it starts slow. you’re in a coffee shop sipping your latte when you begin to think your life is going to be this way forever. you think you should have metamorphosed into something more fabulous by now. but why not break the illusion—shatter it into pieces that make more sense when broken? you were never meant stay one thing, to hibernate like the trees in the winter. you are always in bloom.
I have a vague notion that some of you may already know this about me, but perhaps not. Perhaps, like I do not know this about millions of others, you too are in the dark of a very large and very disruptive part of my life, simply because I choose to keep it relatively hidden. Well, not anymore.
And, no, I’m not writing this for attention. In fact, I did not want to write this post, or explain anything to anyone. But I feel a sort of strange pressure on my heart to share with you this part of my life I normally try to keep quiet about.
Anyway, I’m 23 (just), a senior at a kick-ass university, an English major, an amateur ballerina, and a lover of Yorkie puppies and the color pink. That’s me in a nutshell.
Well, sort of.
Whether or not you knew this statement was coming: I struggle with severe depression, anxiety, and trichotillomania (hair pulling disorder), to the point where it impacts everything about my daily life, my decisions about my future, and the way think about—or overthink about—my past. It’s all very frightening business to wake up one day and not have the energy to lift your little finger (I kid you not), but I am currently doing “okay” right now, if that is even a standard mode of being, or an appropriate term to describe myself when I’m not in the throws of a depressive episode or so anxious that I rip all of the hair out of my head in large chunks.
I tell you I’m okay so that you don’t worry about me, though I know some of you will worry anyway. Like millions of others, I take medication for my mental illness and precisely because of that, coupled with ongoing therapy and self-care, I am able to function at a relatively normal level, and even enjoy the life I have worked so hard to rebuild for myself over the past couple of years. With thyroid hormone, a hefty dose of antidepressants, stimulants, and anti-anxiety medication, I am a productive member of a society, doing well in both life and school and finally able to live up to my potential and go after the career I want in academia (despite the baldness; fuck you, trichotillomania).
Despite being in treatment for a while (medication + therapy), I still struggle from time to time, and I am nowhere near symptom free or in full “recovery.” Recovery for me is symptom management, despite how others tell me my goal should be full remission. Try as I might, I have not yet seen “full remission” in regard to my mental illness, but that’s not to say there’s no hope. There are days when I can’t seem to cope with anything, and I worry I’ve relapsed. There are days when I have panic attacks and migraines to the point where I can’t sleep. There are days when I can’t stop worrying about the smallest of things. There are days that I can’t remember and days that I can’t forget, and days I want more than anything in the world to sink into oblivion or a long pill-induced sleep. But those days are fewer and further than they ever have been in the past.
Academically, I’ve had the best past two semesters of my life, making all As my past two (hardest) semesters at my university. Not only that, but I’ve gotten admitted in my English department’s honors program, travelled abroad, earned a grant for my summer research, earned a spot as an undergraduate humanities fellow, and started writing my senior honors thesis, which I will finish and publish this spring. Socially, I’ve made more good friends that I ever thought possible, and had the confidence to embrace who I am and what I love. It would be wrong to say that I myself have had nothing to do with these positive outcomes that the year of 2015 has brought to me, because a lot of it was hard work on my behalf combined with constantly pushing myself to love deeper and to care more about everything and everyone around me. I would venture to say, however, that the biggest reason behind my recent onslaught of successes over the past year has little or nothing to do with circumstance and everything to do with the fact I’ve been appropriately and adequately medicated to control my mental illness.
What I want people to take away from all of this is that mental illness can be affected by environment and even be partially situational, but for me and many others, it’s not. My struggles with mental illness are somewhat more independent of the waxing and waning of life’s challenges, including my dad’s motor neuron disease, which leads to me further reiterate the importance of taking medication if you find you need it and talking about mental illness, spreading the word, and letting others know that it’s okay not to be okay, and that’s it’s okay to take medication for any medical problems you might have. I like to think of myself as medicated and mighty. Let’s cut the bullshit that shouldn’t “need” a pill to function everyday. Some people do and sometimes there isn’t a good reason.
In other news, I’m wearing colorful wigs until my hair grows back in. If I’m going to be bald, I figured I might as well have fun with it, no?
Nothing like colorful hair, confidence, and some good friends (thanks, guys!) to help #StoptheStigma against mental illness :).
(I feel the need to mention that this is not a post meant for medical advice on medication for mental illness–that is a conversation you need to have with your doctor. Thanks!)
Thank you guys for all of the notes! It makes me happy to know that people are interested in the conversation about mental illness. I do have a few updates since I first posted this piece last winter:
1.) I don’t talk about my eating disorder here, but that is one thing I’m still struggling with these days.
2.) I’ve been in many different forms of intensive treatment over the past few months -and I may be going back.
3.) I’ve changed medications since this post, but all the same stuff still applies.
4.) I HAVE MY REAL HAIR NOW! YAY!
***
Love you all and thank you again for supporting each other and the important topic of mental illness. Hope all is well.
As wonderful as this past year has been to me, my world has taken many dark turns over 2015–things that I have not really shared with anyone outside of family and a few close friends.
In April of 2015 my dad was diagnosed with ALS (amyotrophic lateral sclerosis). ALS is a motor neuron disease that causes a person’s motor neurons to over-fire to the point where the motor neurons damage themselves and eventually scar and disintegrate, leaving the person with ALS unable to move all of their voluntary muscles.
It starts slowly, usually on one side of the body, but gradually and suddenly gathers speed as it progresses. It affects every voluntary muscle in the body—no exceptions—including a person’s ability to breathe. Because of the respiratory failure that is inevitably precipitated by the loss of motor neuron function, ALS is always fatal in a matter of time. Prognosis is 2 to 5 years, although some people, like Stephen Hawking for example, can live much longer, though functionality is limited and such cases are rare.
I tell you about this horrible disease my family and I are facing down not to scare you or ask for pity, though any and all support is greatly appreciated. I tell you simply because I want you to know what’s going on right now. Not talking about, not saying anything, and leaving the majority of my friends in the dark as to what is happening in my family felt like right thing to do at first. As time progressed, however, my dad’s ALS has also pressed on my heart and encouraged me to share, despite the full reasoning behind my sharing being less than clear.
