Saturday, April 30, 2005

"The plastic substance, imposed by tradition"

I'm currently working on finishing up Henry James' Wings of the Dove, and I came across this passage that, quite frankly, I find highly interesting in the way it precursors a good bit of post-structuralist literary theory by a solid fifty-plus years. I can just smell Foucault in the background, and I can't help but think this is the ideal kind of thing to save in case I ever need a good example for a paper on these themes, which I suspect I will at some point.

That was the story—that she was always, for her beneficient dragon under arms; living up, every hour, but especially at festal hours, to the 'value' Mrs Lowdner had attached to her. High and fixed, this estimate ruled, on each occasion, at Lancaster Gate, the social scene; so that our young man now recognized in it something like the artistic idea, the plastic substance, imposed by tradition, by genius, by criticism, in respect to a given character, on a distinguished actress. As such a person was to dress the part, to walk, to look, to speak, in every way to express, the part, so all this was what Kate was to do for the character she had undertaken, under her aunt's roof, to represent. it was made up, the character, of definite elements and touches—things all perfectly ponderable to criticism; and the way for her to meet criticism was evidently at the start to be sure her make-up was exact and that she looked at least no worse than usual. Aunt Maud's appreciation of that tonight was indeed managerial, and Kate's own contribution fairly that of the faultless soldier on parade. Densher saw himself for the moment as in his purchased stall at the play; the watchful manager was in the depts of a box and the poor actress in the glare of the footlights. But she passed, the poor actress—he could see how she always passed; her wig, her taint, her jewels, every mark of her expression impeccable, and her entrance accordingly greeted witht he proper round of applause. Such impressions as we thus note for Densher come and go, it must be granted, in very much less time than notation demands; but we may none the less make the point that there was, still further, time among them for him to feel almost too scared to take part in the ovation. He truck himself as having lost, for the minute, his presence of mind—so that, at any rate, he only stared in silence at the older woman's technical challenge and at the younger one's disciplined face. It was as if the drama—it thus came to him, for the fact of a drama there was no blinking—was between them, them quite preponderantly; with Merton Densher relegated to mere spectatorship, a paying place in front, and one of the most expensive. This was why his appreciation had turned for the instant of fear—had just turned, as we have said, to sickness; and in spite of the fact that the disciplined face did offer him over the footlights, as he believed, the small gleam, fine, faint, but exquisite, of a special intelligence. So might a practised performer, even when raked by double-barreled glasses, seem to be all in her part and yet convey a sign to the person in the house she loved best.
Holy crap. You get all that? It's impressive how James positions Kate's character in her social context purely in relation to having to live under the constant gaze of her Aunt as the "theatre manager." James credits Kate in that she "passed," but I'm not sure that's entirely a complement. It's made quite clear that she lives her life not only in the "'value' that Mrs Lowdner had attached to her," but now she is also under the gaze and scrutiny of Densher, for whom she must play a separate role (that of lover) at the same time. Kate's challenge is to merge both roles into one performance, and the fact that she is so highly successful at it is one of the primary points that shows that, while James may predict postmodernist theory in this passage, he is—at heart—a true modernist. If this were a postmodern novel, she would fracture in the attempt to contain dual roles simultaneously—hey, it drives Holden Caulfield into an asylum—to two different observers at the same time. For the modernist James, however, to do so is possible. She's just that extraordinary. The theatre aspect serves to further reinforce the notion that Kate can only play the role society has established for her and that she cannot deviate—due to constant surveillance—lest she lose everything she is working for. Yet, she does get to be offstage at times (such as when she's out with Densher without her Aunt's knowledge), but she must constantly fear discovery (i.e., Milly in the art gallery), as Foucault explains is the method of control outside of survellance in his coneptual "Carcerial" in society in general. This fear of discovery keeps her behavior and interaction with Densher within at the very least allowable, though not ideal, bounds.

There, that should be enough to remind me why I am intrigued in that passage. There is certainly much more to dig out, and there are counter-arguments to be made, but this will serve as a start. Thank you for bearing with me.

Thursday, April 28, 2005

Some Random Book Meme

Hardback or Paperback?
Depends on how much I'd have to pay for it. Hardback is always preferable, but I'd rather pay half as much for a trade paperback.

