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A review by mescalero_at_bat
Between the Acts by Virginia Woolf
4.0
have i outgrown virginia woolf?
or is it that the practice of our current era, i.e., the lack of fortitude in terms of confronting difference, the utter lack of abiding with an ability to disagree has taken its toll?
forgive what may be a long review. lots to say here.
first - this is the last work that woolf wrote before she filled her pockets with large stones and wandered into a stream, never to exit the river alive. strange to find a prediction - a ghost of a woman who drowned in a river appears in the opening pages of the book.
as is common, we find woolf championing, perhaps preaching, albeit lightly, on the human condition, on our frailty and our strengths; on our resiliency.
the narrative, like MRS DALLOWAY, occurs in a single day. a group of britons gather in a small village for a play to be performed: outside, if it is fine, or in a barn if rain threatens. seems like the day will be fine, so ms. la trobe's production, a kind of radically reduced history of england, is mounted out of doors.
it's a community affair; lots of citizens have a part to play, and but the real performers dwell in the audience. their thoughts and conversations, complete and fragmented, are the mirrors held up for the reader to see.
the book, although much shorter, had a similar effect as THE YEARS ... a novel where woolf's stylistic concerns of illustrating a family in fragments over the course of several decades felt a bit flat and overly committed to form. but as the pages turn, so we delve deeper, and the echoes and moments of being begin to gather steam. by the end, a kind of climax occurs and the power of the book comes up off the page.
i can't help compare, as many have done, the writings of woolf and joyce. upon reading ULYSSES (for the first time), woolf dismissed it in her journal - "behind all the stylistic fireworks, there's an adolescent, squeezing his pimples." - or something very close to that, my memory ain't what it used-ta. so it's interesting to see the way woolf uses the day in a life form. writing in her late journals, she offers a more positive assessment of ULYSSES, and joyce in general. there are moments where she pays homage here - the book is also set on a day in june; not 1904, but june 1939. the second world war is about to break out ... germans are mentioned, the first ww is mentioned. one audience member mutters "how can the play not include the british army?" perhaps woolf saw the inevitable and felt it was time to take stock of things held high by the english.
the good stuff is certainly here: woolf's uncanny ability to look into the soul of her character and offer a glimpse that speaks volumes. the perfectly constructed sentences, the perfectly constructed paragraphs. students of writing - take heed these words and the shapes they create. take heed the economy. reduce - reduce - reduce. the book clocks in at 219 pages - one of her shorter novels.
back to my opening lines ... how would young readers receive this book in 2024? i imagine significant (and appropriate) complaints about the use of the N word in one sentence, and in general, a difficult reading of "black" people ... where only a few appear and we are not informed of their being other than their color. it's hard to determine whether what could read as distaste is woolf's opinion, or the opinion of her character(s), and if the latter, is she critiquing this particular strain of racism among her country-folk. imo, it's ambiguous, and nowadays readers, viewers, and listeners don't seem to have much of a taste for that. citizens want the black / white, good / bad spelled clearly and correctly. a firm stance for disagreeing, especially against a choice of words, seems the norm these days.
and on the subject of ambiguity, who are these people? are they all privileged white folk? is that a problem? there are a few common concerns from other woolf narratives: that of the woman married to someone she doesn't love, who longs for deeper connections and longs to free herself of her husband's infidelity. can't blame a sister for that. it seems marriage is to blame - woolf's feminist stance is clear and plays as more of a humanist stance for this reader. perhaps not insignificant that most of the people getting things done: directing a play, serving drinks and food, gathering props, building things, are women.
and also - what does this privilege allow? leisure, possibly, but also enough time to take stock in so many things. the observer/omniscient narrator reveals that the attendants have the luxury of self-reflection. the workers, the machinery that keeps production in place, don't seem to have this luxury; or, at the least, we are not allowed access.
on the subject of who's in the mix here, and the general trend these days to mistrust any writer that isn't reflecting diversity that takes the entire world in to account, i'm reminded of a quote (maybe the wrong word?) that goes something like this: a young writer asked james joyce "how to make the writing universal?" his answer was, "write about the particular and it becomes universal".
and so, BETWEEN THE ACTS ... maybe not my favorite woolf, but the good stuff here is so damn good. it's the writing and the human insight, as always, that keeps her in my highest esteem.
