fault with the Irish; today was not the day for that notion to be dispelled. ‘One shouldn’t read The Odyssey in any state of immaturity. Homer is the poet of poets; back to basics; he really knew how to write a terrific tale.’
What could Virginia Woolf do to pass the time? All the books in the library usually pleased her; all the endless volumes of mystery. But today they had lost their appeal. After Joyce’s visit, Virginia could no longer pick up any old book. Only one old book drew her inquisitive mind.
There it was. As she trailed her finger along the spines of the Woolf library contents, her finger semi-consciously stopped on Homer’s The Odyssey.
How could anyone resist the allure of the travelling tales; they were so pertinent in the blissful peace of the Edwardian era; an adventure to distract from all the peace; had Joyce simply put the idea in her head, or had she thought it herself; and did she even care?
In Richmond, Virginia Woolf sat down to read The Odyssey. The book which told her past, present and future; it was the chronicle of the ancient world, while living and breathing in her present mind, and looming over her future as Joyce’s illegitimate Celticisation.
At the very moment she finished Book 1, with Odysseus lost at sea and Penelope avoiding her suitors, Virginia Woolf received a knock on the door.
‘Hello, Virginia,’ James Joyce proclaimed again. ‘I trust you have been reading the reviews.’
‘Hello,’ said Virginia plainly, welcoming the unwelcome Irishman into that house.
‘They have all been overwhelmingly positive!’ Joyce remarked, entering the house with muddy shoes and unwanted optimism. He pulled out a copy of that day’s newspaper—IRISHMAN THRILLS WITH TALES OF HOMETOWN.
The smug look on Joyce’s face was so intense that Virginia could not help but put him down. ‘You read that like a headline.’
‘I know,’ James Joyce responded, as though in agreement; it seemed that in the man’s mind, fact was indistinguishable from compliment.
After she had finished the second, then third, then fourth books of The Odyssey, Virginia began to feel she was making way in her voyage as much as Odysseus was.
James Joyce made his way to her door again; she loathed him for interrupting her voyage with another attempt at a bragging session.
Virginia Woolf opened the door to James Joyce without looking; she was still deep in her book; she could not waste time on Joyce and ignore what the Greeks were up to.
‘Are you going to converse with me today, Virginia?’
She was still engrossed in her book.
'Why must you ignore me?'
'I'm just engrossed in this book. It means a lot to me.'
'My next book will be a surefire bestseller; my current book is perfect'; Joyce was incapable of speaking about anything which wasn't himself; to the man's mind, the universe was wholly un-Copernican; no suns or moons or any other stars were stationary in the world; James Joyce was at the centre of the universe; everybody and everything else was a distant satellite; he could and would draw these vague moons to crash down upon his surface at will.
Virginia Woolf left the leisure zone and engaged herself in activity. Work; labour; toil; that was life, and such a life must life be.
>
Virginia looked across at James Joyce, sat there on his chaise longue looking Irish, and all she 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…
Of course, Virginia knew (truly felt within her heart the noble reality of the case) that literature was the ultimate aim of all endeavours. The creation of art stood above all else; but in order to get there, the real work of the world needed to be done.
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, she had more important things to do.
Out the corner of his eye, James noticed that Virginia was employed in menial labour. What a waste of time; actions without thoughts are maladroit; anything apart from contemplating fully the world around oneself was redundant; it was pointless motion and action with no overall aim but the prolonging of the same actions.
Virginia was sick to death of James glaring at her. She was the one doing work, after all. It infuriated Virginia to know of James’s disapproval; why should he be at an elevated position from which to look down upon Virginia Woolf simply for acting as her very own person? She was active; she was working; she was keeping the world going in its natural order.
Conversely, that was why James was staring at her.
Neither person could stand the other's actions.
Inevitably, the irritation became too much for Virginia. She could never bear to watch people in any level of comfort for any length of time. She stepped over towards James.
'What you doing?' she asked; she sounded angry; this sound of anger probably relied heavily upon the fact that Virginia Woolf was, in her very being, angry; her anger stemmed from every issue in her life; the constant pursuit of perfection and perfectionism; the perfectionism itself was notoriously easy to grasp; yet perfection itself was a Herculean task; she could never resign herself to accept that which was imperfect; but she knew that if she ever hoped to see her writing published she would have to allow a stranger’s dirty fingers to tear up whatever she had produced and to give in to mediocre popularity parades; advertising, and that which was advertisable, were her only prospects of having her work published; she had not the privileges of James Joyce; she had some privileges associated with wealth; but not the power of manhood; she must accept the unacceptable; she must give in to whatever she could publicise; that, or else set up her own publishing press.
