Related ResearchA small volume that rarely exceeds two hundred pages, a cursory survey of Mrs. Dalloway hardly suggests the astronomical weight of literary and social meaning that critics have gleaned from Mrs. Dalloway's prose Woolf since its publication in 1925. At once revered as the archetype of post-war British elegy, a twentieth-century feminist reclamation, and a courageous example of queer life merging into the fabric of a previously monochromatic Western liberalism, the Woolf's slender masterpiece unflinchingly rivals the meaning of even the dullest literary anvils among its stream-of-consciousness brethren. Say no to plagiarism. Get a tailor-made essay on "Why Violent Video Games Shouldn't Be Banned"? Get an original essay However, while feminists, queer theorists, and postwar philosophers alike argue for the right to claim the novel as canonical for their own ideology, Mrs. Dalloway's extraordinary ability to transcend and unite social boundaries perhaps simply stems from a simple – and decidedly less optimistic – truth. Beyond the differences of both sex and sexuality, the characters in the novel are united – or rather, strangers – by the intrinsic isolation of each individual. If Woolf transcends social boundaries, she does so only as a fortuitous side effect of revealing the ultimate isolation intrinsic to human consciousness. While Mrs Dalloway is an earlier manifestation of the stream-of-consciousness style of which Woolf eventually became a leading figure, the novel contains the same emphasis on the isolated nature of individual consciousness that would later dominate The Waves, in which six characters they never directly address each other throughout the novel (Mulas, 75). Stream-of-consciousness storytelling itself produces and ensures isolation almost by definition, and although Mrs. Dalloway's characters interact, it is not without difficulty: their often tense and unsatisfying dialogue maintains Kathryn Van Wert's assertion that "l The novel's primary concern is the nature of the mind" (Van Wert, 79). ). This inherent isolation, however, is not in itself the root of human suffering in Mrs. Dalloway. Like Albert Camus's “absurdity” – the inevitable suffering resulting from a conflict between man's desire to give meaning to life and his inability to find one – the suffering in Mrs. Dalloway stems from a need for human connection and by the inability to transcend the boundaries inherent to consciousness (Camus, 11). Distressed by the “feeling they had of dissatisfaction; not knowing people; not being known” and unable to fully accept the reality of their isolation, the characters repeatedly build fragile bridges over their gaps in consciousness in order to preserve an acceptable public image (Woolf, 152). Whether it's marriage, religion, or partying, Woolf's characters try unsuccessfully to fill the voids left by the impossibility of human connection with an almost Lacanian futility. In the end, Woolf spares only one character from further Sisyphean torment, with the climax of Septimus Warren Smith's leap out the window and the famously cryptic last words: "I'll give it to you!" Widely misunderstood by the other characters, Septimus's suicide is greeted by the doctors as an act of cowardice and by the initially indignant Clarissa as a rather unwelcome intrusion into her group. Although Clarissa later experiences a kind of telepathic empathy with Septimus, she too fails to fully understand his death – an act that John McGuigan illuminates as “neither of desperation… nor of psychosis, [but] instead a cry of defiance againstinstitutional society, an affirmation of free will in the face of the prospect of having none." Essentially, Septimus escapes the cyclical masquerade with which the other characters continually struggle to veil their fractured existence. Septimus's death, far from being commonly hailed as "a shell-shocked veteran's decision to 'throw it all away,'" is actually a victorious leap to freedom, one that he alone in Woolf's cast dares to achieve (McGuigan, 123). By committing suicide, Septimus leaves Clarissa “forced to stand there in her evening dress” (Woolf 185) along with the rest of Woolf's desperate ensemble, thus establishing himself – above his double – as the true hero of the novel that bears his name . The notion of duality between Clarissa and Septimus is far from a new concept, and is in fact one that Woolf herself conveniently illuminates in her diaries. This gift is not one that scholars have been hesitant to take advantage of, with Alex Page introducing his 1961 analysis of doubles by acknowledging that "a number of important parallels have already been pointed out by distinguished commentators." combined with decades of scholarly commentary makes further discussion of the Septimus-Clarissa dichotomy almost patently unnecessary. However, while the dual nature of the characters lends itself to a variety of interpretations, including feminist and queer readings, almost all analyzes rely on the same fundamental skeleton of "the eminently sane Clarissa and the pathetically mad Septimus." Essentially, Septimus is regularly presented as a lesser, more dangerous or imperfect Clarissa, "a warning that beneath Clarissa's brilliant and regulated life lies an abyss" (Page, 412; 413; 414). With this prototype of the Septimus-Clarissa duality, commentators fall into the same misconceptions about Septimus that the other characters themselves display, perpetuating an image of Septimus as something to be pitied or feared. Contrary to Page's interpretation, Septimus is not the embodiment of Clarissa's "abyss". Rather, Septimus fights the abyss in his own right. Furthermore, unlike his double, Septimus manages to escape him. In light of this, a general restructuring of the traditional Septimus-Clarissa project is necessary. Of the many parallels between Clarissa and Septimus, among the most fundamental is a shared need for privacy. This observation in itself is nothing groundbreaking, as Woolf establishes Clarissa's