translate this to persian:
For forty-five tightly packed pages. Molly’s soliloquy is the most amazing
literary achievement I know of. Her whole life is in there—past, present, and
future; attitudes, considerations of career, and love life; her menstrual cycle;
everything. What’s more amazing is that people often think at first glance they
can’t read it: it’s too dense, too allusive, to scary, too something. In reality,
though, it’s really pretty simple. These are the nocturnal, sleepy-but-not-asleep
musings of a passionate, not terribly well educated, proud, loving, talented
woman. She’s at the end of a very long, taxing day. We’ve been following her
husband through funeral and newspaper office and music room and pub and
brothel, but she’s been busy in her own right. Her current lover, Blazes Boylan,
has made love with her in the afternoon. She’s been preparing for a series of
singing engagements. She has begun her period. And she’s had her sleep
interrupted when Bloom arrives home with a very drunken Stephen Dedalus in
tow. Given these conditions, her monologue makes perfect sense and is actually
not difficult to follow. On some levels, it may be the simplest thing in the book,
since it’s pure interior monologue, so we don’t move between narration or
description, dialogue, and thought. Instead, we’re in there and we’re staying.
Virginia Woolf practices her own form of consciousness narration, and in
each book it differs somewhat from what she’s done elsewhere. James Naremore
in The World Without a Self: Virginia Woolf and the Novel (1973) points out that
“stream of consciousness” is not entirely adequate to describe what Woolf
attempts in Mrs. Dalloway, preferring instead “indirect interior monologue,” a
variant of “free indirect discourse.” This jawbreaker of a term refers to a special
mode of third-person viewpoint in which the narration takes its cues from the
consciousness of the character so it’s quite close to but not quite first person.
You can think of it as the language the character might use if she could get
outside her own consciousness to articulate it. Needless to say, the ironic
possibilites are legion. This distinction would be equally true for To the
Lighthouse or indeed most of her mature work. There’s really nothing in the way
of direct interior monologue as it appears in Joyce or Dujardin. Rather, it is
filtered through a narrative presence whose chief job is to change the first-person
“I” to a third-person “he” or “she.” Hence the “indirect” part of Naremore’s
characterization.
One of Woolf’s abiding concerns is the degree to which characters are
connected psychologically and linguistically. This is in part an outgrowth of the
philosophy of G. E. Moore, under whom the Bloomsbury males studied at
Cambridge. Woolf was excluded from that experience because of her gender, of
course, but she absorbed much of what she learned from her brother Thoby; her
husband, Leonard; and her other friends. The part of Moore’s thought she’s
particularly interested in here are his ideas on friendship, so much so that by the
time she writes The Waves in the 1930s, characters’ monologues are impossible
to separate entirely one from another. A professor of mine once said that he
thought any monologue belonged only about 80 percent to the character who
voiced it and the remaining 20 percent to the other friends. She’s only beginning
to explore that possibility in Mrs. Dalloway, although we see some of it in
Clarissa’s time together with Peter Walsh, for instance.