This is a potential topic among others that I will suggest. This contextual material may be used for the shorter paper (some small part of it) and then developed in the longer paper. This assignment is for those who feel comfortable working with materials on-line. Other more direct assignments will be given in class.
Woolf On-Line: Potential Paper TopicsQuestion: What kinds of literary questions might you generate after reading some of the diary entries and the historical information below as well as the text of To the Lighthouse? What are the connections between the private life and public historical events in the life and writings of an author?
Ways of developing a paper from the sources below will be discussed in class and in
Individual conferences
Julia Briggs, an eminent critic and biographer of Virginia Woolf, who died last year, created a wonderful Virginia Woolf resource on-line for the underlying aspects of To the Lighthouse (diaries, drafts of the “Time Passes” section, historical information on The General Strike of miners in 1926 during which time Woolf was writing “Time Passes,” images of St. Ives, the seaside village that entered into Woolf’s images in the book; and the Stephen family history.
Additional information and other sources besides those listed below:
www.woolfonline.com/?q=image/tidImages of the General Stike, St. Ives, the Stephen Family.
Below you will find Virginia Woolf’s
Diary entries during the writing of the “Time Passes” (middle section) of To the Lighthouse. To appreciate the context of the times—the public and historical context of this private diary about her writing and life, it is important to know that The General Strike of Miners was going on May 3-12, 1926. It is also important to know—given popular conceptions of Woolf—that she was involved in the cause of the coal miners, listening to daily reports on the strike, speaking with her husband, Leonard Woolf (who was a radical socialist) and friends about the events.
What was this strike about?
The British General Strike began on 3rd May 1926, and ended on 12th May 1926. Ten days of strike action that were to change the very nature of work relations in the country for years to come.
The strike was called by the Trades Union Congress (T.U.C.) on 1st May 1926, with action to begin on 3rd May 1926. It was precipitated in support of striking coal miners in the North of England, Scotland and Wales. The strike action was perceived as necessary to ensure current and future pay and work conditions would remain acceptable to the industry. In reality, it was the latest in a long series of industrial disputes that had crippled the coal industry since the end of the First World War, creating real hardship for mining families, and continuing political unrest and uncertainty for numerous governments. 'Not a minute on the day, not a penny off the pay', was the miners' slogan as they marched headlong in to Britain's one and only General Strike.
Despite commencing in the mining towns and Unions of the country, one of the flash points for the strike itself occurred in London, when the Daily Mail's Fleet Street printers refused to print a leading article criticising trade unions. Subsequently, other print workers joined the protest and the General Strike started to gain momentum. The TUC activated its strike plans, calling out all union members in essential industries. The strike had begun.
Woolf’s DiaryApril 30, 1926
Yesterday I finished the first part of To the Lighthouse, & today
began the second. I cannot make it out—here is the most difficult abstract
piece of writing—I have to give an empty house, no people's characters,
the passage of time, all eyeless & featureless with nothing to cling to:
well, I rush at it, & at once scatter out two pages. Is it nonsense, is it
brilliance? Why am I so flown with words, & apparently free to do
exactly what I like? When I read a bit it seems spirited too; needs com-
pressing, but not much else. Compare this dashing fluency with the
excruciating hard wrung battles I had with Mrs Dalloway (save the end).
This is not made up: it is the literal fact.
May 5, 1926
An exact diary of the Strike would be interesting. For instance, it is
now a 1/4 to 2: there is a brown fog; nobody is building; it is drizzling.
The first thing in the morning we stand at the window & watch the
traffic in Southampton Row. This is incessant. Everyone is bicycling;
motor cars are huddled up with extra people. There are no buses. No
placards. no newspapers. The men are at work in the road; water, gas &
electricity are allowed; but at 11 the light was turned off. I sat in the
press in the brown fog, while L. wrote an article for the Herald. A very
revolutionary looking young man on a cycle arrived with the British
Gazette. L. is to answer an article in this. All was military stern a little
secret. Then Clive dropped in, the door being left open. He is offering
himself to the Government. Maynard excited, wants the H[ogarth].
P[ress]. to bring out a skeleton number of the Nation. It is all tedious &
depressing, rather like waiting in a train outside a station. Rumours are
passed round—that the gas wd. be cut off at 1—false of course. One
does not know what to do. And nature has laid it on thick today—fog,
rain, cold. A voice, rather commonplace & official, yet the only common
voice left, wishes us good morning at 10. This is the voice of Britain,
to wh. we can make no reply. The voice is very trivial, & only tells us
hat the Prince of Wales is coming back (from Biarritz), that the London
streets present an unprecedented spectacle.