Needless to say, what I thought was significant before my dad’s diagnosis is not. What I thought would end my world a few years ago is nothing compared to losing what I have now realized is my world—my family, my loved ones, my dad. The fact that I was able to enjoy one of the happiest and most successful years of my life to date during this tumultuous news of my dad’s terminal illness is not due to my resilient spirit. I wish I could say that it was, but that would be a lie. If I am honest, it’s due to finally opening up enough to find true, supportive friends, finding out more about what I love to do, and being medicated for my mental illness, and I’m not ashamed of that. I actually feel as though I’m able to be the person I want to be, as though I have a say in how I feel and how I behave, and most importantly, that I have the ability to be and remain strong in a time where everyone in my family is struggling so hard to keep their heads above water, at a time where my dad needs helps to eat, use the restroom, and wiggle his toes.
What I want people to know from reading this post is that it is absolutely okay to be vulnerable. The people who love you, and yes, there are many people out there who love you more than you can imagine, are not burdened by your needs. In care-taking for my dad, I have realized what a joy it can be to care for someone who you love more than anything. It’s painful, yes, but more than painful, it feels like I’m helping do what I can—because I cannot give my dad back his motor neuron function. I can, however, help him eat his dinner. Likewise, my family is not burdened by me any health needs that I have (and believe me, I do have them, though my health concerns are nothing compared to ALS).
It’s okay to be sad if your dad has ALS or some other horrific illness, or even if you don’t think you have a reason. And it’s okay to ask for help, even when you think you don’t need it or deserve it. Whatever it is, it’s all okay, and you will be okay. I do admit that I’m still working on changing my mindset to allow myself to believe that I will be okay no matter what, as I feel like my foundation is slipping out from underneath me. More than that, I’m losing my dad, and that really hurts. Processing my dad’s ALS has helped me a lot with managing my constant fear of doom, as I can’t really imagine anything worse happening, even to myself.
I don’t know about you, but I’m quite pleased to be alive in an age where there are clinical trials for new ways of treating ALS, (one of which my dad is a part of!), and where the internet exists and a wide range of people can have access to one other’s thoughts, experiences, ideas, creativity, and more. Thus, I’m happy to share all of this with you in hope of connecting with you through sharing the parts of my life that I greedily keep to myself, in the dark, where they grow bigger and bigger by the minute and threaten the comfort of my being. More importantly, I hope this helps someone who may also be struggling with these issues, or different issues of a similar nature.
Many people think that we suffer to know the good in the world, or that we suffer because of sin or a broken world. I’m not here to suggest why we suffer, but only to remark at humanity’s ability to create webs of empathy from our suffering so that we are able to experience more love through something as horrific as ALS than we would have experienced without it. Though I’d rather ALS be damned most of the time, it is eye-opening to see how truly wonderful people can be when they open their hearts to others during difficult times.
Whether or not you are currently struggling with anything in your life, you have my love and confidence that you will not only live to see more of those magical moments you thought were gone, but that you will find that in allowing yourself to feel your struggles, share them, and grow from them, that you will indeed have a richer life than you would have had things gone the way you had planned. Maybe it is a broken world out there. I don’t know why human beings have such a rough go of it, but sometimes we do and it’s good to be open about such struggles instead of keeping them all to ourselves.
My dad may have ALS, but he’s still fighting and we’re all fighting with him.
For those of you who may not know me that well, my name is Anna and I’m 23-year-old college student (kid) who doesn’t really know what I’m doing in any area of my life. But who says you have to know what you’re doing to say positive things about yourself? (No one! Suck it, society).
And here we go:
1.) Creative—Though I fail at creating decent things way too often, I consider myself to be an extremely creative person. I love coming up with new ideas, talking about ideas of any kind with an open mind, and doing random, seemingly strange things that turn out to be pretty cool about less half the time. I’m also a pretty fabulous writer and dancer, when I believe in myself.
2.) Intelligent—I am a very bright person. I wouldn’t say my intelligence is always aligned with standardized testing, but I’m great at quickly understanding and critically examining new concepts.
3.) Beautiful—For a while I shied away from admitting this, because I thought it sounded vain. But now, I recognize that I am considered beautiful in our society/culture and I embrace it, because there’s not a whole I can do about it for starters, and I believe that beauty is more than just physical appearance. My inner beauty is really what I want people to see when they look at me, and I think our inner beauty can shine outward and even become physical beauty in some ways. And I’m learning that, in this way, my physical beauty can be considered a positive thing in my life, or a gift, because it helps reflect the beautiful person I know myself to be on the inside outward to the world.
4.)Perceptive—I’m good at recognizing things that aren’t so obvious to most people. I suppose it comes from being overly sensitive, but I think it’s a positive quality because it helps me understand the world and its strangeness better, grow as a person, and articulate the abstract.
5.)I’m an awesome sister! So says my sister… However, I actually believe this to be true. I’m so happy to have the close relationship with my sister that I do, because we figured it out early, and now we get to go through life enjoying each other and our sisterly bond :). I think what makes me a good sister is the fact that I both demonstrate and tell my sister that I’ll always be there for her. I’m far from perfect, but I’m going to be there to annoy her for the rest of our lives *evil laughter* I also think I helped instill a lot of confidence in my sister when we were little, because I would always tell her how amazing and beautiful she was—and I now see that she believes it (because it’s just so true!) I also see that I have shaped her life in many positive ways, and that makes me unbelievably overjoyed *tearing up a bit here*
***
I challenge whoever reads this to write and post 5 positive things about yourself :).
“I gave him the bit of seedcake out of my mouth and it was leapyear like now yes 16 years ago my God after that long kiss I near lost my breath yes he said I was a flower of the mountain yes so we are flowers all a womans body yes that was one true thing he said in his life and the sun shines for you today yes that as why I liked him because I saw he understood or felt what a woman is and I knew I could always get round him and I gave him all the pleasure I could leading him on till he asked me to say yes and I wouldnt answer first only look out over the sea and the sky I was thinking of so many things he didnt know
(643: 1574-1582)
I thought well as well him as another and then I asked him with my eyes to ask again yes and then he asked me would I yes to say yes my mountain flower and first I put my arms around him yes and drew him down to me so he could feel my breasts all perfume yes and his heart was going like mad and yes I said yes I will
Yes.”
(643: 1602-1604, 644: 1605-1609).
Just as Bloom recalls the seedcake exchange earlier in Lestrygonians, Molly recalls it now (“Me. And me now.”), only she places the scene more specifically in time—“16 years ago.” She nearly “lost [her] breath,” when Bloom said she was a “flower of the mountain,” implying not only her physical beauty but also her inner beauty as natural, like the beauty of a flower. She recalls Bloom telling her “we are flowers all a womans body,” eliminating the boundaries between men and women and uplifting a “womans body” as something lovely from which we all come into existence. Although Molly says, “yes that was one true thing he said in his life,” she touches on the aspect of Bloom that we have come to know him so well by—his empathy. She says, “yes that as why I liked him because I saw he understood or felt what a woman is.” I love how she begins with “understood” (sympathy) and then suggests that he not only “understood what a woman is,” but “felt” it as well (true empathy). Molly loves Bloom for his ability to “feel” and not just “understand” her perspective, which is ultimately what snags her heart.