'I'm reading,' James Joyce replied. 'It's a concept you may or may not be familiar with.'
'I’m familiar with reading,’ said Virginia, littering her every word with all her 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 James. ‘That’s why you should lie down and read a book.’
Virginia Woolf could not remember the last time she entered her drawing room and found it free of James Joyce; Virginia Woolf found it impossible to be creative while the man occupied her house, lying around and talking about either Dubliners or how he was the modern-day Homer: all she wanted was a room of her own.
There was silence in Richmond; the fellows of the area had nothing to say, and relations were down; if Virginia Woolf had had the energy or inspiration to talk, she had no desire to do so with James Joyce; she desired something significantly more in her conversation that James Joyce’s self-indulgent immodesty; in order to quench the silent desire for a medium of sound, she had a new idea.
‘Shall we switch on the radio?’ Virginia asked; it was customary for friends to share the pleasures of music; conversely, this prevented an enjoyable experience, since her annoyance at James prevented any friendly activity operating with absolute pleasure.
‘Why would one want to do that? I have plenty more wisdom to impart,’ Joyce said; Virginia switched on the radio.
A blissful music burst out; the endless summer themes of a lifetime of simplicity.
And then the tune ended; the melody faded; and the sounds of summer bliss brought a pleasant demise delightfully. This sound was what they deeded.
The announcer propped up: Next we have the music of Monteverdi, with his composition Il Ritorno d’Ullise in Patria.
This new sound was a wonderful melody of majestic tones expressing the adventures of the noble Odysseus.
‘Perhaps I have been a little rude in allowing myself in,’ James Joyce surmised.
‘Perhaps,’ Virginia replied; despite her appreciation of the majestic sounds of Trojan battle, the pomposity of James Joyce’s entrance and egocentrism brought out a grudge from Virginia’s core. She did not want to engage in conversation with a man who had forced his way into the house purely to boost his own ego.
‘I’ve never cared for the name Odysseus,’ James Joyce remarked. ‘I much prefer to call the man Ulysses.’
Virginia Woolf took a pause from reading The Odyssey and looked up to James Joyce. Something about the irritable snob taking a break from self-devotion became endearing; perhaps the world wasn’t so terrible; but the world was terrible; terrifically dull.
‘Why do you say Ulysses? Who is Ulysses?’ asked Virginia.
‘You may know,’ Joyce began, in an attempt to conceal his patronising egotism with faux pleasantries; if he could charm his audience into believing they were in the process of gentle treatment, he would be able to slip insults into his tongue; to attack the meek as Jesus preached in reverse; conceal a sword in cotton; Virginia was not buying this façade; as she would never buy a façade, viewing all trickery – whether of Dutch or Belgian descent (which she henceforth called, ‘the peaceful small lands, bearing a modest place between the three bitter empires’) – as an attempt to diminish her already-restricted role in the world of literary creation; he continued, ‘that the Romans remodelled the Greek tales in their own manner. Such was the life of Odysseus converted to the antagonistic guise of Ulysses; Zeus to Jupiter; Ares to Mars; Hephaestus to Vulcan.’
This was the way the mind of young James Joyce worked. Everything to the man was simply a case of appropriation. There was nothing purely new. Everything he perceived and created was in actuality an attempt to recreate and advance upon works already present. So Joyce’s entire understanding of literature was that each work should be an endless series of references to other works, and a congratulation of one’s own genius.
Virginia Woolf calmly accepted that such was the case of James Joyce’s self-indulgence, he would always be the man who brought the most legendary of Greek tales into a dull adventure around Ireland.
Joyce was the man who most wildly adored his own presence at any given moment; the rest of the world would most assuredly have to deal with this.
Virginia Woolf adored The Odyssey; the communication between generations was the greatest gift technology could offer; everybody could read the words of ancients; but how would new technologies affect this?
‘Is your life currently revolving around Homeric poetry?'
'I'd say so.'
'Mine too.'
Virginia pondered how many lives had been changed, shaped or altered by Homer; the enormous power of The Odyssey; the tales of the hearty and triumphant Odysseus; and his Romantic, though not Roman, equivalent Ulysses; the very being who had influenced so many people; this adventure had now consumed the lives of James Joyce and Virginia Woolf.
Though they did not know it, the two would go on to change the way we read fiction forever; their fascinating shift in styles stemmed from a seismic shift in their lives; the two amateur artists became completing new writers when their lives were irreparably distorted with the previously unfathomable outbreak of a war between Germany, Britain and France; the outbreak itself was not unfathomable; ‘not unfathomable’ being a wording both Joyce and Woolf despised, though
neither would admit this to the other; the outbreak was conceivable; what was deemed impossible was the war between the nations; Germany and France were both mighty heartlands of culture; both were brilliant countries; now destroyed by an endless, timeless series of destruction.