May 6, 1926
(one of the curious effects of the Strike is that it is difficult to remember
the day of the week). Everything is the same, but unreasonably, or
because of the weather, or habit, we are more cheerful, take less notice,
& occasionally think of other things. The taxis are out today. There are
various skeleton papers being sold. One believes nothing. Clive dines in
Mayfair, & everyone is pro-men; I go to Harrison [dentist], & he shouts
me down with "Its red rag versus Union Jack, Mrs Woolf" & how
Thomas has 100,000. Frankie dines out, & finds everyone pro-
Government. Bob [Trevelyan] drops in & says Churchill is for peace,
but Baldwin wont budge. Clive says Churchill is for tear gas bombs,
fight to the death, & is at the bottom of it all. So we go on, turning in
our cage. I notice how frequently we break of[f] with "Well I don't
know." According to L. this open state of mind is due to the lack of
papers. It feels like a deadlock, on both sides; as if we could keep fixed
like this for weeks. What one prays for is God: the King or God; some
impartial person to say kiss & be friends—as apparently we all desire.
Just back from a walk to the Strand. Of course one notices lorries
full of elderly men & girls standing like passengers in the old 3rd class
carriages. Children swarm. They pick up bits of old wood paving.
Everything seems to be going fast, away, in business[?]. The shops are
open but empty. Over it all is some odd pale unnatural atmosphere—
great activity but no normal life. I think we shall become more in-
dependent & stoical as the days go on. And I am involved in dress
buying with Todd [editor of Vogue]; I tremble & shiver all over at the
appalling magnitude of the task have undertaken—to go to a dress-
maker recommended by Todd, even, she suggested, but here my blood
ran cold, with Todd. Perhaps this excites me more feverishly than the
Strike. It is a little like the early hours of the morning (this state of
things) when one has been up all night. Business improved today. We
sold a few books. Bob cycled from Leith Hill, getting up at 5 a.m. to
avoid the crowd. He punctured an hour later, met his tailor who mended
him, set forth again, was almost crushed in the crowd near London, &
has since been tramping London, from Chelsea to Bloomsbury to gather
gossip, & talk, incoherently about Desmond's essays & his own poetry.
He has secreted two more of these works which 'ought to be published'.
He is ravenous greedy, & apelike, but has a kind of russet surly charm;
like a dog one teases. He complained how Logan teased him. Clive calls
in to discuss bulletins—indeed, more than anything it is like a house
where someone is dangerously ill; & friends drop in to enquire, & one
has to wait for doctor's news—Quennel, the poet, came; a lean boy,
nervous, plaintive, rather pretty; on the look out for work, & come to
tap the Wolves—who are said, I suppose to be an authority on that
subject. We suggested Desmond's job. After an hour of this, he left,
— here Clive came in & interrupted. He has been shopping in the
West End with Mary. Nothing to report there. He & L. listened in at
7 & heard nothing. The look of the streets—how people "trek to work"
that is the stock phrase: that it will be cold & windy tomorrow (it is
shivering cold today) that there was a warm debate in the Commons—
Among the crowd of trampers in Kingsway were old Pritchard,
toothless, old wispy, benevolent; who tapped L. on the shoulder & said
he was "training to shoot him"; & old Miss Pritchard, equally frail,
dusty, rosy, shabby. "How long will it last Mrs Woolf?" "Four weeks"
"Ah dear!" Off they tramp, over the bridge to Kennington I think;
next in Kingsway comes the old battered clerk, who has 5 miles to walk.
Miss Talbot has an hours walk; Mrs Brown 2 hours walk. But they all
arrive, & clatter about as usual—Pritchard doing poor peoples work for
nothing, as I imagine his way is, & calling himself a Tory.
Then we are fighting the Square on the question of leading dogs.
Dogs must be led; but tennis can be played they say. L. is advancing to
the fight, & has enlisted the Pekinese in the Square. We get no news from
abroad; neither can send it. No parcels. Pence have been added to milk,
vegetables &c. And Karin has bought 4 joints.
It is now a chilly lightish evening; very quiet; the only sound a distant
barrel organ playing. The bricks stand piled on the building & there
remain. And Viola was about to make our fortune. She dined here,
Monday night, the night of the strike.
