“You have been reading Byron. You have been marking the passages that seem to approve of your own character. I find marks against all those sentences which seem to express a sardonic yet passionate nature; a moth-like impetuosity dashing itself against hard glass. You thought, as you drew your pencil there, "I too throw off my cloak like that. I too snap my fingers in the face of destiny". Yet Byron never made tea as you do, who fill the pot so that when you put the lid on the tea spills over. There is a brown pool on the table - it is running among your books and papers. Now you mop it up, clumsily, with your pocket-handkerchief. You then stuff your handkerchief back into your pocket - that is not Byron; that is you; that is so essentially you that if I think of you in twenty years' time, when we are both famous, gouty and intolerable, it will be by that scene: and if you are dead, I shall weep.”
In this quote from Virginia Woolf's novel "The Years", the narrator observes and critiques the habits and characteristics of the person they are addressing. The speaker points out the disconnect between the individual's romantic ideals, influenced by reading Byron, and their clumsy, everyday actions. The mention of spilling tea and mopping it up with a handkerchief serves as a metaphor for the individual's inability to live up to the grandiose image they have of themselves. Woolf uses this contrast to highlight the complexities and contradictions of human nature, emphasizing the gap between idealized self-perception and mundane reality.
In this passage, Virginia Woolf contrasts the romanticized version of oneself that can be found in literature with the messy, imperfect reality of everyday life. This idea can still be seen today in our culture of portraying idealized versions of ourselves on social media, while grappling with the mundane and imperfect details of our daily existence. It serves as a reminder to embrace our authentic selves, flaws and all, rather than striving for an unattainable and unrealistic image of perfection.
In this passage from Virginia Woolf's writing, we see a contrast between the character portrayed in Byron's poetry and the real-life actions of the reader. The narrator critiques the reader's attempts to identify with Byron's passionate and impulsive nature, pointing out the mismatch between their grandiose self-image and their everyday clumsiness. This passage highlights the disconnect between fantasy and reality, and the enduring impact of small, personal moments over grand gestures.
Virginia Woolf's vivid description of a moment with marked passages from Byron prompts us to reflect on the discrepancies between our idealized selves and the everyday reality of who we are. Consider the following questions to explore the themes of self-perception, authenticity, and the passage of time:
How do you reconcile the image of yourself that you aspire to be with the mundane actions and flaws that make up your daily life?
Are there moments in your own life where you have tried to embody qualities that seem at odds with your true nature, as Woolf describes in her reflection on the teapot incident?
In what ways do you see your authentic self shining through, even in moments where you may be trying to emulate someone else's characteristics or actions?
Reflect on the idea of being remembered by a specific scene or action, like Woolf envisions for the person in the passage. How does this idea shape your thoughts on legacy and identity?
How does the passage resonate with your own experiences of self-discovery, self-expression, and the passage of time?
“Yet Byron never made tea as you do, who fill the pot so that when you put the lid on the tea spills over. There is a brown pool on the table--it is running among your books and papers. Now you mop it up, clumsily, with your pocket-hankerchief. You then stuff your hankerchief back into your pocket--that is not Byron; that is so essentially you that if I think of you in twenty years' time, when we are both famous, gouty and intolerable, it will be by that scene: and if you are dead, I shall weep.”
“When I heard you cry I followed you, and saw you put down your handkerchief, screwed up, with its rage, with its hate, knotted in it.”
“I feel certain that I am going mad again. I feel we can't go through another of those terrible times. And I shan't recover this time. I begin to hear voices, and I can't concentrate. So I am doing what seems the best thing to do. You have given me the greatest possible happiness. You have been in every way all that anyone could be. I don't think two people could have been happier 'til this terrible disease came. I can't fight any longer. I know that I am spoiling your life, that without me you could work. And you will I know. You see I can't even write this properly. I can't read. What I want to say is I owe all the happiness of my life to you. You have been entirely patient with me and incredibly good. I want to say that — everybody knows it. If anybody could have saved me it would have been you. Everything has gone from me but the certainty of your goodness. I can't go on spoiling your life any longer. I don't think two people could have been happier than we have been.”
“Dearest, I feel certain that I am going mad again. I feel we can't go through another of those terrible times. And I shan't recover this time. I begin to hear voices, and I can't concentrate. So I am doing what seems the best thing to do. You have given me the greatest possible happiness. You have been in every way all that anyone could be. I don't think two people could have been happier 'til this terrible disease came. I can't fight any longer. I know that I am spoiling your life, that without me you could work. And you will I know. You see I can't even write this properly. I can't read. What I want to say is I owe all the happiness of my life to you. You have been entirely patient with me and incredibly good. I want to say that – everybody knows it. If anybody could have saved me it would have been you. Everything has gone from me but the certainty of your goodness. I can't go on spoiling your life any longer. I don't think two people could have been happier than we have been. V.”
“I sincerely hope I’ll never fathom you. You’re mystical, serene, intriguing; you enclose such charm within you. The lustre of your presence bewitches me. I like the unreality of your mind; the whole thing is very splendid and voluptuous and absurd. It is not mere words on paper, Mrs. Nicholson, it is both my mind and heart addressing you.”
“Why, I ask, can I not finish the letter that I am writing? For my room is always scattered with unfinished letters. I begin to suspect, when I am with you, that I am among the most gifted of men. I am filled with the delight of youth, with potency, with the sense of what is to come. blundering, but fervid, I see myself buzzing round flowers, humming down scarlet cups, making blue funnels resound with my prodigious booming. How richly I shall enjoy my youth (you make me feel). And London. And freedom. But stop. You are not listening. You are making some protest, as you slide, with an inexpressibly familiar gesture, your hand along your knee. By such signs we diagnose our friends' diseases. "Do not, in your affluence and plenty," you seem to say, "pass me by." "Stop," you say. "Ask me what I suffer.”