or is it that the practice of our current era, i.e., the lack of fortitude in terms of confronting difference, the utter lack of abiding with an ability to disagree has taken its toll?
forgive what may be a long review. lots to say here.
first - this is the last work that woolf wrote before she filled her pockets with large stones and wandered into a stream, never to exit the river alive. strange to find a prediction - a ghost of a woman who drowned in a river appears in the opening pages of the book.
as is common, we find woolf championing, perhaps preaching, albeit lightly, on the human condition, on our frailty and our strengths; on our resiliency.
the narrative, like MRS DALLOWAY, occurs in a single day. a group of britons gather in a small village for a play to be performed: outside, if it is fine, or in a barn if rain threatens. seems like the day will be fine, so ms. la trobe's production, a kind of radically reduced history of england, is mounted out of doors.
it's a community affair; lots of citizens have a part to play, and but the real performers dwell in the audience. their thoughts and conversations, complete and fragmented, are the mirrors held up for the reader to see.
the book, although much shorter, had a similar effect as THE YEARS ... a novel where woolf's stylistic concerns of illustrating a family in fragments over the course of several decades felt a bit flat and overly committed to form. but as the pages turn, so we delve deeper, and the echoes and moments of being begin to gather steam. by the end, a kind of climax occurs and the power of the book comes up off the page.
i can't help compare, as many have done, the writings of woolf and joyce. upon reading ULYSSES (for the first time), woolf dismissed it in her journal - "behind all the stylistic fireworks, there's an adolescent, squeezing his pimples." - or something very close to that, my memory ain't what it used-ta. so it's interesting to see the way woolf uses the day in a life form. writing in her late journals, she offers a more positive assessment of ULYSSES, and joyce in general. there are moments where she pays homage here - the book is also set on a day in june; not 1904, but june 1939. the second world war is about to break out ... germans are mentioned, the first ww is mentioned. one audience member mutters "how can the play not include the british army?" perhaps woolf saw the inevitable and felt it was time to take stock of things held high by the english.
the good stuff is certainly here: woolf's uncanny ability to look into the soul of her character and offer a glimpse that speaks volumes. the perfectly constructed sentences, the perfectly constructed paragraphs. students of writing - take heed these words and the shapes they create. take heed the economy. reduce - reduce - reduce. the book clocks in at 219 pages - one of her shorter novels.
back to my opening lines ... how would young readers receive this book in 2024? i imagine significant (and appropriate) complaints about the use of the N word in one sentence, and in general, a difficult reading of "black" people ... where only a few appear and we are not informed of their being other than their color. it's hard to determine whether what could read as distaste is woolf's opinion, or the opinion of her character(s), and if the latter, is she critiquing this particular strain of racism among her country-folk. imo, it's ambiguous, and nowadays readers, viewers, and listeners don't seem to have much of a taste for that. citizens want the black / white, good / bad spelled clearly and correctly. a firm stance for disagreeing, especially against a choice of words, seems the norm these days.
and on the subject of ambiguity, who are these people? are they all privileged white folk? is that a problem? there are a few common concerns from other woolf narratives: that of the woman married to someone she doesn't love, who longs for deeper connections and longs to free herself of her husband's infidelity. can't blame a sister for that. it seems marriage is to blame - woolf's feminist stance is clear and plays as more of a humanist stance for this reader. perhaps not insignificant that most of the people getting things done: directing a play, serving drinks and food, gathering props, building things, are women.
and also - what does this privilege allow? leisure, possibly, but also enough time to take stock in so many things. the observer/omniscient narrator reveals that the attendants have the luxury of self-reflection. the workers, the machinery that keeps production in place, don't seem to have this luxury; or, at the least, we are not allowed access.
on the subject of who's in the mix here, and the general trend these days to mistrust any writer that isn't reflecting diversity that takes the entire world in to account, i'm reminded of a quote (maybe the wrong word?) that goes something like this: a young writer asked james joyce "how to make the writing universal?" his answer was, "write about the particular and it becomes universal".
and so, BETWEEN THE ACTS ... maybe not my favorite woolf, but the good stuff here is so damn good. it's the writing and the human insight, as always, that keeps her in my highest esteem.