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Virginia Woolf Essays Pdf

Moths that fly by day are not properly to be called moths; they do not excite that pleasant sense of dark autumn nights and ivy-blossom which the commonest yellow-underwing asleep in the shadow of the curtain never fails to rouse in us. They are hybrid creatures, neither gay like butterflies nor sombre like their own species. Nevertheless the present specimen, with his narrow hay-coloured wings, fringed with a tassel of the same colour, seemed to be content with life. It was a pleasant morning, mid–September, mild, benignant, yet with a keener breath than that of the summer months. The plough was already scoring the field opposite the window, and where the share had been, the earth was pressed flat and gleamed with moisture. Such vigour came rolling in from the fields and the down beyond that it was difficult to keep the eyes strictly turned upon the book. The rooks too were keeping one of their annual festivities; soaring round the tree tops until it looked as if a vast net with thousands of black knots in it had been cast up into the air; which, after a few moments sank slowly down upon the trees until every twig seemed to have a knot at the end of it. Then, suddenly, the net would be thrown into the air again in a wider circle this time, with the utmost clamour and vociferation, as though to be thrown into the air and settle slowly down upon the tree tops were a tremendously exciting experience.

The same energy which inspired the rooks, the ploughmen, the horses, and even, it seemed, the lean bare-backed downs, sent the moth fluttering from side to side of his square of the window-pane. One could not help watching him. One was, indeed, conscious of a queer feeling of pity for him. The possibilities of pleasure seemed that morning so enormous and so various that to have only a moth’s part in life, and a day moth’s at that, appeared a hard fate, and his zest in enjoying his meagre opportunities to the full, pathetic. He flew vigorously to one corner of his compartment, and, after waiting there a second, flew across to the other. What remained for him but to fly to a third corner and then to a fourth? That was all he could do, in spite of the size of the downs, the width of the sky, the far-off smoke of houses, and the romantic voice, now and then, of a steamer out at sea. What he could do he did. Watching him, it seemed as if a fibre, very thin but pure, of the enormous energy of the world had been thrust into his frail and diminutive body. As often as he crossed the pane, I could fancy that a thread of vital light became visible. He was little or nothing but life.

Yet, because he was so small, and so simple a form of the energy that was rolling in at the open window and driving its way through so many narrow and intricate corridors in my own brain and in those of other human beings, there was something marvellous as well as pathetic about him. It was as if someone had taken a tiny bead of pure life and decking it as lightly as possible with down and feathers, had set it dancing and zig-zagging to show us the true nature of life. Thus displayed one could not get over the strangeness of it. One is apt to forget all about life, seeing it humped and bossed and garnished and cumbered so that it has to move with the greatest circumspection and dignity. Again, the thought of all that life might have been had he been born in any other shape caused one to view his simple activities with a kind of pity.

After a time, tired by his dancing apparently, he settled on the window ledge in the sun, and, the queer spectacle being at an end, I forgot about him. Then, looking up, my eye was caught by him. He was trying to resume his dancing, but seemed either so stiff or so awkward that he could only flutter to the bottom of the window-pane; and when he tried to fly across it he failed. Being intent on other matters I watched these futile attempts for a time without thinking, unconsciously waiting for him to resume his flight, as one waits for a machine, that has stopped momentarily, to start again without considering the reason of its failure. After perhaps a seventh attempt he slipped from the wooden ledge and fell, fluttering his wings, on to his back on the window sill. The helplessness of his attitude roused me. It flashed upon me that he was in difficulties; he could no longer raise himself; his legs struggled vainly. But, as I stretched out a pencil, meaning to help him to right himself, it came over me that the failure and awkwardness were the approach of death. I laid the pencil down again.