Highlight or Underline?
In a course pack, highlight. In books I own, neither; why would I want to fuck 'em up? I'll use sticky notes in books.

Lewis or Tolkien?
Tolkien, mainly by the fact that I haven't read any Lewis (though I suspect I'd like Tolkien more anyways).

E.B. White or A.A. Milne?
E.B. White by a long ways. As far as children's books go, I could go either way. But White's career as an essayist and critic blows Milne out of the water.

T.S. Eliot or e.e. cummings?
I very much like them both, but I am more interested in the themes Eliot takes on.

Stephen King or Dean Koontz?
Stephen King. Stephen King. Stephen King. Koontz is just an inferior stylist, his stories are much less complex, and I can't imagine that he has the self-awareness or ability to write a book on writing that could even come close to being as informative and insightful as King's.

Barnes & Noble or Borders?
Barnes & Noble has a larger selection, but Borders tends to carry some non-mainstream books that I'd have to order at Barnes & Noble...so Borders by a hair.

Waldenbooks or B. Dalton?
B. Dalton. Better selection, better prices.

Fantasy or Science Fiction?
I read a ton of fantasy in Jr. High and High School, but since then I don't think I've read more than three or four fantasy books (over almost six years), and I haven't ready any in the last two years at least. Sci-Fi, on the other hand, has figured prominently into my literary studies (i.e. Vonnegut, Dick, Delaney, Shute, etc.), so I'd have to answer that now I prefer SF.

Horror or Suspense?
Horror. I have never read a suspense genre novel that I have particularly enjoyed.

Bookmark or Dogear?
Due to my abhorrence of ruining perfectly good books, I am very much a bookmark man.

Hemingway or Faulkner?
While I enjoy and respect Hemingway's work, Faulkner interests me much, much more.

Fitzgerald or Steinbeck?
While Steinbeck might have written much more than Fitzgerald (due to Fitzgerald's young death), Fitzgerald can claim one thing Steinbeck can't: He never wrote one book that wasn't great. For that, F. Scott is the man.

John Irving or John Updike?
I haven't read enough of either to give a definitive answer, but right now it's Updike and I doubt that'll change.

Homer or Plato?
While I like my philosophy, I'm a literature man at heart, and in Literature, Homer reigns supreme.

Geoffrey Chaucer or Edmund Spenser?
I've read a ton of Chaucer and only a little Spenser (and none of The Fairy Queen), so right now I'm going to have to stick with Chaucer.

Pen or Pencil?
I use pen now (required at work and all), but deep down I prefer a pencil.

Looseleaf or Notebook?
Notebook. If you give me loose papers, they'll be scattered across any given space within moments.

Alphabetize: By Author or By Title?
Arranged by subject (i.e., Fiction, Poetry, Drama, Philosophy, Literary Criticism, Mythology, etc.) then alphabetized by author.

Novella or Epic
It doesn't matter. I'm just interested in how good it is.

Fiction or Non-fiction?
Fiction is my primary focus, but I love to read in a wide range of academic non-fiction disciplines from Philosophy to Mythology to Literary Theory and Criticism to Politicas Theory to History to Biography and beyond.

Historical Biography or Historical Romance?
Give me a good literary Biography any day. I can't imagine I would enjoy a Historical Romance.

A Few Pages per Sitting or Finish at Least a Chapter?
At least a chapter. I hate stopping in the middle of a chapter. I ususally then feel the need to re-read the chapter to make sure I'm not forgetting anything.

Short Story or Creative Non-fiction Essay?
Either one is great, but again, I'm a sucker for good literary fiction, short stories included.

Buy or borrow?
Buy Buy Buy Buy Buy Buy Buy Buy Buy Buy Buy. Over 1,200 books owned and climbing.

Book Reviews or Word of Mouth?
Word of mouth from someone whose taste I trust. I'm only really interested in a book review if it is by a reviewer with a more literary slant. In other words, no newspaper reviews (not evey the NY Times) or Web site reviews. I'll take reviews in literary journals first, and high standard magazines such as the New Yorker or Atlantic Monthly second.