This was for the future. For now the major issue was simply the discussion between James Joyce and Virginia Woolf. They could not cope with being next to each other when the ego of James Joyce sapped at Virginia Woolf’s creativity; and Virginia Woolf’s quiet complacency suggested to Joyce the lie that she was content with his bragging.
In reality, there was nothing Virginia Woolf loathed more than to hear her acquaintances brag. This was often the case; the audiences with which she consumed her life were irrevocably arrogant.
Joyce and Woolf switched on the radio and bonded over the music playing. It was Joyce’s opinion that music was an act and condition of living; conversely, Woolf believed it to be a mere side-effect of having to be alive; they were both in agreement; this was a contradiction which echoed throughout all their interaction.
Either way, the joyous sounds of summer were expressed through the buzzing horn of the Woolf couple’s gramophone; this was a wondrous work of composition which Woolf and Joyce would later to discover was based on a favoured work; the piece playing was a musical adaptation; or rather a reinterpretation of The Odyssey.
And that was the way of literature, to constantly reevaluate the same ideas. Although the foundation of modernism was at this very point reinterpretation of old tales, Ezra Pound would soon proclaim his idea to be to ‘make it new’.
The ‘make it new’ proclamation itself was soon to be a revelation; but, of course, it was entirely impractical. The reality of the situation was that nothing could ever truly be new; not in this world; not while the structures worn in place by centuries were still going; the oppression of womankind; the shame of femininity; the glory of war; the refining of murder; while all these shameful ideas still took place in society, there could never be new.
What was needed, Virginia decided, was a newness; a dynamic shift in literature; a propulsion from the tired age of the 1800s to a positive future of communication. All the world was advancing; it was the duty of writers to keep up with that rapid pace.
This shift towards modernity was reflected increasingly in all aspects of modern life; even such a simple feature as the ringing of a doorbell was these days electric.
James Joyce rang the doorbell; Virginia Woolf saw it was him; Leonard Woolf opened the door and cordially invited the Irishman inside; Virginia grimaced at her husband’s failure to understand the rejection of her fellow Modernist; Virginia noted this minor flaw in an otherwise perfect relationship; is there any pure, perfect relation, or must they always have faults, regardless of how miniscule.
‘Why are you not passionate about our conversations together, my dear Virginia?’
‘I’m fine.’
‘No, you aren’t. You’ve been growing distant. Be straight with me.’
‘I can’t stand talking to you,’ she finally snapped.
‘Oh, dear. Why is that?’
‘Your penetrating ignorance.’
James Joyce looked with great discomfort; it had not occurred to him that anyone might find his charming characteristics in any way annoying. Virginia was of course fully aware of Joyce’s flaws.
‘Is there any way I can fix this?’ asked James Joyce.
Virginia Woolf could see no way to reflect and repair the ultimately deathly distinction between the two figures; the tranquility of their times had led to the belief in such severe individuality that even two people of such defined taste and interest in the use and expression of language but could not get on.
Virginia sighed a long sigh. ‘I want to read The Odyssey in private.’
‘Very well,’ said James.
James Joyce left the house; this allowed Virginia Woolf a moment to reflect upon Joyce's importance; Virginia Woolf was content for Joyce to leave on his own, but was somewhat disappointed to see him go and be left as only a lone writer; her husband was there too, but Leonard could never sufficiently annoy Virginia that she would have anything miserable to write about.
Virginia Woolf hid away in her room again; all she desired was freedom; all that occupied Virginia’s current mind was the need to allow herself a quiet moment away to read.
And now she had exactly that. Now she had all the time in the world to sneak into her drawing room, push the notes away on a writing desk, and begin to explore her own creative ability.
The creative desire was a fire to be fueled; it was essential to these artists that creativity flourished endlessly; with such a peaceful environment in King Edward’s London, there was
Virginia Woolf needed to devote herself fully to the world of literature; there was absorption and production; it was important to do the two in equal measure; although, thought Virginia, perhaps it was important to spend significantly more time absorbing than producing; in the same manner, the quietest members of civil society were the most intelligent; the thoughts of the people who spoke had a great deal more time to develop; and develop they did; the humans who reviewed and analysed the world; the people who absorbed the world, even, were the ones who knew the most; whether they chose to reveal the information they had gained through analysis or not was another matter altogether; Virginia Woolf was an absorber; an insightful human who took in the world around her; in time, her thoughts would have fermented; her ideas would be complete; she would be a perfect thinker; a supreme writer; and she, when the time was right, would impart wisdom upon the world; the face of literature would change when the quiet ones put their voices into literature.
