GiuliaLorenzoni:“Psychogeography” Handouts26/01/2017
CHRONOLOGICALMAPOFWORKSCITED
LawrenceSterne,TheLifeandOpinionsofTristramShandy,Gentleman(1759-1767)
TheLifeandOpinionsofTristramShandy,Gentleman,waspublishedinninevolumesbetween1759and1767.
Sternedeliberatelysubvertedtheconventionsofthenovelthathadbeenestablishedbycreatingsomething
completelynew.TristramShandycanbereadbothasananti-novel,sincethereisnorealplotandtimeisnot
linear,andasameta-novelsinceitisalsoareflectiononthenatureofthenovelandontheprocessofwriting
itself.TristramShandyfeaturesmanyelementswhichproveitsnoveltyandeccentricity.Thesurname‘Shandy’
giventotheprotagonist,whichmeans‘unusual’or‘strange’inanoldYorkshiredialect,fitsthenovelperfectly.
Thetitleoftheworkitselfreads‘TheLifeandOpinions’andnot‘TheLifeandAdventures’whichmeansthat
the author’s focus was not on the adventures and events of the protagonist’s life but on his mental life. All
thatisnarratedisthusfilteredanddistortedbyTristram’sjudgment,inspiteofthefactthatheisnotborn
until Book 3. Thus, the protagonist’s life is not narrated and his ‘opinions’ are the real object of the story.
Besides,asTristramnarrateshismentallife,thechronologicalsequenceofeventsisabandonedinorderto
followhisowndigressionsandfreeassociations.Thereisnolinearplotandnotimescheme.Chronological
timecan,infact,bereconstructedonlyattheendofthestory.Syntaxandthelayoutofwordsonthepageare
also eccentrically subverted. Punctuation consists mostly of dashes; there are blank pages, asterisks which
substitute names, and even drawings. The result is a very unusual patchwork novel, derived from the
picaresquenovel,whichoffersahumorousvisionoflife,dealswithman’seccentricitiesandlife’sabsurdities,
andcontainsdescriptivepages,oddstories,dialogues,digressions,andstrikinganecdotes.
WilliamBlake,“London”(fromSongsofInnocenceandofExperience,1794)
Iwanderthro'eachcharter'dstreet,
Nearwherethecharter'dThamesdoesflow.
AndmarkineveryfaceImeet
Marksofweakness,marksofwoe.
IneverycryofeveryMan,
IneveryInfantscryoffear,
Ineveryvoice:ineveryban,
Themind-forg'dmanaclesIhear
HowtheChimney-sweeperscry
EveryblackningChurchappalls,
AndthehaplessSoldierssigh
RunsinblooddownPalacewalls
Butmostthro'midnightstreetsIhear
HowtheyouthfulHarlotscurse
Blaststhenew-bornInfantstear
AndblightswithplaguestheMarriagehearse
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WilliamWordsworth,“IWanderedLonelyasaCloud”(fromLyricalBallads,1798)
Iwanderedlonelyasacloud
Thatfloatsonhigho'ervalesandhills,
WhenallatonceIsawacrowd,
Ahost,ofgoldendaffodils;
Besidethelake,beneaththetrees,
Flutteringanddancinginthebreeze.
Continuousasthestarsthatshine
Andtwinkleonthemilkyway,
Theystretchedinnever-endingline
Alongthemarginofabay:
TenthousandsawIataglance,
Tossingtheirheadsinsprightlydance.
Thewavesbesidethemdanced;butthey
Out-didthesparklingwavesinglee:
Apoetcouldnotbutbegay,
Insuchajocundcompany:
Igazed—andgazed—butlittlethought
Whatwealththeshowtomehadbrought:
Foroft,whenonmycouchIlie
Invacantorinpensivemood,
Theyflashuponthatinwardeye
Whichistheblissofsolitude;
Andthenmyheartwithpleasurefills,
Anddanceswiththedaffodils.