The Onset of ADD

I have never in my life had such a difficult time finishing books as I am having right now. It's disgusting. My attention span is almost nonexistent. Seriously, here's how many books I'm reading on my own (non-school) right now:

  • The Wings of the Dove by Henry James
  • The Things They Carried by Tim O'Brien
  • In the Heart of the Heart of the Country and Other Stories by William H. Gass
  • Dubliners by James Joyce
  • Will in the World: How Shakespeare became Shakespeare by Henry Greenblatt
  • The Education of Henry Adams by Henry Adams
  • Containment Culture: American Narrative, Postmodernism, and the Atomic Age by Alan Nadel
  • The Culture of Fear: Why Americans Are Afraid of the Wrong Things by Barry Glassner
And I'm probably forgetting something. These aren't even the books that I've just read a page of, either. I've read at least a quarter of all of them. I honestly don't think I've ever exceeded two or three books at once before. And this isn't even counting my ever ongoing quest to finish the Bible and The Complete Works of Shakespeare. Eck. I think this weekend I just need to knock off at least one if not two of the ones that are closest to finished and continue to work through them in like manner over the next few weeks.

Friday, April 22, 2005

When the Blind Lead the Blind: Rhetoric in Ralph Ellison's Invisible Man

The fifth chapter of Ralph Ellison's Invisible Man finds the Narrator sitting in chapel utterly entranced by the words of Reverend Homer A. Barbee, who entrances the audience by beautifully eulogizing the life and death of the school's beloved founder many years before. After hearing the moving speech, the Narrator notes, "For a few minutes old Barbee had made me see the vision and now I knew that leaving the campus would be like parting of the flesh" (120). Barbee made the Narrator want to be a part of this vision more than anything, and the Narrator knows this desire is ultimately to be denied. Yet, moments later, the Narrator "...hurried past the disapproving eyes of teachers and matrons, out into the night" (121). This seems to contradict his desire to be a part of the vision, his leaving of the place where the vision is being forged and reinforced. Instead, he finds himself feeling "resentment" toward Barbee's address. One part of this reaction is certainly his not wanting to leave, but knowing he will be forced out. Yet, on another, as of yet undefined level the Narrator is for the first time reacting against the novel's recurring theme of rhetoric as a manipulative device of power and control.

On the surface, Barbee's speech does little more than give a moving eulogy about the Founder and praise Dr. Bledsoe's accomplishments in having "...kept his promise a thousandfold" (119). Barbee begins by relating to the days before the Founder as "...this barren land after Emancipation...this land of darkness and sorrow..." (107). He then speaks of the Founder's birth, escape, education, and accomplishments, referring to the Founder as "the great sun" (114) and similar illuminative imagery throughout. The Founder is clearly the one to change "...this land of darkness and sorrow..." into something brighter. Barbee speaks of the Founder's death followed by Dr. Bledsoe's charge and successful fulfillment of the Founder's deathbed wish that Bledsoe "...take on the burden. Lead them the rest of the way" (116). Then Barbee relates how Bledsoe has become the great figure who vastly increased the size of the university and even conducted the President himself around campus (119).


All in all, Barbee's speech strikes the reader at first as nothing more than a simple, if inspiring and flowery, narration of fact. But it has, in fact, done much more than that. As has already been pointed out, the Narrator has already been made to "see the vision" and in doing so become reconnected to it. No doubt the same effect has taken place on the other students in attendance. It inspires confidence and admiration for the administration in place to do what is right and best for the black people. Yet, in order to accomplish this end, this seemingly harmless speech has become a form of power, control, and manipulation. It starts by nearly deifying, or at least mythologizing, the founder through its lauding of virtue and celestial comparison upon him (making a reverend the perfect messenger). Then, at the end, we see what is probably the true purpose of the Reverend's speech: The reinforcement of Bledsoe as the new leader, and one who is as great, if not greater, than the Founder, through such direct comparison as even claiming, "For has not your present leader become [the Founder's] living agent?" (119). Barbee is implicating that the Founder and Bledsoe are at least equals, before going on in the very next paragraph to explain how Bledsoe has surpassed the accomplishments of the Founder in the ways listed above.