But Molly’s monologue then moves away from Bloom’s ability to empathize with her, as she thinks, “I knew I could always get round him and I gave him all the pleasure I could leading him on till he asked me to say yes and I wouldnt answer first only look out over the sea and the sky I was thinking of so many things he didnt know,” suggesting that despite Bloom’s ability to view the world through her eyes, she can “always get around him,” and there are still “so many things he [doesn’t] know.” “[Giving] him “all of her pleasure,“ Molly “[leads] him on” until they are about to have sex, or “till he asked [her] to say yes.” But Molly does not respond at first, still thinking of what Bloom [doesn’t] and possibly will not ever know—the complete opposite of falling in love with his empathy. While Bloom may be a paragon for empathy, Molly makes it clear that he cannot be omniscient.
She then thinks, “well as well him as another,” asking him “with [her] eyes,” so without words, a true test, to “ask [her] again.” Bloom could be asking for Molly’s consent to marriage or sex, or both, because language opens up this duality of possibilities. (And I think it is most likely that she is contemplating both, especially since this scene is happening “16 year ago”). But there is, in my opinion, a third reading of Molly’s words—“[her] now,” or her in the present moment, because that is where this monologue is taking place. When Molly “[puts] her arms around him yes and [draws] him down to [her] so he could feel [her] breasts all perfume yes his heart was going like mad and yes I said yes I will / Yes,” she appears to be talking about the past, but there is room in her words to take her re-experiencing the past as her present recommitment to Bloom.
I love this beautiful moment as the ending, because it is so much more complex than it appears. It is messy, stuck in the past, imperfect, but it is also powerful and tender and understanding of misunderstanding and coming together because yes love is never perfect but that is not to say it is not beautiful :).
“How had [Bloom] attempted to remedy this state of her [Molly’s] comparative ignorance?
Variously. By leaving in a conspicuous place a certain book pen at a certain page: by assuming in her, when alluding explanatorily, latent knowledge: by open ridicule in her presence of some absent other’s ignorant lapse” (562: 693-697).
Despite knowing of the rift, both mental and sexual, between Bloom and Molly, we have not yet heard a lot of reasoning behind it, and we have only seen their relationship through the eyes of Bloom. Here, the detached, scientific mode of question and answer appears similar to omniscient narration. Although Bloom may not be responsible for asking the question of what has been done to “remedy” or fix Molly’s “state of comparative ignorance,” he is responsible for his actions that follow in the answer. And I find his answer shocking, considering how empathetic he is toward Molly throughout the novel, buying her books she would like, fondly remembering good times with her—even desperately trying to remain calm over her affair with Blazes. That Bloom has tried “various” ways to “remedy” Molly’s state of intelligence, or lack thereof, sheds a less favorable light on Bloom.
More likely, however, this answer is Bloom’s love for Molly, showcased by his efforts to care for her education while not insulting her intelligence, hoping she will stumble upon a bit of nourishing knowledge. “By leaving in a conspicuous place a certain book pen at a certain page,” Bloom is setting the stage for his wife to expand her intelligence. This action is also evidence to suggest that Bloom has faith in Molly’s “latent” knowledge—that she may or may not actually possess. He even goes as far as to try and make her feel like she does possess the intelligence or inner life that he is ultimately uncertain whether or not she has by “ridicule[ing] some absent other’s ignorant lapse… in her presence,” which can also be viewed as an act of love, because Bloom is building his own confidence in Molly’s intelligence.
It is difficult to know how to read this question and answer, mostly because I feel as though I need Molly’s perspective to do so. (And maybe that is what Joyce is leading us to think). We know by this point that Bloom is a good guy and would never intentionally do anything to hurt or upset Molly, but we know they are not happy together, and there must be at least one factor as to why that is, intentional or not.
I think this passage really calls into to question what it means to love someone. Is there such a thing as caring too much? We know caring too much can hurt ourselves, but can it also hurt others? It seems as though Bloom cares so much about Molly that he has pushed what he wants or needs away from the surface of his consciousness, leaving him lonely and hurt. And perhaps Molly is also left lonely and hurt from her misinterpretations of Bloom’s well intended actions.
As the mechanical, repetitive question and answer session of Ithaca suggests, the “answer” to such questions about what it means to love are complicated and ultimately unsatisfying, because they are incalculable.
In his article “Pararealism in Circe,” Derek Attridge proposes that the episode of Circe is “pararealism” or “faulty, irregular, disordered, and improper,” reality. He initially supports this claim by commenting on the play format of the chapter. Circe, at least in regard to form, is the most “traditional and secure” (122) of all of the chapters in Ulysses thus far, despite its extremely odd content. As Attridge points out, “from start to finish, we know, thanks to clear typographical distinctions (whatever edition we’re using) whether we are reading a stage direction, the name of a speaker, or a speech”—a gift the previous chapters have not afforded us (122). Thus, the interesting nature of Circe lies in the “bizarre goings-on,” (122) or the odd events that Joyce has chosen to bring to life for his readers.
One strategy of reading Circe, according to Attridge, is to “sustain the fiction that the chapter is a realistic account of events in a part of Dublin” (123). He then claims this strategy is a poor one, mentioning a “weaker (and therefore more useful),” nuanced reading strategy previously described by critic Hugh Kenner (123). Kenner describes Joyce’s intent behind Circe to “place all figures, all analogies, all ruminations on the plane of the visible and audible” (123). But Attridge disagrees with even this more sophisticated claim, saying that Kenner’s claim seems unlikely, because “every detail would have to be traceable back to something one of the characters—in the “real” world—is doing, thinking, or feeling,” and that Kenner’s claim places a “huge interpretive burden on the reader” (123).
Attridge argues against attempting to trace everything in Circe back to reality, and insists that “a more successful mode of reading is at first sight the most naïve one: simply to accept what the typography and tone tell us” (123). Because of the stage directions, Attridge argues that the reader is meant to imagine Circe as a play with “no limit to the special effects,” with Virag’s voice just as “real” as anyone else’s voice, and definitely not a voice we could imagine coming from the mind of Bloom (123). But he also says that his argument does not mean the real and the unreal are indistinguishable. He concludes by stating that the real and the unreal “shade” one another and have a “mutual interference,” (125) but are most definitely separate. Hence, the episode of Circe is what he calls “parareal” (119).
