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If the entire history of stream of consciousness had been a failure, it would
have been redeemed by a single section of a single novel. In fact, this section
may be why the entire field developed. In the trade the episode, which begins
and ends with the word “yes,” is called Penelope, but Penelope has nothing to do
with its brilliance. It’s all about Molly:
they might as well try to stop the sun from rising tomorrow the sun
shines for you he said the day we were lying among the rhododendrons
on Howth head in the grey tweed suit and his straw hat the day I got him
to propose to me yes first I gave him the bit of seed-cake out of my mouth
and it was leapyear like now yes 16 years ago my God after that long
kiss I near lost my breath yes he said I was a flower of the mountain yes
so we are flowers all a womans body yes that was one true thing he said
in his life and the sun shines for you today yes that was why I liked him
because I saw he understood or felt what a woman is and I knew I could
always get round him and I gave him all the pleasure I could leading
him on till he asked me to say yes and I wouldnt answer first only looked
out over the sea and the sky I was thinking of so many things he didnt
know of Mulvey and Mr Stanhope and Hester and father and old captain
Groves and the sailors playing all birds fly and I say stoop and washing
up dishes they called it on the pier and the sentry in front of the
governors house with the thing round his white helmet poor devil half
roasted and the Spanish girls laughing in their shawls and their tall
combs and the auctions in the morning the Greeks and the jews and the
Arabs and the devil knows who else from all the ends of Europe and
Duke street and the fowl market all clucking outside Larby Sharons and
the poor donkeys slipping half asleep and the vague fellows in the cloaks
asleep in the shade on the steps and the big wheels of the carts of the
bulls and the old castle thousands of years old yes and those handsome
Moors all in white and turbans like kings asking you to sit down in their
little bit of a shop
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.