The purpose of this manipulation is to re-establish Bledsoe's authority in the eyes of those who may doubt him. This speech is only minimally meant to influence the trustees. Bledsoe has other, more effective ways to manipulate them. Rather, it is to improve his image and re-emphasize the necessity of fidelity with the students and teachers of the university. To be frank, up to this speech, Bledsoe is not portrayed as the equal of the founder. He fawns over the trustees (Norton being a prime example [94–95]) in a way that, unlike the vision Barbee gives us of the Founder, does not inspire respect so much as comfort on the trustees' parts. The students refer to him as "Old Bucket-head" (92), certainly a less respectful appellation than the universally revered "Founder." Disregarding what we learn in chapters following the scene in the church, there is ample evidence to suspect this influencing of opinion may be the true purpose of the Reverend's speech.


At this point, it would certainly be reasonable to assume that I am perhaps reading too deeply into this by implying the purpose of the speech was more devious than it superficially appears, but there is a key hint for both the Narrator and for the reader that such an interpretation may very well be valid. As the Narrator puts it, "Homer A. Barbee was blind" (120). The use of the full name after so many references to the Reverend as just "Barbee," combined with the simplicity of the declarative, seems to imply some shock, almost of incomprehension, on the part of the Narrator. In other words, this physical deformity seems to have quite an effect on the Narrator. Superficially, the physical aspect of this blindness calls into question the veracity of Barbee's tale about the founder. For instance, what should the Narrator (or the reader for that matter) make of Barbee's story of the dying star:

"For against that great—wide—sweep of sable there came the burst of a single jewel-like star, and I saw it shimmer, and break, and streak down the cheek of that coal-black sky like a reluctant and solitary tear..." (115)
Certainly it is possible Barbee lost his sight after that, but there is nothing in the text to suggest this is the case. If this incident is perhaps made up, what else might be?


However, more important than Barbee's physical blindness is what it suggests about his inner blindness. As pointed out above, Barbee does not seem to be talking about the same Dr. Bledsoe that everyone else knows. He may really believe everything he says about Dr. Bledsoe. On the other hand, we also find out soon after that Bledsoe is willing to "...have every Negro in the country hanging on tree limbs by morning if it means staying where I am" (128). With this in mind, it isn't a far-fetched idea that an interpretation of Barbee's speech as I outlined above is easily justified, and that Barbee is little more than Bledsoe's tool to manipulate the student body, and Barbee is the blind man who cannot see to what end his power is being used. He seems to truly care about the Founder and what the Founder stood for. He sees himself as serving those ends in allowing his gift to be used to reinvigorate the student population. As a reverend, he doesn't see that he's really helping a corrupt man who has betrayed the ideals of the Founder. Although the Narrator does not realize any of this at the time of Barbee's speech, this revelation of blindness and manipulation is the tipping point that turns the Narrator from seeing "the vision" to resisting it and feeling "resentful." Barbee is merely the first example of a theme that runs throughout the novel: Those with the command of rhetoric as being blind to its true use as employed by those with power.


Whether the speaker is Ras the Exhorter/Destroyer or the Narrator himself, those who posses the power of persuasion are never able to make their gift work the way they intend. As the Narrator points out about Ras to his followers, "...but [the Brotherhood] counted on this man [Ras], too. They needed this destroyer to do their work...They want you guilty of your own murder, your own sacrifice!" In other words, the Brotherhood has been manipulating events and counting on Ras to stir up bad feeling into a race riot, which is exactly what Ras is doing. Knowing how Ras operates, the brotherhood was able to manipulate a situation where they knew Ras would "...come uptown with guns and rifles" because the Brotherhood understands what Ras is about politically. They know that he will use his influence to create a situation where the Brotherhood can "...turn your death and sorrow and defeat into propaganda...'Use a nigger to catch a nigger.' Well, they used me to catch you and now they're using Ras to do away with me and to prepare your sacrifice" (482–483). Ras' command over people's hearts through his own peculiar, earnest rhetoric is being used against him and the Harlem community by the Brotherhood because, like Barbee, Ras is too blind by his own sense of righteousness and self-importance to believe that he could be used by his enemies.