CharlesDickens,BleakHouse(1853)
“London. Michaelmas term lately over, and the Lord Chancellor sitting in Lincoln's Inn Hall. Implacable
Novemberweather.Asmuchmudinthestreetsasifthewatershadbutnewlyretiredfromthefaceofthe
earth, and it would not be wonderful to meet a Megalosaurus, forty feet long or so, waddling like an
elephantinelizardupHolbornHill.Smokeloweringdownfromchimney-pots,makingasoftblackdrizzle,with
flakesofsootinitasbigasfull-grownsnowflakes—goneintomourning,onemightimagine,forthedeathof
the sun. Dogs, undistinguishable in mire. Horses, scarcely better; splashed to their very blinkers. Foot
passengers,jostlingoneanother'sumbrellasinageneralinfectionofilltemper,andlosingtheirfoot-holdat
street-corners,wheretensofthousandsofotherfootpassengershavebeenslippingandslidingsincetheday
broke (if this day ever broke), adding new deposits to the crust upon crust of mud, sticking at those points
tenaciouslytothepavement,andaccumulatingatcompoundinterest.
Fogeverywhere.Foguptheriver,whereitflowsamonggreenaitsandmeadows;fogdowntheriver,whereit
rolls defiled among the tiers of shipping and the waterside pollutions of a great (and dirty) city. Fog on the
Essexmarshes,fogontheKentishheights.Fogcreepingintothecaboosesofcollier-brigs;foglyingoutonthe
yardsandhoveringintheriggingofgreatships;fogdroopingonthegunwalesofbargesandsmallboats.Fog
intheeyesandthroatsofancientGreenwichpensioners,wheezingbythefiresidesoftheirwards;foginthe
stemandbowloftheafternoonpipeofthewrathfulskipper,downinhisclosecabin;fogcruellypinchingthe
toesandfingersofhisshiveringlittle'prenticeboyondeck.Chancepeopleonthebridgespeepingoverthe
parapetsintoanetherskyoffog,withfogallroundthem,asiftheywereupinaballoonandhanginginthe
mistyclouds.”
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CharlesBaudelaire“Àunepassante”(fromLesFleursduMal,1857)
Larueassourdissanteautourdemoihurlait.
Longue,mince,engranddeuil,douleurmajestueuse,
Unefemmepassa,d'unemainfastueuse
Soulevant,balançantlefestonetl'ourlet;
Agileetnoble,avecsajambedestatue.
Moi,jebuvais,crispécommeunextravagant,
Danssonoeil,ciellivideoùgermel'ouragan,
Ladouceurquifascineetleplaisirquitue.
Unéclair...puislanuit!—Fugitivebeauté
Dontleregardm'afaitsoudainementrenaître,
Neteverrai-jeplusquedansl'éternité?
Ailleurs,bienloind'ici!troptard!jamaispeut-être!
Carj'ignoreoùtufuis,tunesaisoùjevais,
Ôtoiquej'eusseaimée,ôtoiquilesavais!
Laviaassordantestrepitavaintornoame.
Unadonnaalta,sottile,alutto,inundolore
immenso,passòsollevandoeagitando
conmanofastosailpizzoel'orlodellagonna
agileenobileconlasuagambadistatua.
Edio,protesocomefolle,bevevo
ladolcezzaaffascinanteeilpiacerecheuccide
nelsuoocchio,lividocielodovecoval'uragano.
Unlampo,poilanotte!-Bellezzafuggitiva
dallosguardochem'hafattosubitorinascere,
tirivedròsolonell'eternità?
Altrove,assailontanodiquì!Troppotardi!Forsemai!
Perchèignorodovefuggi,nétusaidoveiovado,
tucheavreiamata,tuchelosapevi!
T.S.Eliot,TheWasteLand(1922),SectionI(ll.60-76)
UnrealCity,
Underthebrownfogofawinterdawn,
AcrowdflowedoverLondonBridge,somany,
Ihadnotthoughtdeathhadundonesomany.
Sighs,shortandinfrequent,wereexhaled,
Andeachmanfixedhiseyesbeforehisfeet.
FlowedupthehillanddownKingWilliamStreet,
TowhereSaintMaryWoolnothkeptthehours
Withadeadsoundonthefinalstrokeofnine.