When she had finished the fourth, then fifth, then sixth chapters of The Odyssey, she decided she must attempt a book of her own.
All she needed was a room of her own.
Virginia often wondered if Joyce were so vain that he conceived of the word 'joyous' to be about him. It was typically in the style of a self-obsessed man to believe the act of speech to derive its techniques primarily after writers.
There were great and grand lexical similarities of course. Joyce must be aware of his own vanity, but somehow he never would be.
The grandiose nature of Odysseus was befitting to the character of James Joyce; while Odysseus nobly proclaimed how he had blinded Poseidon's son, Joyce believed he was an essential transformation to Literature.
Virginia Woolf took herself off to her garden; though her home in Hogarth House was the tranquil centre of the country; the eye of the storm; the garden in the haste of London; though she knew this, her backyard was a place she knew as home away from home; nature in a looking-glass.
Wandering around her garden gave her the tranquility needed to interpolate her thoughts.
Only partially conscious of her own actions, Virginia took a longer time than necessary to traipse her surroundings; perhaps to acquaint herself with the world she would spend four decades writing about; perhaps instead to be at one with nature and find relaxation in the moment of peace.
But, at the same time, Virginia Woolf was dimly (though not foolishly) aware that the garden would never been enough to satisfy her literary needs; being at one with nature was the plain desire proscribes by so many endless generations of poets and authors; yet, in reality; if Virginia were to believe she knew the realness in the real world that was reality; in reality, it was the case that nature was merely the muse of the mind; the genuine acts of literary birth were always to be penned in a private room.
This was how Virginia knew she could never write what she needed to in the garden; the garden may indeed inspire some romantic notions of beauty and passion, but the pen could only truly hit the paper when indoors.
And so Virginia stepped inside Hogarth House; returning to her abode, she resumed her comfortable exploration of the human environment.
Virginia deliberately occupied some time in entering the house; the longer she could spend in
entering, the longer she could avoid human interaction, the more pure were her thoughts; not the purity of thought proposed by Catholicism; for that is a limitation; and outwardly imposed self-censorship; the idea of purity in thought is in fact, to the Catholic Church’s mind, ignoring all the reality of the world and thinking only of the dullness of God; instead, Virginia Woolf’s belief in purity was having contact only with one’s own mind; the very presence of thought appearing and disappearing somewhere within the soul. That she should express herself on paper meant a leakage in her mind; a self-imposed freedom; the ability to fit a physical text into her head; the novel form of the novel form can capture thoughts as a net captures fish.
When she had finally made it patiently into the drawing room, ignoring the needs and distastes of the detestable Mr Joyce, Virginia picked up the copy of The Odyssey she adored. Taking this copy into a private room; notably her bedroom, which was a place in 1914 deemed thoroughly uncouth for a gentleman such as James Joyce to enter into a lady’s chambers.
In the privacy of such a bedroom, Virginia Woolf was finally allowed the freedom to read as she wished. She was thoroughly free, and in being unleashed, proceeded to read The Odyssey once more without the nuisance of communicating with Joyce.
At this moment; in this blissful period of independence; Joyce was proudly flicking through all of the Woolf household’s books; Leonard Woolf’s Victorian politics; Virginia Woolf’s radical pride in femininity; there were so many works of interests in there.
In the drawing room, James Joyce was patiently sat at the desk. In his hands, he had gathered up Virginia Woolf’s copy of The Odyssey and flicked through without her permission. It was excellent, and he rejoiced in the knowledge that Ulysses could be an excellent follow up. A return to infinite innovation.
The Odyssey had the perfect character: dear, flawless Odysseus. Odysseus was the epitome of mankind. This was very similar to how Leopold Bloom would be in Joyce’s very own Ulysses, in all the Irishman’s excellence and perceptual perfection. But, in reality, this all drew back to James Joyce himself. James Joyce was, in his own eyes, the perfect form of humanity. Layers upon layers upon layers. Every element of this adaptation and expropriation presented the same story in a new way. This was the same as how all literature was a constant work upon the same idea. In essence, all writing was the same; a new attempt to purvey the same message.