Even more than Ras, the Narrator himself is the primary example of manipulation in the novel. Though he senses something wrong with Barbee's speech, he does not make the connection between rhetoric and manipulation until the end of the novel. The Brotherhood first found interest in the Narrator as he used reverse psychology to stop an eviction. As Jack says, "With a few words you had them involved in action!" (251). Jack sees the manipulative power and wants to hire the Narrator as a tool. He works well for the Brotherhood. He is the one who generates interest in "No more dispossessing of the dispossessed" (295) in that initial speech as well as at his first rally. The Brotherhood uses him first to drive up membership, a seemingly noble task at the time. Yet it isn't until later that we discover that the Narrator's charisma is a double-edged sword for the people of Harlem. The Brotherhood reassigns him on a plot ultimately revealed as engineered by Jack ("That he, or anyone at that late date could have named me and set me running with one and the same stroke of the pen was too much" [491]) that turns the sentiments of Harlem from one of hope with their new leader to one of abandonment. Amazingly, the Narrator is amazed to find upon his return, those who once he considered "Brothers" are now set against him ("I wouldn't be his kin even if I was..." [366]). He remains blind. The Narrator thinks it was simple mismanagement on behalf of the Brotherhood, but they really used the Narrator's rhetorical skill to drum up false hope in order to plant the seeds of the race riot and provoke Ras into action in the passage quoted above.


While obviously the Narrator is aware he is being used for a purpose (what else is employment?), he remains blind until far too late to do anything to prevent the riots that are starting at the time of his epiphany. He begins to understand after Clifton's funeral that he is a pawn, and he decides to play the part of good pawn, thinking that he is harming the brotherhood. Yet still he is blind. Through it all, he thinks that the Brotherhood ultimately wouldn't do anything that would directly harm the people of Harlem. In the interview with Jack after the Narrator's speech at Clifton's funeral, Jack's response to the Narrator's assertion that the people of Harlem believe that the Brotherhood has betrayed them is to say, "That's an indefensible lie...We do not shape our policies to the mistaken and infantile notions of the man in the street. Our job is not to ask them what they think but to tell them" (408)! After the interview, the Narrator is convinced it is the Brotherhood that is blind (410), yet he is to discover that he was wrong; it was him all the time. The Brotherhood really did know what Jack claimed was a lie about the sentiments of Harlem. But that was part of the plan to which the Narrator was still blind.


The last, most important question that remains is to explore why Ellison seems to see the use of rhetoric as so inherently deceitful and manipulative. As explored above, every overt use of it in the novel turns out to be sinister when it is meant to be well-meaning because of the blindness of those who possess it. It is evident why those in power wish to use those who posses the skill. It is a powerful form of manipulation. Ellison notes in the prologue how people perceive the world around them: "A matter of the construction of their inner eyes, those eyes with which they look through their physical eyes upon reality" (7). In other words, people live in their own reality to the extent their experience is filtered through "inner eyes" that only see the world in the way they expect to experience it; people can create their own experience of reality. In essence, people can create themselves through the narratives their "inner eyes" tell them. Using this notion of the "inner eyes" as a framing device, mastery of rhetoric is possibly the most powerful form of manipulation there is. A powerful speaker has the power to change how the "inner eyes" of others experience reality through powerful techniques of persuasion. A master speaker can make people literally see the world—reality&mash;in the way that the speaker wants them to see it. Barbee can change the reality of Dr. Bledsoe as "Old Bucket-head" to the reality of Dr. Bledsoe as one of the greatest black leaders. Dr. Bledsoe didn't have to change, only the perceptions of those in the audience. The same goes for the power of Ras and the Narrator to turn normally "law-abiding" (239) people into an angry mob bent on riot.


While this ability to alter a person's perception of the world is certainly a powerful tool, perhaps the reason Ellison is afraid of its power can be found in the Narrator's self-identification as a "thinker tinker" (11). As Dr. Malcolm Griffin points out, the Narrator comes to believe his responsibility is only to define himself through his expression. Yet the purpose of rhetoric is to change the way others define themselves. This inevitably leads to a mob mentality in the novel, whether a chapel full of like-minded students or a rioting mob, that kills of individuality and self-expression. The speaker who uses rhetoric is taking the responsibility for self-definition away from those whose duty to themselves should be to be able to express their own thoughts, which is often hard when the mob mentality is firmly entrenched. For example, in the Narrator's second-to-last confrontation with Ras, the Narrator has supporters among Ras' followers who ask to "Give the brother a chance to answer!" (415) and ultimately Ras' followers remember the good the Narrator has done for the community. By the final confrontation, Ras has wiped out the memories of the Narrator's good deeds from the mind of his followers. He has no more supporters.