ThereIsawoneIknew,andstoppedhim,crying“Stetson!
YouwhowerewithmeintheshipsatMylae!
Thatcorpseyouplantedlastyearinyourgarden,
Hasitbeguntosprout?Willitbloomthisyear?
Orhasthesuddenfrostdisturbeditsbed?
OhkeeptheDogfarhence,that’sfriendtomen,
Orwithhisnailshe’lldigitupagain!
You!hypocritelecteur!—monsemblable,—monfrère!”
TheextractistakenfromthelastpartofthefirstsectionofthepoemcalledTheBurialoftheDead(alinefrom
the Anglican burial service and anticipates the death-like atmosphere of this part). The passage presents a
descriptionofLondon,whichcouldstandforanymoderncity,definedas“unreal”withareferencetoapoem
by Charles Baudelaire (1821-1867), Les Sept Vieillards (‘The seven old Men’), suggesting a nightmarish
atmosphere.Inthefirstlines,Eliotmentionsacrowdofpeople,mostofthemclerksgoingtoworkintheCity
offices,whoareportrayedusingaquotationfromdante’sDivinaCommedia,CantoiiioftheInferno,inwhich
thepoetislookingatthesoulsoftheuncommitted(ignavi),thepeoplewhochoseneitherevilnorgoodinlife
andlivedonlyforthemselves.Inthesecondpartofthetext,thespeakerrecognisesamanwhofoughtwith
him in war, probably World War I but also one of the Punic War, which suggests that all wars are alike and
equally destructive. The section ends with a quotation from Baudelaire’s Les fleurs du mal (1857) which
remindsthereadersthateverybodyinmodernsocietyisguiltyofthesinofennuiorboredom.
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EzraPound,“InaStationoftheMetro”(1913)
Theapparitionofthesefacesinthecrowd;
Petalsonawetblackbough.
This very short poem, similar to a haiku (a Japanese form of poetry consisting of seventeen syllables) is a
remarkableexampleofPound’sImagistphase.Justtwoimageswhichoverlapandbecomeonearepresented
incondensedlanguagewithoutanysuperfluouswords.Atfirst Poundwroteathirty-linepoem,butthenhe
destroyed it because it lacked intensity; then he composed a fifteen-line poem and finally, a year later, he
wrotethispoem,whicheffectivelymanagestoconveytheemotionthepoetfeltatthesightofthebeautiful
facesandthecontrastwiththeanonymouscrowd.Thejuxtapositionofimagerytakenfromnaturesuggests
beautyandsoftnessasopposedtocoldnessanddreariness.Alsotherhythmandthesoundscontributetothe
unity of the composition because the first line, which is longer, is counterbalanced by the second which is
shorterandendswithanassonancerecallingthefirstline.
JamesJoyce,Ulysses(1922)
Joyce’smasterpiecewasfirstserialisedinpartinanAmericanjournal(fromMarch1918todecember1920)
and then published in a single volume on Joyce’s 40th birthday (2 February 1922), in Paris. When it was
released,thenovelcreatedascandalbecauseitpresentedahighlyinnovativestyleandtechniqueanditwas
alsodenouncedasobscene,sothatitwasbannedbothintheUSAandtheUK.ThetitlealludestoHomer’s
Odyssey(UlyssesistheromannamefortheGreekheroOdysseus),immediatelycreatingaparallelwhichdoes
not remain merely entertaining or ornamental. Noticeably, Joyce built his text around a complex system of
allusions which was judged by T.S. Eliot as one of the most important findings of modernist literature.
According to the poet, Ulysses is revolutionary in its use of a “mythical method [...] which [...] has the
importanceofascientificdiscovery”.Eliotseesthisstructureas“awayofcontrolling,ofordering,ofgivinga
shapeandasignificancetotheimmensepanoramaoffutilityandanarchywhichiscontemporaryhistory”.