need for privacy early on, particularly in the depiction of her marriage. Reflecting on her choice between two suitors, Peter and Richard, Clarissa reaffirms her decision, observing: “In marriage there must be some license, some independence between people who live together day after day in the same house; that Richard gave her, and she him. Clarissa maintains this opinion, later stating: “There is a dignity in people; a loneliness; even between husband and wife there is an abyss; which must be respected... for one would not part with it... without losing one's independence, which, after all, is priceless." Clarissa goes on to define this sacred independence as "the privacy of the soul" (Woolf 8; 120; 127) Clarissa's double, Septimus Warren Smith, displays similar qualities of introversion and fear of the outside world. From his first appearance, Woolf paints Septimus as an apprehensive figure, whose eyes echo the question: “The world has raised its whip; where will it come down?” This question reflects Clarissa's fear that "it was very, very dangerous to live even one day." While Clarissa ultimately defines her ultimate goal as “privacy of the soul,” Septimus defines the ultimate threat to privacy as “nature human,” explaining that “human nature, in short, was upon him… Once he stumbled, naturehuman has the advantage." you” (Woolf 14; 8; 92). Both fearing the inauthenticity of the public sphere and the threat it poses to privacy, the primary distinction between Clarissa and Septimus emerges in their very different methods of dispelling this fear. Septimus's attempts to maintain his privacy are thwarted by Dr. Holmes, a figure so menacing that Septimus comes to see him as the embodiment of human nature itself, stating, "Human nature was upon him, the loathsome brute, with the blood red nostrils". . Holmes was onto him." Recognizing, as Septimus points out, that "once he stumbles," the threat to privacy is intensified, Clarissa attempts to protect herself from the outside world by sacrificing some of her privacy in the form of hosting parties, explaining simply, "I'm a offering" (Woolf, 92; 121). This notion of Clarissa's feasts as a form of personal sacrifice is one that Jacob Littleton largely overlooks in his assertion that the feasts are actually "a way of strengthening the collective being. .. Her parties are her art." Littleton's analysis paints a picture of Clarissa Dalloway as a kind of existentialist hero, whose very "existence profoundly contradicts the ideology and power relations of her cultural sphere" . Littleton bathes Clarissa's parties in a pool of optimism, citing them as evidence that their host "rejects society's common supports against the void." face messy reality without accepted supports and create one's own meaning for it." Among these "supports" that Clarissa supposedly so courageously rejects, Littleton includes the religious fervor of Doris Kilman as well as Peter Walsh's romances. Indeed, Clarissa directly condemns both Kilman and Walsh for their dependence on these institutions, engaging them both with the indignant confession that “love and religion would destroy that, whatever it was, the privacy of the soul” (Woolf, 127 ). However, neither Clarissa nor Littleton manage to provide any evidence that Clarissa's parties are not themselves simply another “prop against the void.” Ultimately, Littleton himself even acknowledges that Clarissa's parties “arise from Dalloway's sense of his own isolation as an individual” (Littleton 42, 36, 37, 46). Kilman's religion, Peter's engagement, and Clarissa's parties, then, are all mere props – unstable bridges across the gaps that separate their isolated consciousness. In their attempts to fill these voids, the characters unknowingly enact their own kind of Lacanian cycle. Flowers are a particularly important Lacanian symbol throughout the novel, emerging repeatedly as substitutes for a lack of real intimacy or meaning. This symbol of course makes its first appearance in the novel's famous opening line, “Mrs. Dalloway said she would buy the flowers herself" (Woolf, 3). Seemingly a statement of agency and independence, this statement is tempered in the next paragraph, with the narrator listing the reasons - which seem more like excuses - that lead Clarissa to this decision .The reasons the narrator gives on Clarissa's behalf sound flimsy and largely unconvincing, with Clarissa's final reason - the good weather - hitting a final hollow note (Woolf, 3). from the first page of the novel, Clarissa already uses flowers as a substitute – this time, as an excuse to act when she doesn't really need to. The flowers make another notable appearance later, presented in a significant absence of real intimacy in the play perhaps more obviously than the novel of failed communication, Richard Dalloway finds himselfunable to tell his wife that he loves her, but simply gives her roses. The roses resurface in Clarissa's focused consciousness for some time after their first reception, perhaps nowhere more significantly than in the seemingly fragmented thought: “There were her roses. His parties!” (Woolf, 121). Here, Woolf directly links Clarissa's parties to roses, uniting them in their futility as substitutes for human connection. The roses function not only as a substitute for the lack of true intimacy between Clarissa and Richard, but also as a symbol of the general pattern of substitution that lurks throughout the novel. This, of course, is where Clarissa and her double part ways. While Clarissa gives in to the demands of the public sphere, Septimus maintains his aversion to the “inauthentic connection and failed intimacy” that Clarissa fosters – both in her marriage and in her parties. Where Clarissa accepts roses in place of love, Septimus ultimately refuses to compromise. Realizing that he cannot escape the threat of human nature as Homes approaches the stairs, Septimus leaps to his death “with his personal sovereignty intact” (McGuigan, 133). While this uncompromising sovereignty is not