I found Attridge’s extremely intriguing, because it is difficult to know how to read a chapter like Circe. While I think I ultimately do interpret the chapter as parareal, just as Attridge describes, I did not find his argument totally convincing. I thought his mild refutation of Kenner’s claims, while helpful in building his argument, were not completely accurate. I think it is possible to read Circe and trace every detail back to one of the characters in the real world, what they are “doing, thinking, or feeling” (123). I also think the “huge interpretive burden” (123) he claims Kenner’s idea places upon the reader is what Joyce intended. The novel as a whole places the “interpretive burden” on the reader, and many things do relate back to reality, at least in the indirect way a dream relates back to real life.
Although I refuse to discount Kenner’s theory completely, I do like Attridge’s suggestion to read Circe in a “naïve” way, because I believe naivety introduces endless possibility—something I do think Joyce is asking us to bring with us when we read Circe. In this way, what Joyce is asking readers to do in Circe is a burden, but it is also the ultimate form of parallax not to take everything for reality, while taking everything seriously. It is a tough job for us as readers, but not an impossible one.
My favorite part of Attridge’s article is his conclusion: “the most important transformation affected by Circean magic is that of the reader, into someone who will accept, on the same plane and with the same kind of attention, a prostitute smoothing her eyebrows and a man on pink stilts emerging from the chimney-flue” (125).
Attridge, Derek. “Pararealism in Circe.” European Joyce Studies (2012): n. pag. ProQuest. Web. 15 Mar. 2015.
“I ask, if I shall never see you again and fix my eyes on that solidity, what form will our communication take? You have gone across the court, further and further, drawing finer and finer the thread between us. But you exist somewhere. Something of you remains. A judge. That is, if I discover a new vein in myself I shall submit it to you privately. I shall ask, ‘What is your verdict?’ You shall remain the arbiter. But for how long? Thing will become too difficult to explain: there will be new things; already my son.” –Bernard p. 112
Here, we see Bernard worrying over forgetting Percival, and thus forgetting a part of himself. He wonders, “what form (their) communication will take,” after Percival’s death. However, his musings are more self-directed, rather than concern over Percival.
When he says that Percival has “gone across the court, further and further,” he means that Percival is not only somewhere that he cannot reach—taken by death—but that time is continuing to push Percival “further and further” away from him, his thoughts, and his memories, “drawing finer and finer the thread between (them).” As the “thread,” or their friendship, or fragile connection through communication, is drawn thinner and thinner, or least as Bernard predicts it will be, their friendship and what is left of it in Bernard’s mind will slowly but surely dwindle.
Bernard does, however, go on to say that Percival “(exists) somewhere” and that “something (of him) remains… a judge,” meaning that part of Percival exists in what Bernard judges would be “Percival” and Percival’s imagined actions and reactions to happenings. Bernard says Percival shall “remain arbiter” or judge, and even directly address him asking, “what is your verdict?”
But then he must ask himself, for “how long” can he continue reinventing his dead friend’s persona in his mind? For “how long” can he explain himself, see himself, and gather himself, in someone who is no longer living?
I think he already knows the answer to his own question, when he speaks of “new things,” implying new adventures and hardships to come in his life, and raising his son–an inevitably joyful yet complicated life experience. I think he already knows the answer to “how long” he can keep the deceased “Percival,” filtered through his own thoughts, as a judge against his own persona, when unable to “draw” upon the real, live Percival. It is not long at all, and was only somewhat more possible when Percival was alive.
I walked into the coffee shop soaking wet, fumbling my umbrella shut. I looked like a hooligan fiddle farting around like that, but the damn thing was so cheap I was lucky it even repelled water.
But where was Aria?
Sertraline
“Mom—hi!” called a voice from across the room. Aria popped up from a booth and made her way over to me. Small, blonde, and bright-eyed, as though she were ready to listen to the world and remember every meaningless mumble it had to offer.
“Hi you,” I said, giving her a huge hug. “How have you been?” I asked.
“I’m good,” she replied.
“Good? Good is good.” And I believed she had to be good. The sharp shimmer in her eyes, the rosy flush in her cheeks, her perfectly young, clear skin—she looked different, a good different. “Well, whatever you’re doing, keep doing it,” I said. “You look stunning.”
“I do?”
Where to?
“Thanks,” she replied softly. “I really do look well?”
“Terrific. Now what’s this I hear about your summer plans?”
“Well, I’m considering traveling abroad.”
“Where to?”
“Oh, I don’t know just yet.”
“Well, get thinking about that. Exciting stuff is happening.” She was changing—afraid to get her license last year, now travelling the world?
But I was changing too. Everything was changing: Stephen, the business, the dogs, my world. My tiny, tiny world was on the edge of combusting right in my face. Where do you go when the future stops holding the things you had placed in it?
Clever, very
“Are you all right?” I heard Aria ask.
“Fine, fine. Your aging mother just needs a cigarette—that’s all. Be right back.”
I watched Aria from the window outside. Small, yet well proportioned. She sat so poised, waiting for me. She took out her phone and poked around at it. What was a young person like Aria doing always poking around on her phone? Probably something more entertaining than having coffee with her aged mother. When I was her age, I never had coffee with my mother. We would have been drinking at someone’s house—someone whose parents were away. But we were never as clever as they are, were we?
Yellow Paint
I inhaled the last precious drop of nicotine and re-gathered my courage to go back inside. I’d apologize for smelling like smoke, if Aria made a face. Did Aria smoke? She can’t—not with that skin.
“Do tell me what you’re doing with yourself these days to make yourself look so… so fresh,” I said, sliding back into the booth. Aria sipped her latte, smiling her father’s big-gorgeous smile.
“Yoga,” she said, “And lots of good, hot, romantically inspiring sex.”
“Well, I can tell you about a time or two when,”
“God—no! Kidding. I’m kidding,” she laughed.
“What then?”
“Meds,” she said. “The right ones.” She inhaled the froth from her latte, smiling up at me from mid-sip. I stared at her for a moment, then at the face in my coffee. The dark brown gleam of the liquid took the wrinkles away.
“This is good. We don’t want you turning out like…”
“You know,” said Aria, grabbing my hand. “Van Gogh used to eat yellow paint, because he thought it would make him happy inside, like the sun. We all have our yellow paint, don’t you think?”
“Language provides the motion of the novel; words create connections that carry us in and out of the minds of each character, pushing the text from childhood to death,” Allison Hild points out in the introduction (69) to her article “Community/Communication in Woolf’s The Waves: The Language of Motion.” Hild argues that the characters do not communicate in dialogue or inner monologue, but in “voices,” and she goes on to examine the “voices” of the six characters Woolf has so cleverly bought to life for her readers.