Traditionalnarrativeseemstobeinsufficienttogiveameaningtoanextremelyfragmentarypresent,soJoyce
decided to give solidity to his novel by echoing episodes, characters and incidents from the Odyssey. In this
way,theclassictextisusedasaframeworkforthenovelinacontinuousparallelbetweencontemporarylife
and ancient mythology. The novel comprises eighteen chapters or ‘episodes’ divided into three groups. The
firstthreeepisodesarereferredtoas‘TheTelemachiad’,or‘Thesearch’.Chaptersfrom4to15areknownas
‘The Odyssey’, or ‘The Wanderings’, while the last three episodes represent ‘The Nostos’, or ‘The
Homecoming’. Each chapter not only corresponds to an episode or character in the Odyssey, but also to an
hour, a symbol, a colour, a part of the body and a theme. The first three episodes concentrate on the
protagonistofJoyce’sfirstnovel,StephenDedalus,whoisnowamorematurefigurewhohastodealwiththe
disappointmentsofhissearch oralifeasanartist.Thesecondandmoreconspicuouspartofthenoveldeals
with Irish Jew Leopold Bloom, an ordinary man whose peregrinations around the city are shadowed by the
thought of his emotional andsexualestrangementfromhiswife.Thelastthreechaptersofthebooktellof
Bloom’sgoingbackhometohiswifeMollywho,eventhoughshehasbetrayedhimduringtheday,decides,in
thefinalfamousmonologue,totakehimbackandgivetheirrelationshipanotherchance.
ThenovelissetinDublin,on16June1904,and,concentratingmostlyonLeopoldBloom’swalksaroundthe
city,itrepresentstheordinaryman’strivialadventures.Duringtheday,weseeBloompreparingabreakfast
trayforhiswife,goingtothebathroom,visitinganewspapertosellanadvertisement,attendingthefuneralof
an acquaintance, talking to people, eating his meals, checking old ads in the national Library, engaging in a
discussionwithanIrishnationalistandpayingavisittoawomaninamaternityhospital.The‘adventures’of
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thismodernOdysseusareaccompaniedwiththemanythoughtsthatcrosshismind,includingtheimageof
his unfaithful Penelope, at home, betraying him. Towards the end of the novel, Leopold-Odysseus’s path
eventually intersects with that of Stephen-Telemachus, making the Homeric allusion complete. As a
masterpieceofModernism,thenovelfeaturesthemixtureofrealisticstyleandsymbolismalreadydeployedin
Dubliners, as well as numerous allusions which vary in obviousness and obscurity. The novel is also famous
because of the author’s use of the technique of the interior monologue, which is sometimes extremely
experimental,asthecharacters’syntaxbreaksdownbecausetheyare,forexample,hungryortired.Themost
relevant example of ‘extreme interior monologue’ is the famous last chapter, ‘Penelope’, or ‘The Bed’, also
knownas‘Molly’sMonologue’,wheretherulesofgrammar,syntaxandpunctuationarebrokentorendera
streamofconsciousnesswhereactionandthoughtsareundistinguishable.
“WalkingAround”(fromEpisode8,“Lestrygonians”)
“MrBloomwalkedtowardsDawsonstreet,histonguebrushinghisteethsmooth.Somethinggreenitwould
havetobe:spinachsay.ThenwiththoseRöntgenrayssearchlightyoucould.
AtDukelanearavenousterrierchokedupasickknucklycudonthecobblestonesandlappeditwithnewzest.
Surfeit.Returnedwiththankshavingfullydigestedthecontents.Firstsweetthensavoury.MrBloomcoasted
warily.Ruminants.Hissecondcourse.Theirupperjawtheymove.WonderifTomRochfordwilldoanything
withthatinventionofhis.WastingtimeexplainingittoFlynn'smouth.Leanpeoplelongmouths.Oughttobe
ahalloraplacewhereinventorscouldgoinandinventfree.Coursethenyou'dhaveallthecrankspestering.
Hehummed,prolonginginsolemnecho,theclosesofthebars:
DonGiovanni,acenarteco
M'invitasti.