Given this view of rhetoric by Ellison, it is no wonder that all the rhetorically accomplished speakers in Invisible Man are blind to being used. To speak rhetorically is to speak artificially. It is used to express not the speaker's voice, but to express the voice that the crowd will best react to and the agenda of those in power. Barbee, Ras, and the Narrator are all puppets of other people, either Bledsoe or the Brotherhood, and they say what their manipulator wants them to say and what the audience will best respond to. As a result, instead of self-defining themselves as unique individuals, they are defining themselves as only a part of the mass crowd they are set to manipulate, and as a result, they cannot help but believe their own rhetoric after a while. All three of Invisible Man's narrators succumb to this. Thus, they lack the ability to create a self-definition in the way the Narrator as "thinker-tinker" ultimately understands how to do, and if they can't define themselves as individuals, how can they possibly separate themselves from the homogenous crowd who only see what they are told to see. And as a crowd will follow the speaker, so will the rhetorician follow the ideas he is fed. He best expresses them, how can he not believe them?

Virginia Woolf Essay—Mrs. Dalloway

When Virginia Woolf said we should "not take it for granted that life exists more fully in that which is commonly thought big than in what is commonly thought small," the words that stand out for me are "commonly thought." It isn't that these things really are small or unimportant, only that their importance is not obvious—it does not smack you in the face—yet it is safe to say that life is mostly made up of events without a great inherent significance—whether brushing your teeth or getting up for work in the morning. However, there is a significance to that which is small, and one of the primary goals of stream-of-consciousness writers such as Woolf is to bring the importance of seemingly small thoughts, actions, and events to light. Their primary mode of conveying this notion is by showing how such small things are a point of access to something much grander and more significant—it is small thoughts and actions that connect and give context to the big thoughts and actions. As a result, an accomplished stream-of-consciousness writer such as Woolf only exposes a seemingly insignificant thought or action from even a minor character in the service of an important end.


In Woolf’s novel, Mrs. Dalloway, one such seemingly small event occurs when Clarissa’s daughter, Elizabeth, boards an omnibus after having lunch with her tutor, Miss Kilman:

Suddenly Elizabeth stepped forward and most competently boarded the omnibus, in front of everybody. She took a seat on top. The impetuous creature—a pirate—started forward, sprang away; she had to hold on the rail to steady herself, for a pirate it was, reckless, unscrupulous, bearing down ruthlessly, circumventing dangerously, boldly snatching a passenger, or ignoring a passenger, squeezing eel-like and arrogant in between, and then rushing insolently all sails spread up Whitehall. And did Elizabeth give one thought to poor Miss Kilman who loved her without jealously, to whom she had been a fawn in the open, a moon in a glade? She was delighted to be free. The fresh air was so delicious. It had been so stuffy in the Army and Navy Stores. And now it was like riding, to be rushing up Whitehall; and to each movement of the omnibus the beautiful body in the fawn-coloured coat responded freely like a rider, like the figure-head of a ship, for the breeze slightly disarrayed her; the heat gave her cheeks the pallor of white painted wood; and her fine eyes, having no eyes to meet, gazed ahead, blank, bright, with the staring incredible innocence of sculpture (Woolf 205–206).
By no means does Elizabeth get much direct attention in the novel. On the contrary, she gets only these few pages as access to her consciousness, and the characters will occasionally refer to her throughout. Yet this apparently insignificant event of boarding a bus and riding up to the Strand, narrated through the consciousness of a relatively minor character, actually contributes in a big way to what Woolf has to say about the changing nature of England in the early 1920's.