Essentially, some writers were perfect and others were awful. Many writers occupied the space in between. These were the droves of writers who scribed down their untimely meditations around the turn of the century. The fine artists were those like Homer; they were Homer and everyone who followed in his vein; perfect literature started with Homer and rode the line from Ancient Greece; through Ancient Rome; scattering across Europe until nobody can write because of invasions; then to glorious Beowulf; dying out in the Dark Ages; establishing a new presence with Chaucer; steadying the world of art in the Medieval Era; having a grand rebirth with the Renaissance; then there were a few creators, but no great artists from the Renaissance until James Joyce arrived in the 20th century.
James Joyce was the evolution of thousands of years of progressive thought; from the first great time of literature, beginning with the great Odyssey, we had arrived here; the new Odyssey; Ulysses; the second beginning of art; the new Dawn; the second day of literature.
That was the line of perfect art. Beauty, passion, indulgence – and then the summation of the holy trinity of perfection: James Joyce.
Meanwhile, Virginia Woolf had no idea how arrogant Joyce's thoughts were getting. She knew him to be an arrogant swine; but the belief that he was one of history’s greatest writers; but there is yet another conflict; if he believes himself to be one of the greatest artists of all time, and is right, he is accurate; if he believes himself to be the perfect model of humanity and is wrong, he is arrogant. On the other hand, if he believes himself to be a useless and hopeless excuse for an artist, while everyone else appreciates his art, he is an idiot; if he thinks himself untalented and is also correct in his belief, he is a nobody.
But Virginia had no time to put towards petty thoughts such as the beliefs that James Joyce might be the worst or the best writer.
Instead, Virginia had paid little attention to where and when she was. Instead of noting any detail of her present situation, Virginia was far too engrossed in her book to care for the world around; in the mind of the artist, there were many elements to the universe; the world she lived in was a mere fraction of the whole world. The book she currently read was The Odyssey. The Odyssey, despite its varying themes, had always made Virginia feel gleeful; this feeling may have continually been gripped by altering states of consciousness, all of which could be reflected upon by an exploration of Odysseus.
The Odyssey presented the perfect specimen of mankind; Odysseus was the adventurer; the original explorer, with the ability to guide mankind forth to a new destiny.
Odysseus was an important kind of explorer. He was an original man; an adventurer whose experience was purely physical; as much as Virginia Woolf admired Odysseus, she could not reconcile his ignorance for the mental; Homer, in all his artistry, had the fatal flaw of failing to account for the mind. Virginia herself had spent many years plagued by the mind; in many years to come, depression would be too much; and ultimately her mind would consume her. Hence, it was impossible to imagine a perfect work.
Joyce, in Woolf’s view, wanted to recreate a personal Odyssey set in his hometown of Dublin; the problem of this, of course, was that the vision presented an entirely unitary exploration of the surroundings; no depth could be drawn from simply creating a perception of the world around; the pleasure was in the meaning; the meaning existed beyond mere images.
In reality, Joyce’s work would delve to new depths hitherto unforeseen in the world of literature; if there were a fluid transfer of ideas between Joyce and Woolf, they would both be aware of their shared interests; a fatal flaw of humanity is that humans were willfully unable to reflect on each other’s views as much as they claim to enjoy.
The Odyssey was a perfect work; with perfect characters; perfect action; 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. All the desires expressed in vague terms by the dying embers of the Edwardian era could be neatly enacted by a delve into great literature. And James had accomplished this.
Eventually, James Joyce noticed that it was simply not enough to take pleasure; in order to be a forward-thinking individual, one has to break the molds which hold down literature; a new style of art should not be focused upon chronicling the passing of time; no longer shall books be about the lives and deaths of many people; art is about the individual; art should focus upon individuals; art should be about the here and now; art should take place all in one day; for in one day the world can change.
James Joyce finally put down his book; it was not the case that The Odyssey had become boring to him; quite the contrary, ruled to himself title was important to enter the task world; Joyce perceived himself as Goliath amongst a realm of literary Davids.
After some time, Virginia was forced (or at least believed herself forced) into ending the reading session; there was a world to be endured; although she did not wish to occupy it, the real world was uniquely extant There were pressing issues. There were things to do other than just sit around and indulge in literature; although it may seem impossible, there was more to life than just fiction; books were only books, no matter how much it might sound like heresy; The Odyssey was just a book. There was life to be lived.
There was a world to be filled with thoughts and it would soon be filled. The changes in the world came about as a result of intense thinking, and also the reverse.
The
inverse thinking consumed time, but Virginia Woolf spent her time wisely thinking and thinking wisely. Virginia walked out of the imaginary; she left the fictional world of imagination and entered the dull reality of England.