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Feel better. Burgundy. Good pick me up. Who distilled first? Some chap in the blues. Dutch courage. That
KilkennyPeopleinthenationallibrarynowImust. Barecleanclosestools,waiting,inthewindowofWilliam
Miller, plumber, turned back his thoughts. They could: and watch it all the way down, swallow a pin
sometimescomeoutoftheribsyearsafter,tourroundthebody,changingbiliaryduct,spleensquirtingliver,
gastricjuicecoilsofintestineslikepipes.Butthepoorbufferwouldhavetostandallthetimewithhisinsides
entrailsonshow.Science.
-Acenarteco.
Whatdoesthattecomean?Tonightperhaps.
DonGiovanni,thouhastmeinvited
Tocometosuppertonight,
Therumtherumdum.
Doesn'tgoproperly.
Keyes:twomonthsifIgetNannettito.That'llbetwopoundsten,abouttwopoundseight.ThreeHynesowes
me.Twoeleven.Presscott'sad.Twofifteen.Fiveguineasabout.Onthepig'sback.
CouldbuyoneofthosesilkpetticoatsforMolly,colourofhernewgarters.
Today.Today.Notthink.
Tour the south then. What about English watering places? Brighton, Margate. Piers by moonlight. Her voice
floating out. Those lovely seaside girls. Against John Long's a drowsing loafer lounged in heavy thought,
gnawingacrustedknuckle.Handymanwantsjob.Smallwages.Willeatanything.
Mr Bloom turned at Gray's confectioner's window of unbought tarts and passed the reverend Thomas
Connellan'sbookstore.WhyIleftthechurchofRome?Bird'sNest.Womenrunhim.Theysaytheyusedtogive
pauper children soup to change to protestants in the time of the potato blight. Society over the way papa
wenttofortheconversionofpoorjews.Samebait.WhyweleftthechurchofRome?
Ablindstriplingstoodtappingthecurbstonewithhisslendercane.Notraminsight.Wantstocross.
-Doyouwanttocross?MrBloomasked.
Theblindstriplingdidnotanswer.Hiswallfacefrownedweakly.Hemovedhisheaduncertainly.
- You're in Dawson street, Mr Bloom said. Molesworth street is opposite. Do you want to cross? There's
nothingintheway.
Thecanemovedouttremblingtotheleft.MrBloom'seyefolloweditslineandsawagainthedyeworks'van
drawn up before Drago's. Where I saw his brilliantined hair just when I was. Horse drooping. Driver in John
Long's.Slakinghisdrouth.
-There'savanthere,MrBloomsaid,butit'snotmoving.I'llseeyouacross.DoyouwanttogotoMolesworth
street?
-Yes,thestriplinganswered.SouthFrederickstreet.
-Come,MrBloomsaid.
Hetouchedthethinelbowgently:thentookthelimpseeinghandtoguideitforward.
Say something to him. Better not do the condescending. They mistrust what you tell them. Pass a common
remark:
-Therainkeptoff.
Noanswer.
Stainsonhiscoat.Slobbershisfood,Isuppose.Tastesalldifferentforhim.Havetobespoonfedfirst.Likea
child's hand his hand. Like Milly's was. Sensitive. Sizing me up I daresay from my hand. Wonder if he has a
name,Van.Keephiscaneclearofthehorse'slegstireddrudgegethisdoze.That'sright.Clear.Behindabull:
infrontofahorse.
-Thanks,sir.
KnowsI'maman.Voice.
-Rightnow?Firstturntotheleft.
Theblindstriplingtappedthecurbstoneandwentonhisway,drawinghiscaneback,feelingagain.
Mr Bloom walked behind the eyeless feet, a flatcut suit of herringbone tweed. Poor young fellow! How on
earthdidheknowthatvanwasthere?Musthavefeltit.Seethingsintheirforeheadsperhaps.Kindofsense
of volume. Weight. Would he feel it if something was removed? Feel a gap. Queer idea of Dublin he must
have,tappinghiswayroundbythestones.Couldhewalkinabeelineifhehadn'tthatcane?Bloodlesspious
facelikeafellowgoingintobeapriest.
Penrose!Thatwasthatchap'sname. […]
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Postoffice. Must answer. Fag today. Send her a postal order two shillings half a crown. Accept my little
present.Stationer'sjustheretoo.Wait.Thinkoverit.