In the passage quoted above, Woolf sets Elizabeth up as both a reflection and a product of the shift in power, class, and customs taking place in English society. Like many other British modernist novelists of the time, E.M. Forester being a great example, Woolf takes a strong interest in the shift from an imperialist culture, with the gentry as the dominant class, of the 19th Century to an industrial culture, with a more dominant capitalist class. The passage above is notable for portraying Elizabeth as everything a young woman, and a member of a rich, politically powerful family, should not be.


First, one must remember that in 19th Century Britain, young women like Elizabeth should not even be traversing a city like London unescorted with the British notion that a gentile woman like her is not equipped to be responsible for herself—that is a father/brother/beau's job. However, here we find Elizabeth as she "...competently boarded the omnibus, in front of everybody. She took a seat on top." So not only do we find she is competent, but neither is she shy of asserting herself in public or claiming a prominent seat. While this could be attributed to her position as a member of the gentry, the reader is led to understand that this is not normal behavior for someone in her position as she is an "...impetuous creature—a pirate…reckless, unscrupulous...arrogant...insolent...disarrayed..." and a host of other adjectives contributing to a picture of Elizabeth not acting as a gentle-woman ought to act.


Yet we already know Elizabeth does not play the part of a young Lady. Earlier in the novel, Clarissa worries, "...how [Elizabeth] dressed, how she treated people who came to lunch she did not care a bit..." (Woolf 16), though Richard thinks it is "...only a phase...such as all girls go through" (Woolf 15). But on the bus, Woolf lets us know that it is not a phase. Elizabeth does not want the part of Clarissa who, though it galls her when Peter points it out to her, is one of the wives who throw parties to help advance her husband's career, or Lady Bruton who, though she wields the power of the gentry in influence, she is not competent enough in practical matters to write her own letter. Instead, Elizabeth fancies herself on the bus as a "...figure-head of a ship, for the breeze slightly disarrayed her; the heat gave her cheeks the pallor of white painted wood; and her fine eyes, having no eyes to meet, gazed ahead, blank, bright, with the staring incredible innocence of sculpture." Elizabeth sees herself as putting herself in the forefront (like a figure-head) and staring out in to uncharted territory ("having no eyes to meet") instead of following the proscribed path of marriage and family that her mother followed. As her mother notices, "[t]hat she did not care more about it [courtship]—for instance her clothes—sometimes worried Clarissa" (Woolf 205). Instead, we find Elizabeth as a blank slate (her "incredible innocence") whose course has not been decided. She has resisted the influence of her mother and her social position, and she has resisted the attempted domination and subversion of Miss Kilman, as is pointed out when she fails to "...give one thought to Miss Kilman...she was delighted to be free."


Elizabeth's newly realized independence and freedom she experiences in this seemingly insignificant event—seemingly abstract chain of thought—is what later leads to her ability to make a monumental decision in her life. It is later during the bus ride that Elizabeth recalls what Miss Kilman also said to her, "...every profession is open to a woman of your generation" (Woolf 206) and instead of stopping where she should, Elizabeth decides to continue up to the Strand, London's central business district. Once there, Elizabeth is inspired and decides, "In short, she would like to have a profession" (Woolf 207).


Elizabeth's bus ride and ultimate realization she wants to give up her current class and way of life for a new one is Woolf's tool for showing the reader one example of how England in the 1920's is changing. Lady Bruton's class is the one fading. Woolf implies that Butron's family (which is used as a symbol for her class) is being relegated to the past. Richard wants to write a history of her family, feeling that such a people should be remembered (Woolf 167). In other words, Woolf is implying Bruton's type, the gentry and imperialists, are fading into history—or at least their power and influence is. Lady Bruton's primary concern is Britain's fading imperial influence ("but what a tragedy—the state of India!" [Woolf 274]). Elizabeth, on the other hand, does not care at all for this. She desires to become a professional and join the rising ruling class of Britain, the ones she so admires on the Strand. But without the realizations, freedoms, and connections she experienced on the omnibus, would she have been prepared to make such a monumental choice? Probably not—at least, not right then. The seemingly insignificant event of a bus ride turns out to supply the background and abstract connections—in the form of fleeting thoughts and associations—that allow Elizabeth to make the decision she does, and Woolf to help us to understand through Elizabeth the changing social climate of England at the time. In other words, especially in a stream-of-consciousness style, there is no such thing as an insignificant thought.