Virginia was aggravated by the sight of James; all she could feel was intense rage at his overbearing ignorance; how could one man so arrogantly and ignorantly proclaim that his literature surpasses all the works yet produced; except The Odyssey, of course; I would never consider my writing to be worth anything until others had told me of its value; perhaps that was a fundamental distinction between men and women; men claim themselves to be perfect; women have to work to be considered at least adequate; but who is the better in that scenario; is it supreme to be modest or to be proud; modesty seems such an admirable trait; to be modest is to be perfect, thereby reversing the claims of either gender; but maybe that is part of the problem; maybe the meekness of womankind is partially what holds her back; goals might have been attained if only women had the arrogance of men; but no man will ever listen to an arrogant woman; any woman who so much as demands equality is seem as aggressive and hence ignored; should we try to reverse this through force; or should we work within men’s means to change their minds; should we appeal to men, then use their attention to change their minds?
Out the corner of his eye, James Joyce idly noticed that Virginia Woolf was bothering herself with the intense effort of trying to keep out of his way; this was not to say that he particularly cared nor noticed what she was doing; his sole focus was the efforts of Odysseus; the exploits of that first great explorer.
James and Virginia largely agreed upon the brilliance of Odysseus. Despite tensions between the two, their agreement upon a largely agreeable work of literature was definite; they were two sides of the same coin upon the actuality of Odysseus’ brilliance; there were, of course, no real tensions between the two; instead, there were imagined problems; there were the minor, invisible struggles of an ordinary human; life was allusion; Joyce was Homer.
‘There is work to be done. I can’t stand timewasting.’
‘I rarely engage in timewasting,’ the bold Irishman professed; Mrs Woolf found this claim near-impossible to believe. In the time in which Virginia Woolf had voluntarily engaged in conversation and human interaction with James Joyce, she had found him to be thoroughly disagreeable; this disagreement stemmed primarily from similarity; the two were unified in their ideal mode of literary discourse; their writing would follow a parallel trend, and be later grouped together as ‘modernism’.
This genre modernism would go on to be the defining cultural concept of the twentieth century; and indeed modernism would be the greatest singular influence upon the twenty-first and twenty-second centuries.
Modernism was the defining force; it was not a plaything, but the single most important change in art since the Renaissance.
Joyce professed that his apparent timewasting was in fact a psychological progression towards a new style of progressive writing.
'I can't imagine your sloth making a positive impact,' opined Virginia Woolf.
Despite James’s claim to write revolutionary fiction, Virginia was right; he was a lazy.
Joyce attempted to justify himself: ‘Allowing my mind to be at ease; to free myself from work; to relax with a fine volume of writing.’
Virginia Woolf sighed. ‘You do wind me up to some degree, Mr Joyce; you have a tendency towards idolatry.’
James spent several minutes involved in his own world; switching between reading more of The Odyssey and describing how his very own Ulysses would look. As Virginia’s proclamation of Joyce’s laziness was being uttered, the man was lost in a world of redefining the classics to suit his present preoccupation.
Joyce clearly was not listening; though, theoretically, Virginia Woolf was in opposition to the common disagreements of petty squabbling, there was a large part of her which wanted debate; she saw the element of sloth in Joyce’s actions; the lazing around in her house, doing nothing but reading and re-reading endlessly his old favourite The Odyssey; his claim was that this was work towards his next project; but he really was being lazing and relaxing unfairly in Virginia Woolf’s house; so it came to be that Virginia Woolf professed her hatred of petty disagreement, when in reality, disagreement was at the heart of all her literature; and possibly at the heart of all literature as it exists; it was this disagreement itself which caused the trouble; the disagreement in her mind on whether or not each character she wrote was equally right or wrong preoccupied her thoughts while working on any literary idea.
James Joyce was fully displeased. ‘Why on Earth should expanding one’s mind with literature be considered lazy?’
‘There are more important things to do than read,’ claimed Virginia Woolf, her thoughts turned to the manual labour she engaged in around the house.
‘I don’t believe you think that,’ said James Joyce. ‘There is so much more in the world. Like a walk down Dublin high street.’
‘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?’
James Joyce placed his book calmly on the coffee table; it would remain there until Virginia Woolf resumed her reading of it later, losing James’s place in the work.
‘Take a look outside,’ suggested Virginia Woolf. ‘There is more to life than books, you know.’ She consciously stated this as a fact, rather than asking it as a question.
James Joyce found her statement very difficult to believe.
James wandered peacefully about the study. It was a remarkable area, with the tranquility of the Edwardian Era protecting the two from any true horrors in the world.
He decided something was missing; there was an essential distinction which kept his life from perfect; he realised it was the audio limitations of the world.
James Joyce walked up to the gramophone and laid a vinyl recording down.
It was one of his own collection; the majestic work that was Odysseus' life told through opera.