Withagentlefingerhefelteversoslowlythehaircombedbackabovehisears.Again.Fibresoffinefinestraw.
Thengentlyhisfingerfelttheskinofhisrightcheek.Downyhairtheretoo.Notsmoothenough.Thebellyis
thesmoothest.No-oneabout.TherehegoesintoFrederickstreet.PerhapstoLevenston'sdancingacademy
piano.Mightbesettlingmybraces.
WalkingbyDoran'spublichouseheslidhishandbetweenwaistcoatandtrousersand,pullingasidehisshirt
gently,feltaslackfoldofhisbelly.ButIknowit'swhiteyellow.Wanttotryinthedarktosee.
Hewithdrewhishandandpulledhisdressto.”
(Currentwriter’semphases)
“The“TheStreets”(Episode10:WanderingRocks)
(http://www.online-literature.com/james_joyce/ulysses/10/)
VirginiaWoolf,MrsDalloway(1925)
VirginiaWoolf’sMrsDallowaywasabestsellerdespitethefactthatitwaswritteninaninnovativestyle.The
story takes place during a single day in June 1923 in London. During this day nothing really adventurous
happens to the protagonist, Clarissa Dalloway, an upper-middle-class woman of 52. The only seemingly
excitingeventisthepartyshehastoorganiseforthatevening.Clarissarunsdifferenterrandsandmeetsmany
people while her husband Richard, a politician, has meetings and a lunch. Clarissa sees Peter Walsh, an old
friend who once proposed marriage to her and who has just returned from India, and worries over her
daughterElizabeth’srelationshipwithhertutorMissKilman.WhileClarissa’sdayunfolds,thestoryofanother
Londoner,SeptimusWarrenSmith,istold.ThismanisaveteranofWorldWarIsufferingfromshell-shock(a
mentalconditionknowntodayaspost-traumaticstressdisorder)andhallucinations.HiswifeLucreziaistaking
him to see two doctors but his case seems desperate. During Clarissa’s party, which is also the culminating
eventofthebook,newsofSeptimusWarrenSmith’ssuicidereachestheprotagonist,whoisshockedatthe
idea of death intruding into her successful social gathering. However, the episode works for Clarissa as a
powerfulmomentofrevelation.Septimus’suntimelydeathencouragesClarissatoacceptherdutytolive.The
citylife,withitsmonstrouscrowdedness,hascausedthetwocharacterstomovearoundintotalisolation,
until chance connects them forever. Since the whole story is quite uneventful, much of the narration deals
withtherenditionofthecharacters’subjectiveexperience.Tomakethebodyofthisratheranarchicmaterial
stand,Woolfneededaskeleton,whichshecreatedbyhavingeighteenchimedhourstomarkthepassingof
time. The fictional time of external events therefore covers eighteen hours, while the narration of internal
eventsexpandstoembracethecharacters’past, present and future. Quite significantly, the working titleof
thenovelwasTheHours.Torenderthiscomplexmixtureofthoughts,memoriesandemotionsinthemindof
hercharacters,Woolfusedthefreeindirectstylewhichallowsthedisclosureofthedepthofacharacterby
‘showing’thereaderwhatisinhis/hermind.
“InnumerableAtoms”
“Examineforamomentanordinarymindonanordinaryday.Themindreceivesamyriadimpressions--trivial,
fantastic,evanescent,orengravedwiththesharpnessofsteel.Fromallsidestheycome,anincessantshower
of innumerable atoms; and as they fall, as they shape themselves into the life of Monday or Tuesday, the
accent falls differently from of old; the moment of importance came not here but there; so that, if a writer
wereafreemanandnotaslave,ifhecouldwritewhathechose,notwhathemust,ifhecouldbasehiswork
upon his own feeling and not upon convention, there would be no plot, no comedy, no tragedy, no love
interest or catastrophe in the accepted style, and perhaps not a single button sewn on as the Bond Street
tailorswouldhaveit.Lifeisnotaseriesofgiglamps8symmetricallyarranged;lifeisaluminoushalo,asemitransparentenvelopesurroundingusfromthebeginningofconsciousnesstotheend.Isitnotthetaskofthe
novelisttoconveythisvarying,thisunknownanduncircumscribedspirit,whateveraberrationorcomplexityit
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may display, with as little mixture of the alien and external as possible? We are not pleading merely for
courage and sincerity; we are suggesting that the proper stuff of fiction is a little other than custom would
haveusbelieveit.”(fromVirginiaWoolf,ModernFiction,1919)
“ClarissaDalloway”(fromMrsDalloway)
“Mrs.Dallowaysaidshewouldbuytheflowersherself.