Hild wisely begins her argument with a refutation of critic Eric Warner’s claim that “the characters all share one voice” (70). She then quotes Marcus Miko and his idea that the voices of the characters are not actually distinct personalities, but rather a stream of “vocal patterns amidst the overlap of voices” (70). Hild refutes this more nuanced argument as well, suggesting that as the characters grow older, they also have more distinctive personalities. She claims that eventually the reader will not need the speech tags to identify the voice of each character, and that readers have already associated Louis with Australia, Bernard with stories, Susan with nature, and Jinny with beauty (70). She then smartly refutes Miko’s other claim that Woolf is “repetitive” with her use of language between the six characters, asserting that what he deems repetitive is merely “echoed” and “transformed” language; “harmonies” rather than “unities” (70). After her refutation, Hild expands her argument that the characters do have their own voices. She claims that the “more compelling process of individuation” is Woolf’s “stylistic and technical weaving together of her characters (71). The exchanges and transitions between the voices of the characters are present, yet subtle and that the “replication of phrases” is what gives the narrative its wave-like “flow” (72).
Hild then addresses on the unavoidable concept of self and community and the role language plays in the relationship between the two. She references Jacques Lacan, utilizing his phrases “speaking subject” and “subject as spoken” to explain Lacan’s idea that not only is individual identity or personality only possible through identification or division within a community, but that community is only possible through the sense of individuality (72). However, Hild notes this idea to be the way Woolf’s language functions throughout The Waves, and not necessarily the only interpretive lens through which to read the novel.
Elaborating the linguistic roots of the individual and the community, Hild mentions the “vice” (Woolf 103) that manages to hold the group of friends together for fleeting moments during their reunion dinner. She discusses the “disjunction that is language” and how it “creeps in,” when friends gather in groups, and how it “breaks open any circle of friends.” Hild then comments on the characters’ fragile connection with one another, as though their meaning as individuals is circumscribed in their friendships, and they are null without reflecting one another (73). She also discusses Percival’s narrative function, and how his “silence” may further demonstrate the inner community of the six focal characters. As Hild adeptly notes, when Percival dies, each character struggles with “silence,” or lack of language and communication. This disconnection from language, or “fall” into “silence” is the subtle yet crucial link between the role of the outsider (in this instance, Percival) and the decreased flow of language when that outsider is no longer present, Hild claims. She closes by discussing the intense irony of Bernard’s closing words (77).
I have to agree with most of what Hild argues throughout this article. One of the reasons I enjoy reading Woolf is because of the way she explores the relationship between solitude, individuality, “privacy of the soul,” and community, friends, and hospitality. I think we are taught, at least in western culture, that these two distinctions are simple and clear, or at least they should be. However, we know they are not so simple. Woolf’s style embraces the complexity of these conflicting human desires, and Hild’s criticism appropriately tackles Woolf’s complicated and experimental novel. I believe the description of the six characters as “voices,” is beyond accurate. They are most definitely not speaking in a traditional type of dialogue, yet there is a connection between them–and the “voices” are most definitely not soliloquies. “Di” and “solo” hint that these two descriptors of Woolf’s literary genius are two extreme versions of language of the inner self and language of the outer world. Instead of fulfilling these models of language, Woolf has worked so cleverly to convey the confusing nature of the middle ground between these two opposing versions of language that is best exemplified by water, by waves.
I also agree with Hild’s claim that the characters are “harmonies” rather than “unities.” She is wise for not lumping them together as one collective “voice,” as some critics have done. She is also wise for not negating the importance—the necessity—of their experience as a community of friends. I found her claims accurate and well done. All of the characters have been the “speaking subject” and the “subject as spoken” (72) throughout the novel, so much so that I can now attribute particular phrases and preferences that identify each character. I notice, as the characters grow older, that this process becomes easier, yet they still echo one another with subtle responses through repetition and rhythm.
I find the “disjunction” or divisive nature of language and how it “breaks” the “circle of friends” extraordinarily accurate in describing the dynamic of not just these six fictional friends, but human friendship in general. The interpretation of Percival as an “outsider,” whose death “silences” the six “insiders” supports Hild’s argument of the interdependency of one’s inner world and outer world (75). The six friends must struggle between both modes of human existence in order for either mode to be continuously upheld. This struggle is tragic yet hopeful, and infinitely complicated, as long as there is language to complicate it.
Hild, Allison. “Community/Communication in Woolf’s "The Waves”: The Language of Motion.“ The Journal of Narrative Technique 24.1 (1994): 69-79. JSTOR. Web. 10 Feb. 2015.
Marguerite Regan begins her article “’Weggebobbles and Fruit’: Bloom’s Vegetarian Impulses” by questioning how one could consider Bloom as someone who possess “vegetarian impulses,” as his Joyce’s introduction to his character is surrounded by the meat he enjoys cooking and eating. But Regan does not dwell on this inconsistency, as she has another argument to make about the implications of vegetarianism, rather than Bloom’s unlikely conversion to it. Regan begins her argument by discussing “vegetarian texts,” and whether or not Joyce’s Ulysses can even qualify as such a text (463). She then gives a brief history on vegetarianism and how it is seen in literature and how Joyce, through Bloom, alludes to it in Lestrygonians.
Regan first examines vegetarianism and its relationship with feminism, as vegetarianism is said to “protest against the ‘brutality of the strong against the weak, whether on the part of men against women or human beings toward animals’” (466). She then discusses the many instances in which Bloom demonstrates kindness or sympathy toward animals, such as his fondness of his cat, the sympathy he feels for the horses in Lotus Eaters, and the sheep in Hades. According to Regan, Bloom’s sensitivities toward others, including animals, prompt action in Lestrygonians, when Bloom escapes Burton for a vegetarian lunch. Regan explains that when Bloom’s thoughts darken, we hear talk of cannibalism and “rhetoric of violence and disgust” (470). This talk of cannibalism, as Regan points out, is less violent on the behalf of Bloom’s wandering mind and more indicative of Bloom’s equal regard for all humans as well as other living creatures, as he remarks that it doesn’t matter what “meat” the rats will eat, human or otherwise.