Virginia had always held mixed feelings towards the science of radio; one the one hand, advanced communication could unite nations; on the other, it was the inevitable case of humanity that anything which could be used to unite would invariably be used to separate and ostracise; there were endless cases of propaganda destroying connections, but other cases of humanity being broadcast.
It was an elegant work, the orchestral adaptation of The Odyssey; perfection presented; the perfect work of literature adapted into song; art upon art; layers of beauty compiled into one work; collections were the next major step into literature.
‘End that awful racket,’ demanded Virginia Woolf.
James looked at her with endless bewilderment. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I am not a fan; that sort of overblown expression depicts the lazy sort of art despite.’
Virginia’s words stung James in a way he could never have imagined. To hate Monteverdi? To despise Il ritorno d’Ulisse in patria? Who was Virginia Woolf?
‘But this is Monteverdi,’ James protested.
‘I find it unfavourable, whoever it may be.’
Virginia moved the gramophone’s needle off the record and silence filled the house once more; this led to James Joyce beginning a spectacular rant about the importance of silence when reading.
Virginia Woolf left the room with a great air of disappointment.
James Joyce believed that literature was more important than humanity; what was the point of communication if it did not allow one to think? Or worse, what if people were given the option to think but no incentive? Everyone should be forced to think.
Such was the belief in a totalitarian benevolence that James Joyce believed any freedom to be a mistake; humanity needed an essential knowledge; a kind of forced intellect; such would surely not be the case after Joyce inevitably learnt of the horrors of the 1930s and 1940s; it would hence be a new
world; a brave new world; everything was going to restart with the destruction of Europe.
In a sense, World War Two brought an end to classical modernism; the horrors of the Holocaust and fascism meant that literature - even literature in the modernist trend - was irreparably distorted to discuss the horrors of the day; and hence, high modernism was replaced with the newer, and seemingly more important, dystopian literature.
Reading, reading. That was the art which occupied all of time; in the time between reading, both Virginia and James were at a loss. James wandered around the kitchen table in search of something to do; in the absence of activity, he returned to the drawing room alone; Virginia by this point had decided to join him, since the silence which she had anticipated would sooth her mind instead tortured her by raising the volume of her own angered thoughts; Joyce had nothing to say to her, and she was the same to him; she considered returning the record to its position, but felt that such an act would be accepted as a victory by the arrogant Irishman; instead, she turned on the radio; and the two spent some time independently listening to the sound of the news broadcast; in between segments, music played, and the two refused to share with each other their appreciation for the same musical styles; they enjoyed the mellow melodies alone.
Then the wireless cut off. That impossible sound: bleak silence on the radio; such a phenomenon was reserved for ; it had been heard twenty years earlier, during those blasted wars in Africa; now could not be another one of them; those wars were long over; Africa was cured; there could be no more fighting; surely, there could not.
After some time, during which the broadcasters were presumably fumbling over how to announce the biggest news of the century, a voice spoke out of the machine; it was crisp and alarming; the announcement was to be bleak; but Virginia had never heard the voice this unimaginably bleak before.
Then the announcer broke the news. All Europe was at war. Britain was to fight Germany in France. The three major nations were to destroy each other.
Neither writer knew what to say. They held each other tightly.
Virginia Woolf and James Joyce stood in silence; there were no words to say; there were no words they could say; there were no words imaginable which could express the way they were feeling in that one moment; beyond the moment there were no acceptable or appropriate words for the situation;
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 Virginia Woolf could work out was that it came from years of trouble; from the arrogance of mankind.
Virginia Woolf switched on the radio; out ushered not their usual song, but instead a darker sound; the voice of a nation; the newscaster with his somber voice; this was not to be positive news; this was groundbreaking and destructive news; this was the end of an era and the beginning of a much darker time.
Virginia know idea what to say; she did not know what would happen from then on; all she could say for certain is that the world would never be the same again.
Virginia Woolf came to like James Joyce; the fear of the Great War brought them together; the stress of death and the infinitely short future caused them to unite in a way they despised; war is despicable, but it allowed the two to be united by fear; what a trauma, what an existential crisis was brought on by the concept that that which they feared most was now their greatest friend.
‘What do we do about the Great War?’ asked James Joyce; Virginia was initially quite reserved and confused about what to make of this question; however does one respond to the concept of addressing a major prospective tragedy head-on?
But, of course, it could never be the case that the Great War was a tragedy; tragedy as both a word and a concept or even a construct trivialises the matter; if an event is deemed to be a tragedy, that necessarily
‘We try to cope.’
‘How can we cope knowing that the world will never be at peace?’