ForLucyhadherworkcutoutforher.Thedoorswouldbetakenofftheirhinges;Rumpelmayer’smenwere
coming.Andthen,thoughtClarissaDalloway,whatamorning—freshasifissuedtochildrenonabeach.
What a lark! What a plunge! For so it had always seemed to her, when, with a little squeak of the hinges,
whichshecouldhearnow,shehadburstopentheFrenchwindowsandplungedatBourtonintotheopenair.
Howfresh,howcalm,stillerthanthisofcourse,theairwasintheearlymorning;liketheflapofawave;the
kiss of a wave; chill and sharp and yet (for a girl of eighteen as she then was) solemn, feeling as she did,
standingthereattheopenwindow,thatsomethingawfulwasabouttohappen;lookingattheflowers,atthe
trees with the smoke winding off them and the rooks rising, falling; standing and looking until Peter Walsh
said,“Musingamongthevegetables?”—wasthatit?—“Iprefermentocauliflowers”—wasthatit?Hemust
havesaiditatbreakfastonemorningwhenshehadgoneoutontotheterrace—PeterWalsh.Hewouldbe
backfromIndiaoneofthesedays,JuneorJuly,sheforgotwhich,forhisletterswereawfullydull;itwashis
sayingsoneremembered;hiseyes,hispocket-knife,hissmile,hisgrumpinessand,whenmillionsofthingshad
utterlyvanished—howstrangeitwas!—afewsayingslikethisaboutcabbages.”
“TheEbbandFlowofThings”(fromMrsDalloway)
“Shewouldnotsayofanyoneintheworldnowthattheywerethisorwerethat.Shefeltveryyoung;atthe
sametimeunspeakablyaged.Sheslicedlikeaknifethrougheverything;atthesametimewasoutside,looking
on.Shehadaperpetualsense,asshewatchedthetaxicabs,ofbeingout,out,farouttoseaandalone;she
always had the feeling that it was very, very dangerous to live even one day. Not that she thought herself
clever, or much out of the ordinary. How she had got through life on the few twigs of knowledge Fräulein
Danielsgavethemshecouldnotthink.Sheknewnothing;nolanguage,nohistory;shescarcelyreadabook
now, except memoirs in bed; and yet to her it was absolutely absorbing; all this; the cabs passing; and she
wouldnotsayofPeter,shewouldnotsayofherself,Iamthis,Iamthat.Heronlygiftwasknowingpeople
almostbyinstinct,shethought,walkingon.Ifyouputherinaroomwithsomeone,upwentherbacklikea
cat’s;orshepurred.DevonshireHouse,BathHouse,thehousewiththechinacockatoo,shehadseenthemall
lituponce;andrememberedSylvia,Fred,SallySeton–suchhostsofpeople;anddancingallnight;andthe
waggonsploddingpasttomarket;anddrivinghome acrossthePark.Sherememberedoncethrowingashilling
intotheSerpentine.Buteveryoneremembered;whatshelovedwasthis,here,now,infrontofher;thefat
ladyinthecab.Diditmatterthen,sheaskedherself,walkingtowardsBondStreet,diditmatterthatshemust
inevitablyceasecompletely;allthismustgoonwithouther;didsheresentit;ordiditnotbecomeconsoling
tobelievethatdeathendedabsolutely?butthatsomehowinthestreetsofLondon,ontheebbandflowof
things,here,there,shesurvived,Petersurvived,livedineachother,shebeingpart,shewaspositive,ofthe
treesathome;ofthehousethere,ugly,ramblingalltobitsandpiecesasitwas;partofpeopleshehadnever
met;beinglaidoutlikeamistbetweenthepeoplesheknewbest,wholiftedherontheirbranchesasshehad
seenthetreesliftthemist,butitspreadeversofar,herlife,herself.Butwhatwasshedreamingasshelooked
intoHatchards’shopwindow?Whatwasshetryingtorecover?Whatimageofwhitedawninthecountry,as
shereadinthebookspreadopen:
Fearnomoretheheato’thesun
Northefuriouswinter’srages.”