Regan also discusses Bloom’s semi-conscious connection between dullness and society conditioned meat eating, and how Bloom associates the meat industry and thus meat eating with imperial England. Following this association, Ireland–both the land and the people–are the “poor, consumed cow” (472). Regan’s final paragraph argues that meat eating is an excellent symbol for political and cultural dominance and that, at this point, it cannot be ignored. Meat is more of a central topic in Ulysses than vegetarianism, and Regan even points out that Bloom will not forsake his diet of meat for “weggebobbles and fruit.” She does, however, make a clear point that Bloom’s good nature toward others, in his thoughts and actions, seems to offer up questions on power in society, and readers are invited to sympathize and question along with him.
My first reaction upon reading this article was that of uncertainty. I was unsure of how Regan was going to take something like vegetarianism and make it relate in the multitude of complex ways that it does to Ulysses. But Regan makes her case well, with the history of vegetarianism, the character of Leopold Bloom, and chapter eight on her side. Lestrygonians is full of food-related imagery. However, I agree with Regan’s claim that this imagery is not so new, if we have been paying close attention. When we first meet Bloom, he is described by his love of meat and though in the background of other events, we see him buying and cooking a kidney in detail. What I think Regan so smartly points out is Bloom’s love for animals. We see, time and time again, that Bloom not only cares for and appreciates animals, but he also has a genuine respect for them as beings not too different from humans. As morbid as it sounds, I also think Bloom’s description of rats eating humans after they die is indicative of how Bloom is both consciously and unconsciously sensitive to animals, because he is comparing them to humans by comparing every creature to meat. Thus, “meat is meat” so to speak, and Bloom has not placed himself above anyone else’s “meat.”
But it is not just animals that Bloom shows his compassion toward in Lestrygonians. More so than the issue of vegetarianism, I think the issue of power and oppression and what gives one the right to “eat” another is what is really at stake here. I also believe that Lestrygonians demonstrates Bloom’s ability to sympathize with the women he sees around him, starting with Stephen’s sister. But perhaps he most adeptly sympathizes with his own wife, Molly. Throughout the chapter we see Bloom viewing women as complex people, with more to them that meets the eye. Even though Bloom’s sexual frustration constitutes a fair portion of his consciousness when he is thinking of Molly, there is always much more to it than that. His fantasies are in many ways loving, and it appears what he is missing most is intimacy, not just physical, but spiritual intimacy as well. Bloom may long to connect with his wife, and when he comments on her “witty” remark on the “barreltone” singer (Joyce 126: 117) and empathizes so heavily with the process of childbearing and childbirth (132), we can see that he not only respects women, but he views them in complicated, realistic ways, and he does not allow himself to hold power over the women he knows.
Perhaps Regan’s argument that Ireland is the cow offering its meat to imperial England to be consumed is her most obscure claim. Despite the hidden nature of this argument, it is present within the text with a little digging around and interpretation, and it definitely follows the rest of her argument on vegetarianism. However, I did not find that argument to be the most interesting part of the article. After reading Regan’s ideas, I was most intrigued by how similar Bloom and Stephen are in regard to loving animals. Back in chapter three, Stephen compared himself to the dog he was watching on the beach, which suggests that as different as the two men are, they are also a lot alike—and they are not even living in different countries, or different sexes, let alone different species…
In Lubomír Doležel’s article “Possible Worlds of Fiction and History,” he suggests that although history and fiction are oddly similar, history has and maintains a truth functionality that fiction does not. In history, he claims, new facts must remain true when tested against provable, established facts. In fiction, however, this type of truth functionality does not necessarily have to exist, allowing significantly more departure from the world as we know it, as well as the invention and elaboration of other “possible worlds,” or “sovereign realms of possibilia” (Doležel 3).
First person narration is especially intriguing when viewed through the context of possible worlds theory, because first person narration is such a close relative of autobiography, a supposedly historically accurate and therefore non-fictional account of a person’s life written by that person. The relationship between first person narration and possible worlds theory is where reality, history, and fiction culminate into the deepest questions concerning our existence. Ivan Klíma’s fictional collection of short stories, My Merry Mornings: Stories from Prague, is a particularly deft example of a fictional work that assumes an oddly autobiographical feel; one that could potentially describe the narrating Klíma’s “merry mornings” each so called “day” of the week. As the collection continues, however, the stories grow progressively bizarre, more omniscient, and more symbolic. The book’s odd taint of reality begs the question: what is the difference between retelling a story and creating it? Is there a difference? Klíma asks us to consider how or if facts ground stories in reality, and whether or not we are all simply narrating our lives, and the lives of others, with an unfit authority of omniscience.
In his first story, Monday morning, A Black Market Tale, we are introduced to Klíma’s world with the shock of young Freddie falling onto his balcony, bleeding. This story, while a bit odd, seems completely plausible. While Freddie’s refusal to cry is disturbing, as is his father’s jail sentence and heavy involvement with the black market, the story still seems probable, as strange neighbors are not terribly difficult to comprehend. Even so, Klíma the narrator allows the reader behind the veil of his possible world of balcony-jumping children with criminal fathers, when he remarks that “[he] cannot help thinking that [he has] been somewhat less than fair when describing [Freddie’s] father. He certainly isn’t as accomplished a villain as he would like to be” (Klíma 9). This admission of biased storytelling quietly points to the first person narrator’s position as a creator of a “possible world.” Eerily enough, even if Freddie’s story was non-fiction, it is improbable that Klíma’s account of events would exist within the same possible world as any of the other people in the story. Because Klíma, as narrator, has the power to inform the reader about Freddie’s father, he recreates the history and the perception of Freddie’s entirely discomforting home-life situation.
The next few mornings become progressively stranger, as Klíma assumes a job as carp salesman and an orderly in order to make some extra money. What is slightly amiss in these tales are not the professions he assumes, nor the details surrounding his work, but the subtle sense of omniscience that Klíma’s narration so easily inhabits while working his odd jobs. In A Christmas Conspiracy Tale, Klíma briefly takes comfort in the “warm feeling which comes of belonging” at the thought of becoming one of “them,” (58) or a cog in the clockwork of the country, as opposed to an outsider, an observer, a writer. This warm feeling, however, is temporary, as he concludes that he will never live in the possible world of carp sales, because “they, [the insiders], will always find a way to cheat [him] (61). Equally probable, however, is that Klíma has cheated them with the creation of his tale. We know nothing of the motivations of any of the other characters, or who or what damaged the tank. We know Klíma’s story of events—nothing more than a possible world where people lack the strength to consistently adhere to any kind of internal principle.