something Clarissa shares with her double, she – at least partially – acknowledges it. Upon learning of the suicide, Clarissa instinctively recognizes it as an act of preservation, observing, “There was one thing that mattered… This she preserved. Death was a challenge. There was an embrace in death.” Taking a moment of privacy from her guests, Clarissa cements Septimus' duality by stating, “she felt very much like him in some ways… She felt happy that she had done it; throw it away." However, Clarissa's moment of privacy is only temporary. Unlike Septimus, who refused to compromise, Clarissa is in the midst of a sacrifice to which she must return. In death, Septimus absolutely flies in the face of human nature and envelops herself in complete privacy. Clarissa, meanwhile, remains chained to the public sphere and must return to her hosts and the outside world. Through her suicide, Septimus achieves the goal that Clarissa's “horror of death” her prevents completion. By triumphing over this fear and realizing his goal before Clarissa ever can, Septimus establishes himself as the true hero of Woolf's novel (Woolf 184, 186, 153). of Clarissa's character - the decisive factor that cements her destiny in contrast to that of Septimus This factor is often overlooked in analyzes such as Littleton's, in which Clarissa-the-artist is fundamentally defined by the "pleasure she takes in existence. physical and sensual". Littleton even cites flowers among the supposedly definitive aspects of this "sensual existence," completely overlooking the novel's repeated references to flowers as a symbol of inadequate substitutions. Essentially, Clarissa's indulgence in the sensual world is not “the most fundamental fact of [her] psyche.”, but rather simply another substitution (Littleton, 37). Recognizing the lack of intrinsic value in life, Clarissa accepts the physical world as a substitute for deeper meaning, just as she accepts Richard's flowers in the absence of genuine emotion. Although Littleton cites Clarissa's "horror of death", she attributes it to a “fear of the end of the existence she loves. so much” (Littleton, 38). However, given Clarissa's previous reflections on the danger of life, it is clear that she does not, in fact, love her existence: she is simply torn between the same fears of life and death that both Clarissa and Septimus reject life, the question, then, is not why “Septimus disintegrates and Clarissa does not,” but rather whySeptimus runs away and Clarissa does not (Wolfe, 44). The answer, of course, is that Clarissa remains paralyzed by her fear of death, a fear that Septimus overcomes. The common notion of Clarissa Dalloway's admirable endurance in the face of bourgeois monotony quickly disintegrates with the revelation that Clarissa's perseverance in life is driven only by an equal and opposite fear of death. With this reversal of the traditional Clarissa-Septimus picture, the various interpretations it has generated suddenly begin to ring hollow. In the absence of the shell-shocked veteran who succumbs as Clarissa perseveres, typical postwar feminist and queer readings seem to constitute merely Lacanian substitutions for the void at the heart of Woolf's novel. These readings seek to provide answers, to explain Mrs. Dalloway's pervasive isolation. While comforting, these interpretations are no different from the substitutions that Woolf's characters themselves attempt to implement: simple roses placed in a vain attempt to adorn Mrs. Dalloway's otherwise empty cloak. Typical post-war novel readings are perhaps the most convenient. interpretations for readers who reject the novel's nihilistic undertones. This analysis provides an all-encompassing explanation for both Septimus's madness and the general disillusionment of the novel's other characters. Based on the monumental significance of the historical and social cornerstone that was the Great War, readers can be reassured that Mrs Dalloway's emptiness and madness are simply the result of post-war boredom. Sensing that war might be a little too convenient of a backdrop against which to explain Woolf's entire novel, Kathryn Van Wert challenges common postwar readings, suggesting that Woolf's primary use of war is simply as “a trope for psychic turbulence… function[ing] as a metaphor for other forms of alienation.” Van Wert notes the inconsistent textual presence of war, ultimately suggesting that, rather than illustrating a collective consciousness “influenced by war ", most of Woolf's characters rarely show anything more than a relatively fleeting, even flippant, acknowledgment of the event. In his analysis of Septimus, the supposedly shell-shocked veteran, Van Wert refers to early drafts of Mrs Dalloway which include character sketches of Septimus before the war. Van Wert argues that the war “functions as a metaphor for the complex metaphysical alienations that defined [Septimus] long before the war.” Ultimately, Van Wert argues that “the fact that people do not experience lasting emotions… is not something you learn on the front” (Van Wert 75, 72, 71, 73). Although a comforting read, the suffering in Mrs. Dalloway can no more adequately be attributed to war than flowers can stand in for love. Likewise, feminist and queer readings of the novel also tend to gloss over the isolation at Mrs. Dalloway's heart. . As noted earlier, Littleton's analysis paints an incomplete portrait of Clarissa as a feminist hero whose party art form is an intentional subversion of "the ideology and power relations of her sphere" (Littleton 36). Littleton's analysis, while edifying, completely ignores the fact that Clarissa herself refers to her parties as an offering - a personal and obligatory sacrifice made to maintain her image in the public sphere. Queer readings tend to be guilty of the same kind of far-fetched optimism, with commentators like Jesse Wolfe highlighting the vivid nature of Clarissa's memories of her homosexual encounters in contrast to the cold depiction of her heterosexual marriage.. 2016.