Talland House

Virginia Woolf in “A Sketch of the Past” writes that the memoirs “leave out the person to whom things happen” (Woolf 5). What she means here, is that memoirs tend to focus more on the events than on the actual subject that experience them. As much as I understand her point, I cannot agree with her entirely. I believe that, in terms of memories, even if the subject is not discussed, it is reflected in the very way it remembers. Ironically, I realized that while writing about my memory of Talland House – the holiday house of Virginia’s family. This text was going on like that:

Have you ever read that fragment of „A sketch of the Past” by V. Woolf when she mentions her most important memory – hearing the waves while being in St. Ives? It not here it is:

(…) and in fact it is the most important of all my memories. If life has a base that it stand upon, if it is a bowl that one fills and fills and fills – then my bowl without a doubt stands upon this memory. It is of lying half asleep, half awake, in bed, in nursery at St. Ives. It is of hearing the waves breaking, one, two, one, two, and sending a splash of water over the beach… (Woolf 5).

This memory, it is believed, is also the source of Woolf’s most powerful water literary images, those from The Waves and To the Lighthouse. Several weeks ago I was reminded about this fragment while reading Frances Spalding’s work. Simultaneously, I was reminded of my visit to Talland House in May 2012. Having in mind the importance of St. Ives experience to Woolf’s writing, and especially the importance of this particular memory, how great was my disappointment when I finally reached the house. First of all, it is rather difficult to find it. There are no signposts leading us to Talland House since its present owners decided to rent it and probably do not wish hordes of visitors to disturb the tenants. Apparently, however, it is not a real obstacle for Woolf’s admirers who, according to the tenants we spoke with, visit the house anyway. Second of all, at the moment the house is surrounded by a bizarre, modern housing estate which, I suppose, completely block the view from the house. Third, it turned out, that Talland House is situated on the hill, almost miles from the beach which ruined my vision of the house I had from “A Sketch of the Past”. After I saw it I really started to wonder how far from the beach it was located in Woolf’s times. If the beach was where it is now, it seems absolutely impossible for me that she could hear the waves. This, in turn, brought me to a question whether her memory was real or was it a compilation of several different recollections.

And then I had a short discussion about our trip to St. Ives with M. Surprisingly, he claimed that, in fact, the house was really close to the beach and Woolf could definitely hear the waves. I was completely baffled by his recollections since it meant that my disappointment with this visit influenced the whole memory of it. Apparently, because it was so emotional to me, I made everything that was far from my original vision even further from it. On the other hand, it could be his recollection that was inaccurate. Nevertheless, both our attitudes towards this visit and Virginia Woolf were reflected in our memories of it. That is why I don’t think that writing about this memory I “left myself out”. Rather the opposite – in comparison “myself” became even more visible. However, the question remains who was right about the house. I guess it will stay unanswered until our next visit in St. Ives.

Virginia Woolf, “A Sketch of the Past”, The Virginia Woolf Reader, ed. Mitchel A. Leaska, Now York: Mariner Books, 1984.


To translate the untranslatable- Finnegans Wake by James Joyce

My feelings to James Joyce are as ambivalent as feelings can be. I admire and hate him at the same time. I always thought that reading is supposed to be pleasure and a book to bring this pleasure should be well balanced between form and content. I imagine that a literary critic would say that the form can also be the content but I would like to leave these dilemmas aside for a moment and focus on my Joyce-reading experience.

While Dubliners (1914) occurred to me as a perfectly balanced masterpiece, Ulysses (1922) and especially Finnegans Wake (1939)  gave me the impression that Joyce went too far. After publication of Ulysses it seemed that his radicalism in linguistic experiments cannot go any further but in 1939 with Finnegans Wake he crossed another borders. He created a BOOK regarded by some as literary metaphor of humankind and as gibberish by others. Nevertheless, the translation of it appeared a rather impossible task irrespectively of one’s attitude towards it. However, there were several “daredevils” who apparently succeeded in it; Finnegans Wake has been translated into, for instance, French, Dutch, German or Japanese.

The cover of the  Polish translation

The cover of the Polish translation

Krzysztof Bartnicki, a Polish translator, joined this elite group this year. Since he spent over ten (very long) years of his life (1998-2008/2009) working on the translation, it is not surprising that he calls it “the beast”. What is interesting, however, is his disappointment with Joyce’s work. In many interviews Bartnicki underlines that before he started the translation process he considered Finnegans Wake as a complete masterpiece, a holistic literary depiction of humankind, mythology and history of languages. Surprisingly, after ten years of struggle not only with the text itself but also with hundreds of its interpretations, he reached rather dispiriting conclusion that Joyce under the cover of linguistic riddles wanted to hide his sexual preferences.  He admits he felt so tricked by Joyce that  in order to “punish” the author he wanted to leave the book unpublished. Fortunately, he did not.

I personally think that Joyce definitely owes something to Mr Bartnicki as he is the first human being who, by his daring translation, encouraged me to return to this painful experience of reading Finnegans Wake

The Polish version- Finneganow Tren

Virginia Woolf- Beyond literature..

During my university course I had to write an essay on the following subject “Words no longer have any vital significance for me. Words have killed images or are concealing them. The fact is that words say nothing” (Eugene Ionesco). How do Modernist writers confront this sense of linguistic failure? The book I chose to exemplify this battle with language was Virginia Woolf’s The Waves. I remember that I did not give one unequivocal answer whether she won this battle or not. And I was probably right since as linguistic failure is identified with the inability of language to express human experience, the reader (who cannot grasp the author’s mind) will never be able to judge if particular text is the expression the author actually wanted. However, now, especially after reading Jacob’s Room, I would say that she was much closer to a victory than to a failure. Woolf seems to use language to create something beyond novel writing or even beyond literature, something that belongs to different form of art like poetry or painting.

The Waves appears to be written as a poem with symbols build on images ( that do not describe the emotions but stir them) and the unifying power of rhythm. Each character is expressed by his or her perception. For example, the first thing Bernard sees is the ring which symbolizes his desire of wholeness.  As for the rhythm, the characters’ monologues seem to be reflected in the rhythm of the interludes describing the waves. The narration of this short fragments changes from rather slow, when personalities of the characters are not distinctly outlined,  to more dynamic, when they are fully developed andfinally, slow at the end of the book.

Virginia Woolf by Vanessa Bell (1912)

In Jacob’s Room, on the other hand, Woolf appears to create small paintings that like puzzles build  the character of Jacob. These paintings, however, resemble the portrait of Virginia by Vanessa Bell- we know it’s her but we can’t exactly see her face. Similarly, we get to know Jacob by series of incidents and other protagonists’ perceptions but our knowledge about him is never full, never definite. The dialogues  seem like insertions and the descriptions (like impressionist paintings) are supposed to give impressions and stir emotions rather than precisely  reflect reality. Everything we know about Jacob is not for sure, we only get fragments of reality, never the whole picture.  Like the image of Bonamy holding Jacob’s shoes in the last scene of the book- there is no direct statement telling us Jacob is gone but we obviously feel it and if we add the other elements of the puzzle we will find out why…