In An Orderly’s Tale, the story appears reasonably realistic and possibly still autobiographical, until Klíma’s letter to Tanya. In his letter he documents, with omniscient narration, the story of the dying old woman and her husband, presumably the old man who is waiting by her bedside. The tale of the old man and his dying wife is tragic, concluding with the old man signing for her possessions, as he regrets his selfish ways. In an ironic commentary on inhumane mandate, the nurse says to the old man, “but of course, we must keep some kind of order,” as if that will allay the old man’s pain (110). While this statement clearly does not ease the old man’s suffering, Klíma’s letter to Tanya, has, on some level, eased her pain of working with doctors who administer lethal injections to the elderly when they reach a certain decline in health. Klíma’s naivety of this terrifyingly common medical practice is demonstrated through the sentimental story in his letter. However, his letter is more than simply naïve. He creates yet another possible world where the old woman experiences a natural death, as opposed to a scheduled one. This possible world of natural death for the elderly gives Tanya hope of a distant world where the elderly are not scheduled to die by lethal injection—hope for a possible future.
By the last tale, A Foolish Tale, all notions of autobiography are put to rest, as the characters become more animated and peculiar, and the likelihood of events and meetings become all too perfect, even symbolic. In his time away from the city, Klíma finds himself in the presence of several outcasts, including Charlie, who suffers from hallucinations, Luke, an eccentric “feeble minded” youth, and Magdalen, a provocative young woman who ran away from home. While each character is vividly individual, they are each eerily symbolic of society’s traditional outcasts; the mentally ill, the disabled, and the fallen woman. Through an unlikely course of events, including a flood, the professor who frequently visited Klíma earlier in the story joins the outsiders as the whacky philosopher, with Klíma, as always, taking his position of the writer. While highly improbable, Klíma designs this possible world as one where outcasts are forced together and forced to be honest—no doubt a possible future world for Czechs, should they abandon the fear of being outcasts in society for the seemingly foolish hope of a miracle similar to the one that brought these characters together.
If Klíma’s stories have affirmed anything, it is that words are not neutral. It is not possible to simply describe something or someone without the process of recreating and therefore creating that thing, person, or world. And yet we assume this false role of omniscience frequently, as we chat about our days with a loved one, as we write down our experiences, even as we remember quietly to ourselves. For a moment, we become the creator of a world that is built on our personal biases, whatever those biases may be. In this way, stories cannot possibly come from reality, because reality stubbornly refuses to be wholly and perfectly recreated by the human mind. There is, however, a trace of reality left in all stories, even the most abstract. Stories are neither created out of nothingness, nor a mirror of reality. They are, instead, possible worlds: worlds that could be, might be, or possibly have been. And while certain historical facts are indisputable, it is the way in which the facts are ordered and how one recounts history that ultimately matters, and what makes history more like a highly probable, eerily fictional possible world, rather than a past reality.
My friends and I made the journey to Vyšehrad one Sunday, after hearing about the graveyard where many of the Czech Republic’s greats were buried, namely Čapek and Mucha, because we have read Čapek’s War with the Newts, and have had to the opportunity to see Mucha’s artwork in the Mucha Museum. While we originally made our daytrip for the graveyard, that was not all we encountered once in Vyšehrad. Once we walked past the more corporate façade just outside of the metro station, we found a neighborhood, a park, a small town, and the Vyšehrad castle wall.
From the castle wall we had an exceptional view of Prague and the Vltava River. It was easy to imagine how many legends cite Vyšehrad as the first settlement that would later become Prague. Despite these legends, however, there has been little to no concrete evidence to support the idea. While the castle at Vyšehrad was a royal home at one point, it was abandoned for the Prague castle by Holy Roman Emperor Charles IV. However, the castle at Vyšehrad was not to deteriorate in the displacement of it as a royal headquarters. Instead, Charles IV decided to renew the castle, with new gates and a palace.
The remodeling of the Vyšehrad castle was, like most remodeling, due to the wake of destruction left by various conflicts over the years. During the Hussite Wars, Vyšehrad was not only conquered, but also plundered by the Hussites, and fell into ruin in the aftermath. After the Thirty Years War, however, when the Hapsburgs came into power in the Czech lands, the area was remodeled as a fortress of the Baroque style, and this style is what we see today.
The Baroque remodeling of Vyšehrad has turned it into a “fortified residence,” complete with ramparts, bastions, and surrounding housing. Ideal for outdoor walking and overlooking Prague, Vyšehrad has a lot of small town charm to be nestled in the city. Due to its public park, it has in recent years become a perfect location for recreation and festivities. We even saw a concert stage being set up on our visit. We also encountered many families walking their Yorkshire terriers along the castle wall, many small food vendors, and lots of green space, and of course, the famous, almost aerial, view of Prague.
While my friend M. was most enchanted with the castle wall, my other friend E. preferred the Basilica of St. Peter and St. Paul. The lovely, spiraling Gothic church was yet another church that caused us to take a moment, sit back, and admire. Because it was a Sunday, a Catholic mass was going on, and we were able to see families pouring out of the basilica and walking to lunch. I sat on the curb in front of the church for a while, watching people mill about and talk to one another, when I looked up to find what would be my favorite part of Vyšehrad—the cemetery.
I am not normally one to enjoy a walk through a cemetery, but I have now resigned myself to the fact that this is because most of the cemeteries back home are simply unpleasant to look at. There are no headstones—only fake flowers and occasionally fake grass. Vyšehrad cemetery, however, was beautiful. The design of the headstones, the flower arrangements, and the sheer age and marvelous beauty that does not seem to be replicable in the modern age is what really pulled me in, as I wandered down each of the paths between the graves. The reason we had visited Vyšehrad in the first place for the cemetery, so I had it in mind to locate, and photograph, Čapek’s grave (bottom left).
After much searching, and encountering a surprising amount of deceased Anna’s, I found it. While it was less grandiose than I had pictured, I thought it did him justice. The cemetery as a whole, particularly because it contains so many Czech greats, caused me to think about how one becomes great, and what is actually achievable in a single lifetime. I do not necessarily have an answer to this question, but wondering about it was fun and oddly inspiring, as well as life affirming. I am proud of the Czechs for recognizing great writers and artists for their great achievements, because I truly believe that imagination does have the power to create a better future.
In a place surrounded by so much history, I was afraid I might feel a bit lost amongst the small yet terrifying infinity of human existence, but I didn’t. I felt glad to be a part of it all, and I felt, all the more strongly, the importance in making your own history through putting the time and effort into what you love. After hanging out in the cemetery for a while, my mildly existential thought loop came to a halt, and we decided to take pictures of ourselves sitting the castle wall, and then descend to the more central part of Prague, looking back up at where we had just stood.
Every time I see the spires Basilica of St. Peter and St. Paul, I now think of Vyšehrad and its history, but now I also have my own memories and personal narrative layered over it, and that makes everything in Vyšehrad, and Prague in general, all the more significant and meaningful to me.
