Tag Archives: Between the Acts

Wordsworth Editions & Virginia Woolf’s ‘A Room of One’s Own’ and ‘The Voyage Out’


I have mixed feelings about Wordsworth editions of classic texts.


They are cheap.

They are books.

The spines are standardised and tasteful.

The introductions generally include stimulating, wide-ranging analyses involving detailed, close-reading from experts in their field.


Footnotes are sparse and selective.

The poetry editions don’t give enough space to individual poems; you might get three different poems appearing on the same page if they’re short enough. White space should be retained, it’s an interpretative matter, dammit. Where the hell am I supposed to write my marginalia? On my phone’s memo pad or something? Hah?!

Cover design is patchy. The Woolf and Mansfield ones had nice art-deco type pieces on their front, but recently they’ve begun using some awful examples of digital art. Just look at this pseudo-photorealistic shitshow.


They’ve done similar things to the Joyce editions, in ways that hurt my heart, so I won’t include an image, suffice it to say that I so much prefer the ones that used to be on the cover of the Wordsworth Finnegans Wake, which features a painting by Markey Robinson. The below image isn’t what’s on the Wake cover, I couldn’t find a version of it online, but it’s from the same series, and the cover could well be a detail from this canvas.


This brings me to one of the other perhaps dubious choices made by Wordsworth editions, in publishing A Room of One’s Own, an essay based on a series of lectures Woolf gave to female students in Cambridge with her novel The Voyage Out. On the one hand, this is a good thing, and even more cheap, two books for the price of one and all that, but, what are the implications for how we read the texts when they’re sat so close to one another?

Well, it has the consequence of making it seem as though The Voyage Out is a fictionalised re-iteration of what Woolf conveys in the polemic that precedes it. I wouldn’t posit that it actually is, but the essay inevitably operates as a screed through which The Voyage Out is perceived.

The Voyage Out depicts Rachel Vinrace, a sheltered young woman going away from home for the first time with her aunt Helen Ambrose and her husband Ridley. As the narrative develops, Rachel begins to further her own education, under the auspices of her aunt and the wider group of upper-middle class ‘intelligentsia,’ partially modelled, as most of the Woolf novels that I’m familiar with are, on Woolf’s own experiences with the intellectual coterie of the Bloomsbury Group. The Voyage Out’s title is a loaded one; Rachel is travelling outwards in an inner sense, exposing herself to atheism, the abstract ideas of her day, aswell as the more literal voyage to South America.

This metaphorisation of space is also central within A Room of One’s Own; in her introduction to the essay, Sally Minogue points to the ambiguous nature of the word ‘room.’ It is not only an actual physical space, necessary for a female writer in order that she may sit down and write, but alongside this autonomy in the space of the room, there is an implied wider connection with others. A room, after all, must be within a house, which is in turn a metaphor for the wider tradition of female novelists, the Brontës, Eliots and Austens, without whom, Woolf’s writing would never have been possible, as she herself puts it.

The oscillation between being inside or outside the novelistic tradition is significant for Woolf as it becomes a necessity for female novelists to salvage their own tradition. Seeing that they have been silenced or marginalised for so long, they must exert themselves, perhaps to compensate for the lack of a cultural and financial infrastructure that a male novelist may depend on. Woolf senses that this greater imperative on the female novelist brings with it a vitality that seems advantageous.

One might disagree, and see this positive spin on enforced individualism as unhelpful and Woolf would certainly not have been called an ‘ally’ in the contemporary sense. She disapproves of promiscuity, and, references a would-be biographer, Winifred Holtby, daughter of a Yorkshire farmer, as someone who, ‘learnt to read, I’m told, while minding the pigs.’ This snobbishness and disregard for the material circumstances of women of a lower class is an unpleasant feature of Woolf’s writing, and is surprising, considering that A Room of One’s Own advocates for wider access to education for women.