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“TheMotorCar”(fromMrsDalloway)
“And as she began to go with Miss Pym from jar to jar, choosing, nonsense, nonsense, she said to herself,
moreandmoregently,asifthisbeauty,thisscent,thiscolour,andMissPymlikingher,trustingher,werea
wavewhichsheletflowoverherandsurmountthathatred,thatmonster,surmountitall;anditliftedherup
andupwhen--oh!apistolshotinthestreetoutside!
"Dear, those motor cars," said Miss Pym, going to the window to look, and coming back and smiling
apologeticallywithherhandsfullofsweetpeas,asifthosemotorcars,thosetyresofmotorcars,wereallHER
fault.
TheviolentexplosionwhichmadeMrs.DallowayjumpandMissPymgotothewindowandapologisecame
fromamotorcarwhichhaddrawntothesideofthepavementpreciselyoppositeMulberry'sshopwindow.
Passers-by who, of course, stopped and stared, had just time to see a face of the very greatest importance
againstthedove-greyupholstery,beforeamalehanddrewtheblindandtherewasnothingtobeseenexcept
a square of dove grey. Yet rumours were at once in circulation from the middle of Bond Street to Oxford
Streetononeside,toAtkinson'sscentshopontheother,passinginvisibly,inaudibly,likeacloud,swift,veil-
like upon hills, falling indeed with something of a cloud's sudden sobriety and stillness upon faces which a
secondbeforehadbeenutterlydisorderly.Butnowmysteryhadbrushedthemwithherwing;theyhadheard
thevoiceofauthority;thespiritofreligionwasabroadwithhereyesbandagedtightandherlipsgapingwide.
Butnobodyknewwhosefacehadbeenseen.WasitthePrinceofWales's,theQueen's,thePrimeMinister's?
Whose face was it? Nobody knew. Edgar J. Watkiss, with his roll of lead piping round his arm, said audibly,
humorously of course: "The Proime Minister's kyar." Septimus Warren Smith, who found himself unable to
pass,heardhim.
Septimus Warren Smith, aged about thirty, pale-faced, beak-nosed, wearing brown shoes and a shabby
overcoat, with hazel eyes which had that look of apprehension in them which makes complete strangers
apprehensivetoo.Theworldhasraiseditswhip;wherewillitdescend?Everythinghadcometoastandstill.
Thethrobofthemotorenginessoundedlikeapulseirregularlydrummingthroughanentirebody.Thesun
becameextraordinarilyhotbecausethemotorcarhadstoppedoutsideMulberry'sshopwindow;oldladieson
thetopsofomnibusesspreadtheirblackparasols;hereagreen,herearedparasolopenedwithalittlepop.
Mrs. Dalloway, coming to the window with her arms full of sweet peas, looked out with her little pink face
pursedinenquiry.Everyonelookedatthemotorcar.Septimuslooked.Boysonbicyclessprangoff.Traffic
accumulated.Andtherethemotorcarstood,withdrawnblinds,anduponthemacuriouspatternlikeatree,
Septimusthought,andthisgradualdrawingtogetherofeverythingtoonecentrebeforehiseyes,asifsome
horrorhadcomealmosttothesurfaceandwasabouttoburstintoflames,terrifiedhim.Theworldwavered
andquiveredandthreatenedtoburstintoflames.ItisIwhoamblockingtheway,hethought.Washenot
beinglookedatandpointedat;washenotweightedthere,rootedtothepavement,forapurpose?Butfor
whatpurpose?”
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