‘It will be at peace again soon,’ I said; ‘the war may have only just started, but it will end; it might be over by Christmas.’
‘It won’t be. Even if it ends tomorrow, there are no straight answers any more.’
I didn’t understand what he meant until he continued, ‘War has a lasting impact. We’re still conflicted from those horrid fights in Africa. This war is in Europe. It won’t be a case of the British defeating some tribesmen or two ships blowing each other to smithereens; awful though both instances are, this is far more extreme; this is a fight between the most powerful countries on Earth; this will use the toughest weapons and every adult man in Europe.
The two writers feared for humanity; thus was the essence of writing. They loitered in the world of despair.
‘What do we do now?’ asked Virginia. ‘How can we move past the great European tragedy? How on Earth can we cope?’
‘There’s only one way to move past this event,’ James explained. ‘We read.’
James retrieved his book. It was a pristine copy of The Odyssey. It was perfect; the epic told many tales about heroism, wit and adventure; it encompassed so much of life; all his desired in writing were expressed through this novel; but the novel itself contained none of the depth he desired from literature; that was why he must begin his own version.
‘I lied,’ Virginia revealed; she felt it was time to make clear the truth of her views.
‘What?’
‘Earlier, when I said I hated that piece about The Odyssey. That was complete nonsense, designed to dissuade you from visiting Hogarth House.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes, really. That piece was quite simply one of my favourite compositions. I have never heard anything which so neatly captures the adventure of The Odyssey and captivates its audience.’
'That's all right with me.'
‘I believe,’ Virginia Woolf declared forlornly, ‘that The Odyssey must be my favourite work ever.’
James Joyce was so taken aback, that he no longer had any words to say; he wished, however inexpressibly, to declare that it was Virginia’s duty to inform him of her Homeric love much earlier; there was, of course, no prim and proper way to express this without sounding abhorrent; he kept silent; mostly silent, for he had the ability to conjure: ‘Oh, Virginia Woolf!’
All this time they had been vacuously mentioning that Virginia Woolf and James Joyce were both fans of Homer, neither had fully been paying attention to the other; each, in their own way, had been taking in the information and soon thereafter disregarding the knowledge.
‘Oh, Virginia! If only we'd spoken about this before.'
‘How strange this all is.’
Virginia Woolf sat back and thought about Odysseus.
‘What occupies you?’ asked James Joyce.
‘I am still deep in thought about the adventures of Odysseus.’
‘Then your mind is clustered in the same manner as mine.’
‘The same manor or the same manner?’ asked James; an attempt at a joke not yet suited to their age; many years hence (when the expression ‘many years hence’ was still the fashion – and talk of ‘the fashion’ was very popular) talk of manners and manors was the done thing; in the age of Samuel Richardson and not Dorothy Richardson; and in many years to come, cheap puns would become not only a work of fun; but perhaps the cornerstone of western culture; though Virginia Woolf would barely live to see it, the emergence of film noir as a response to cinematic censorship would require scriptwriters to alter their works to avoid direct dirtiness; this would impact up all Americophile countries, leading them to believe the only way to suggest rude context to be through innuendo and punship.
Virginia Woolf looked forgivingly towards James Joyce. She knew they would get on, and that a slight change of literature could adapt to the needs of the War. There was a new world approaching.
Virginia sat and contemplated the future; it was likely the case that the fut
ure world would be mixed.
‘So much has happened in so little time,’ James Joyce said; and Virginia Woolf wholeheartedly agreed. ‘In the short time we’ve been sat here, listening to the radio, Europe has been torn apart; the world will never look the same again; from literature to lifespan, everything will be completely different from now on.’
The Odyssey
by Homer
James Joyce looked at the cover and saw the words shift and contort until they spelled ‘Ulysses’ and ‘James Joyce’.
‘It will be a great novel,’ Virginia reassured him. ‘A great novel for an unimaginably different world.’
Virginia Woolf was perhaps the most important writer of the 20th century; at the time, no-one gave her any consideration.
There was little to be said; there was much to do; but what could be done? What was there to do in a world where all the firmest countries in the world were destroying each other?
Virginia looked wistfully out the door to the nervous people rushing around Bloomsbury Square. Nothing was the same anymore. The simple pleasure of the Edwardian Era had been washed out, and the wartime battle was present even in June 1914, in the quiet of Bloomsbury.
‘Our world has changed irreparably,’ said Virginia Woolf. ‘This war will not be over by Christmas. Even if the slaughter has stopped, everything we know will be different. The ease with which we knew our surrounding countries has heightened to a tension which can never dissipate.’