This political myopia is attributable to Woolf’s aesthetic concerns, as she disliked materiality or political beliefs making themselves clear in a writer’s work. She preferred instead the notion that through art, the material may be transcended, which is ironic considering how informed her work is by her own social position; Woolf is probably the standard bearer of the English fin de siècle bourgeois class. Her own background, her material advantages seems, in this ideological position, to have been rendered invisible to her. The material condition of the lower classes is what she objects to. The disabled, too. She doesn’t like them either.

What are we to make of the fact that Rachel Vinrace dies, spoiler alert? In the Victorian novels that I’ve been unfortunate enough to read, death is often used to reinforce conservative moralising, one thinks of Thomas Hardy’s Tess of d’Urbervilles, Madame Bovary, for instance, but in the case of The Voyage Out, Woolf may be protesting this usage of death for political ends. She is not, unfortunately, protesting how protracted these affairs are when they are rendered, but the language in which these are conveyed. Woolf’s style becomes mechanistically descriptive and neutral: (“The second day did not differ much from the first day, except that ther bed had become very important, and the world outside, when she tried to think of it, appeared distinctly further off.”) not sentimental, as one finds in the ghastly death scene, one of many, in Charles Dickens’ Dombey and Son:

“Yes, yes. No other stranger would have shed those tears at sight of him, and called him her dear boy, her pretty boy, her own poor blighted child.

‘Remember Walter, dear Papa,’ he whispered, looking in his face. ‘Remember Walter. I was fond of Walter!’ The feeble hand waved in the air, as if it cried ‘good-bye!’ to Walter once again.”

Rachel’s fever makes her inchoate and delirious; making her incapable of such indulgent faffery in her last moments. What is being critiqued here is Rachel’s failure to not get married, so soon after having achieved a degree autonomy. She merely exchanges one sequence of patriarchal variables for another in choosing to marry Hirst.

I’m not sure I find this entirely convincing. In A Room of One’s Own, Woolf castigates herself for being overly attentive to material conditions, and, from what I’ve said so far, the ridiculousness of her assertion should be pretty clear, for both texts. There is obviously no other choice for a woman seeking to live independently, other than coming into large amounts of money through an inheritance. This is to leave aside the thin nature of the relationship’s development, the Proustian social comedy veers into Restoration farce as Rachel and Hirst are uncertain whether they love or loathe one another, whether marriage is the best or the worst idea, then find all of a sudden that they are very much in love, but only when they’re not speaking; when they do dialogue, they are mostly bickering and bristly with one another.

Hey, maybe it is realistic after all.


Deleuze and Guattari’s Geology of Literary Style

When I was drafting my PhD proposal, I read a few sources on literary style, in order to come to a working definition of style, or an academic consensus on the matter to rail against. I didn’t want something simplistically formalistic that referred to vehicles, tenors, modes or what have you, but I also didn’t want a post-Derridean account, that described style as a limit-case/fault line/discourse rupture, an everything and nothing at once. These kind of critical stymieings, excessive nuancing to the point of inertia have gotten a bit wearying after five years of seeing them deployed, so I was hoping to get to some kind of working definition. Emphasis on ‘working’ considering I would be carrying out pragmatic actual tasks, via computation, which were to be finalised once I had my definition.

It was surprisingly challenging to track one down, and more often than not I was thrown back onto my own reflections on literary style, and what we talk about when we talk about it. Here, I think we stumble across its primary shortcoming as a delineator. People talk about Virginia Woolf’s interior, lyrical style, Jorge Luis Borges’ staid, cold style and Ernest Hemmingway’s staccato, pared back style. The difficulty with these simplistic accounts is that an author’s style generally encapsulates what it is that makes them unique in literary discourse in general. This isn’t necessarily surprising; most of what we detect in a writer’s style is what throws us out of our reading habits. When Foster Wallace frenetically re-instates the subject of a clause at its end, a technique he becomes increasingly reliant on as Infinite Jest proceeds, we notice it, and it becomes increasingly to the fore in our sense of his style.  But, in the grand scheme of the one-thousand some page novel, the extent to which this technique is made use of is statistically speaking, insignificant. Sentences like “She tied the tapes,” in Between the Acts, for instance, pass our awareness by because of their pedestrian qualities, much like many other sentences that contain words such as ‘said,’ because of the extent to which any text’s fabric is predominantly composed of such “filler.”