The legs agitated themselves once more. I looked as if for the enemy against which he struggled. I looked out of doors. What had happened there? Presumably it was midday, and work in the fields had stopped. Stillness and quiet had replaced the previous animation. The birds had taken themselves off to feed in the brooks. The horses stood still. Yet the power was there all the same, massed outside indifferent, impersonal, not attending to anything in particular. Somehow it was opposed to the little hay-coloured moth. It was useless to try to do anything. One could only watch the extraordinary efforts made by those tiny legs against an oncoming doom which could, had it chosen, have submerged an entire city, not merely a city, but masses of human beings; nothing, I knew, had any chance against death. Nevertheless after a pause of exhaustion the legs fluttered again. It was superb this last protest, and so frantic that he succeeded at last in righting himself. One’s sympathies, of course, were all on the side of life. Also, when there was nobody to care or to know, this gigantic effort on the part of an insignificant little moth, against a power of such magnitude, to retain what no one else valued or desired to keep, moved one strangely. Again, somehow, one saw life, a pure bead. I lifted the pencil again, useless though I knew it to be. But even as I did so, the unmistakable tokens of death showed themselves. The body relaxed, and instantly grew stiff. The struggle was over. The insignificant little creature now knew death. As I looked at the dead moth, this minute wayside triumph of so great a force over so mean an antagonist filled me with wonder. Just as life had been strange a few minutes before, so death was now as strange. The moth having righted himself now lay most decently and uncomplainingly composed. O yes, he seemed to say, death is stronger than I am.

Every couple of years, I teach an upper-level writing course, mostly for English majors, entitled "The Art of the Essay." Focused on the historical development of the familiar (or personal) essay, the class introduces students to a more complex definition of this type of essay than straightforward narration of particular experiences in their lives, a definition nearly every student has encountered in his or her academic career. Articulating to students that the familiar essay can be more than straightforward narration, and getting them to adopt a wider range of strategies in their own personal essays, is the greatest challenge in teaching this course. There are many helpful textbooks that present these ideas in accessible language (I use Philip Lopate's The Art of the Personal Essay and Sheila Bender's Writing and Publishing Personal Essays), but these cannot replace monographs by specialists, whose work also informs my own thinking about the subject as I teach the course.

Virginia Woolf's Essayism is a welcome addition to this store of information, since it uses Woolf to highlight some of the key issues regarding how we define the familiar essay (and since Woolf is one of the essayists I always teach in my class). Saloman's main argument—that Woolf used the essay to "solve artistic problems" and explore the "deepest questions about herself as a writer, and about the writing process"—directly addresses how the essay is a unique form, unlike other genres in its ability to create a dialogue between author and reader, one of the key points stressed in Lopate's anthology. Specifically, Saloman argues that the essay is unlike the novel in its ability to "work without an attention-grabbing plot or a clear, linear narrative, trusting in the random acts of life, together with the essayist's ability to extract [End Page 543] thought and meaning, to create order." According to Saloman, the essay can be distinguished from the novel by its ability to "make connections and engage its readers," whereas the novel takes away the authority of the reader by adopting a more controlling narrator. With the novel, the reader's role is to "interpret and reflect" on characters rather than "participate or contribute" to the narrative by filling in the gaps left by the narrator, as the reader must do when reading an essay.

Certainly, there are objections one can make to Saloman's rigid definition of the novel, and it is surprising that Saloman does not address Mikhail Bakhtin's argument about the "heteroglossic" nature of the novel anywhere in her book, though she does refer to Bakhtin's work on speech genres in her concluding chapter. Still, if readers can overlook this and accept that Saloman has important ideas about the unique qualities of the essay, the arguments in the chapters of her book are very informative. Chapter one lays out the foundation for comparing and contrasting Woolf's essays and novels by focusing on one of Woolf's best-known (and frequently taught) essays, "Street Haunting," and its fictional counterpart, Mrs. Dalloway. Saloman places her analysis of the two works within the context of the development of the novel, and she shows how the essayistic qualities found in "Street Haunting" can be seen in Mrs. Dalloway as well. Although I do not find every claim Saloman makes about Mrs. Dalloway convincing (for example, that readers of Mrs. Dalloway are "never allowed to abandon a passive position and engage dialectically with the book, as one might an essay"), I appreciate her analysis of "Street Haunting," in which she provides new insight on the figure of the shoe-buying dwarf in the essay, a figure students frequently want to discuss in my class.

Chapter two brings attention to the specific qualities of the essay that make it such an engaging form for the reader, especially the relationship of trust between the essayist and the reader, with the essayist pledging to "grapple in an honest manner with whatever the issue at hand may be" and the reader "demonstrat[ing] the...