While I do not believe Čapek is writing about any one phenomenon or problematic ideology in particular, there are many different compelling ways in which War with the Newts can be interpreted that are strongly reflective of the world we live in today. But before I can get into any type of interpretation of the book, I must clarify the ultimate question that arises from Čapek’s novel: who or what are the newts? Again, there are multiple possible answers, and none can be considered “correct” over the other. However, I do not believe the newts are some alien-like creatures, science fiction oddities, or even a metaphor for animals or genetic advancement. I see it quite simply: the newts are humans, the newts are us.
I believe the newts have all of the qualities of human beings, but with key elements of humanity missing. The have a rudimentary, mechanical understanding of language, they do not enjoy or create art of any kind, they neglect individuality and everything considered “aimless, playful, fantastic, or ancient.” The newts embrace the “utilitarian,” the “mechanical and repeatable…” They represent the “brainless, half educated and smug type of civilised specimens” that humans risk transforming into every day (205).
Because the newts are so successful, the risk of humans becoming “salamandarised” is not simply fiction, but reality. The newts appear to have everything figured out, by eliminating the “human” aspects of being human (because, well, they are newts). If we view the newts as representative of what humans have the potential to become, then we can see that our “war with the newts” is really a war with ourselves not to fall into the mediocrity of viewing the world through a lens of complacent fearfulness and “brainless” productivity, without art, perspective, or any type of critical examination of the world.
The newts are happy and homogeneous, where the humans are doubtful, divided, and full of restless desire. But is that not what it feels like to be human? I do not think Čapek has all of the answers, but I think, through this novel, he has shown us what we could be like, should we decide to reject the parts of ourselves that make us human. We would think that we were progressing rapidly, when in reality we would end up right back where we began, maybe even worse. It seems to me that Čapek is not arguing any one thing in particular, but rather he is arguing for humanity not to give into our own desire to be free from the restless nature of the human condition in exchange for what seems like a solution for the unanswerable, intrinsic problems of being human.
“The fact is that I have little aptitude for reflection. I require the concrete in everything. It is so only that I lay hands upon the world. A good phrase, however, seems to me to have an independent existence. Yet I think it is likely that the best are made in solitude. They require some final refrigeration which I cannot give them dabbling always in warm soluble words. My method, nevertheless, has certain advantages over theirs. Neville is repelled by the grossness of Trumble. Louis, glancing, tripping with the high step of a disdainful crane, picks up words as if in sugar-tongs. It is true that his eyes—wild, laughing, yet desperate—express something that we have not gauged. There is about both Neville and Louis a precision, an exactitude that I admire and shall never possess” (Woolf 48-49).
It is the beginning of the summer holiday, and everyone is travelling home by the train. Here, the reader is inside Bernard’s consciousness, as he defines himself against his friends, Louis and Neville. Bernard says that he has “little aptitude for reflection,” and that he “(requires) the concrete in everything,” meaning that he lives primarily in the outside world, and not in his own inner thoughts, and that he understands the real or the “concrete” better than its assumed opposite, the abstract or imagined.
However, readers know that Bernard loves to tell stories, which is not a completely unimaginative activity. He says “a good phrase, however, seems (to him) to have an independent existence,” meaning that spinning stories to his friends, as imaginative as the process may be, always requires an audience, or the outside world, in order to bring his phrases to life. Thus, the “independent existence” of his words, or thoughts, or ideas is actually quite dependent on the presence of others, but independent from his supposed low “aptitude for reflection.”
Bernard then reflects how “the best (phrases, stories, or thoughts) are made in solitude. They require some final refrigeration which (he) cannot give them dabbling always in warm soluble words.” Here, Bernard is critiquing the primary way through which he experiences his own life and the world around him. He muses how phrases, stories, and thoughts are possibly best when “refrigerated,” or stored away and preserved until the right moment, and that he merely “dabbles” in language, using “warm” and “soluble” words. Not only is “dabbling” a somewhat anticlimactic self-description, but “warm” and “soluble” are partially self-deprecating in the context of Bernard’s consciousness as well. “Warm” implies “weak,” and “soluble” implies that Bernard believes his quick witted phrasing and random musings aloud are mutable, ever changeable, because they are not heavily reflected upon or written down, and are therefore less important, or not “the best.”
However, Bernard does go on to praise himself for the “advantages” of his “method” over the “methods” of both Louis and Neville. He remarks how Neville “is repelled by the grossness of Trumble,” a random fellow passenger on the train. Bernard suggests that Neville and Louis are missing out on lovely parts of the “concrete,” real world, by refusing to interact with it as regularly and willingly as Bernard claims he does. “Trumble’s grossness” is a great source of intrigue for Bernard. And it is quite possible Louis would never in a million years “pick up” the words to describe a character like Trumble, even with “sugar tongs,” or the delicate redrafting of his “refrigerated” stories, simply because he is not apt to interact with such a person.
Bernard then describes Louis as delicate, “tripping with the high step of a disdainful crane.” This description continues to reveal Bernard’s observation of Louis’s disconnectedness from not just reality but also other people, such as Trumble. Bernard’s metaphorical language supports reality, as Louis does, at times, “trip” and “stumble” through life, simply because he is often so focused on his own private world inside his mind. The image of Louis as a “disdainful crane” reflects Louis’s delicate physicality and the “disdain” Louis has for himself because of it.
Despite Louis’s physical fragility, Bernard thinks Louis’s eyes are “wild, laughing, yet desperate—(expressing) something that (he and people like himself) have not gauged,” a window to a soul not unlike his own, just more difficult for him to understand. He remarks, “there is about both Neville and Louis a precision, an exactitude that (he admires) and shall never possess,” solidifying his fundamental differences between himself and his two school friends, all while attempting to apprehend the type of internal fire that he does not believe he holds.
This passage in particular reminded me of the “ineluctable modality of the visible/audible,” Stephen speaks about in chapter three of Ulysses. Here, Woolf gives us Bernard’s commentary on his own filter system, “method,” or “modality” through which he experiences the world, and his thoughts on what he feels he is missing because of who he is. Although, ironically enough, Bernard does demonstrate an “aptitude for reflection”—the main quality he admires in his friends and the process he claims to lack. And it is no accident on the part of Woolf that Bernard utilizes self-reflection in a similar style to that of his peers. Perhaps self-reflection is simply one particular “modality” that Bernard is less comfortable using. Nevertheless, he uses it in his own way, and it is the only modality through which Woolf has chosen to bring the character of Bernard, and all of the other characters in The Waves, to life thus far.