This dearth of attention directed to the ‘particles’ of literary materials, is a lot of what digital humanities projects present themselves as a corrective to, by looking at the macroeconomic, we can transcend our human fixation on shiny objects (read: pretty sentences), and gain a fuller understanding of a text’s style, liberated from the shortcomings of our usual reading habits.

Of course, this newfound command over an entire text does not prevent the critic from mounting flawed arguments; many digital humanities projects from its earlier experiments in literary analysis too frequently gave into Rubik’s cube thinking, attempting to tame indeterminacy, by solving a text via enumerative techniques. This is exactly the kind of objective approach I didn’t want to fall into when visualising and narrating data trends.

Franco Moretti’s work in the Stanford Lit Lab proved beneficial in opening me up to more diffuse and multi-perspectival digital methodologies; by visualising a text on a number of different textual levels. Moretti’s contention that the data shows the activation of different stylistic features scale is directly correlated to the differentiation of textual functions is positively invigorating, as it is as far removed from the Rubik’s cube mentality as is possible to get; it essentially concedes that what we see when we look at a text depends on the way that we’re looking at it. Yes, Moretti is talking about topic modelling rather than style, but for my purposes I’ll ignore that. I also enjoy that it seems to be a computational analogue to the psychedelic nature of literary criticism – the longer we look at a text, even a shorter one, perhaps even especially a shorter one, the more we see. Diversifying our means of approach therefore provides the critic with a disparate sequence of differentiated visualisations, Enright may be meaningfully analogous to, dunno, Proust from the perspective of the entire text, but on a word to word, sentence to sentence, chapter to chapter, etc. comparison, we may turn up more unexpected results.

I still lacked a conceptual, theoretical system to connect this approach with, until I read the third chapter of Gilles Deleuze and Félix Guattari’s A Thousand Plateaus, ’10, 000 BC: The Geology of Morals (Who Does the Earth Think It Is?)’ In this chapter, Deleuze and Guattari make use of the discipline of geology in order to outline a number of theories concerning form, content, ideology and the articulations thereof.  The unorthodox appropriation of geology is part of Deleuze and Guattari’s wider usage of theories and concepts outside of traditional philosophy, in order to subvert the staid formula of normative philosophical argumentation, wherein a summary is given of problem 1, why the solution A posited by philosopher z is insufficient and why solution B posited by philosopher y is even more so, and how both (and every other philosophy in the history of the discipline, by extension) have overlooked a solution that I alone have realised. This is all beside the point and I mention it only to indicate how smart I am.

In any case, the earth, and, for my purposes, a literary text is composed of a number of strata, differing layers, which contain, compose and construct otherwise transitory particles, making them subject to more macroeconomic structures of order. In this way, they simplify their contents, as particles move between these strata erratically. One should think of strata as totalising senses of an author’s style, whereas the particles are more subtle, granular features that disappear and re-appear in and outside of particular strata. Form and content are singularly intermingled on the level of the stratum, and are merely a function of primary and secondary articulation.

Strata in turn are composed of epistrata and parastrata, which further undermines any attempt someone, like a mad person, would make to get a stable grasp on exactly what it is Deleuze and Guattari mean when they lay out this seemingly intractable schema. The strata model is a challenge to systematic modes of thought, such as structuralism, so it offers no stability, but for me, this is precisely its appeal. Any interpretation on a particular textual level, such as stratum d, which we could equate to word choice, for instance, samples one among many protean strata, composed of other strata, made relative to a machinic assemblage, itself a stratified metastratum, which becomes involved in its, the strata’s dual articulations along the lines of form and content. Simple.

The key here is that it avoids closure, it is a theoretical construct that is anathema to pragmatists, and on that basis, even if my numbers add up, any conclusions I reach with them will be, by virtue of association,  strictly provisional.