May 7, 1926
No change. "London calling the British Isles. Good morning every-
one". That is how it begins at 10. The only news that the archbishops
are conferring, & ask our prayers that they may be guided right. Whether
this means action, we know not. We know nothing. Mrs Cartwright
walked from Hampstead. She & L. got heated arguing, she being anti-
labour; because she does not see why they should be supported, &
observes men in the street loafing instead of working. Very little work
done by either of us today. A cold, wet day, with sunny moments. All
arrangements unchanged. Girl came to make chair covers, having walked
from Shoreditch, but enjoyed it. Times sent for 25 Violas. Question
whether to bring out a skeleton Roneo Nation. Leonard went to the
office, I to the Brit[ish] Mus[eum]; where all was chill serenity, dignity
& severity. Written up are the names of great men; & we all cower like
mice nibbling crumbs in our most official discreet impersonal mood
beneath. I like this dusty bookish atmosphere. Most of the readers
seemed to have rubbed their noses off & written their eyes out. Yet
they have a life they like—believe in the necessity of making books, I
suppose: verify, collate, make up other books, for ever. It must be
15 years since I read here. I came home & found L. & Hubert [Henderson]
arriving from the office—Hubert did what is now called "taking a cup
of tea", which means an hour & a halfs talk about the Strike. Here is his
prediction: if it is not settled, or in process, on Monday, it will last 5 weeks.
Today no wages are paid. Leonard said he minded this more than the war &
Hubert told us how he had travelled in Germany, & what brutes they were
in 1912. He thinks gas & electricity will go next; had been at a journal-
ists meeting where all were against labour (against the general strike that
is) & assumed Government victory. L. says if the state wins & smashes
T[rades]. U[nion]s he will devote his life to labour: if the archbishop
succeeds, he will be baptised. Now to dine at the Commercio to meet Clive.
May 9, 1926
There is no news of the strike. The broadcaster has just said that we
are praying today. And L. & I quarrelled last night. I dislike the tub
thumper in him; he the irrational Xtian in me. I will write it all out later—
my feelings about the Strike; but I am now writing to test my theory that
there is consolation in expression. Unthinkingly, I refused just now to
lunch with the Phil Bakers, who fetched L. in their car. Suddenly,
10 minutes ago, I began to regret this profoundly. How I should love the
talk, & seeing the house, & battling my wits against theirs. Now the
sensible thing to do is to provide some pleasure to balance this, which
I cd. not have had, if I had gone. I can only think of writing this, &
going round the Square. Obscurely, I have my clothes complex to deal
with. When I am asked out my first thought is, but I have no clothes to
go in. Todd has never sent me the address of the shop; & I may have
annoyed her by refusing to lunch with her. But the Virginia who refuses
is a very instinctive & therefore powerful person. The reflective &
sociable only comes to the surface later. Then the conflict.
Baldwin broadcast last night: he rolls his rs; tries to put more than
mortal strength into his words. "Have faith in me. You elected me
18 months ago. What have I done to forfeit your confidence? Can you
not trust me to see justice done between man & man?" Impressive as it
is to hear the very voice of the Prime Minister, descendant of Pitt &
Chatham, still I can't heat up my reverence to the right pitch. I picture
the stalwart oppressed man, bearing the world on his shoulders. And
suddenly his self assertiveness becomes a little ridiculous. He becomes
megalomaniac. No I dont trust him: I don't trust any human being,
however loud they bellow & roll their rs.
May 10, 1926
Quarrel with L. settled in studio. Oh, but how incessant the arguments
& interruptions are! As I write, L. is telephoning to Hubert. We are
getting up a petition. There was a distinct thaw (we thought) last night.
The Arch B. & Grey both conciliatory. So we went to bed happy.
Today ostensibly the same dead lock; beneath the surface all sorts of
currents, of which we get the most contradictory reports. Dear old
Frankie has a story (over the fire in the bookshop) of an interview
between Asquith & Reading which turned Reading hostile to the men.
Later, through Clive, through Desmond, Asquith is proved to be at the
Wharfe, 60 miles from Lord Reading. Lady Wimbore gave a party—
brought Thomas & Baldwin together. Meeting mysteriously called off
today. Otherwise strike wd. have been settled. I to H of Commons this
morning with L.'s article to serve as stuffing for Hugh Dalton in the
Commons this afternoon. All this humbug of police & marble statues
vaguely displeasing. But the Gvt. provided me with buses both ways, &
no stones thrown. Silver & crimson guard at Whitehall; the cenotaph,
& men bare heading themselves. Home to find Tom Marshall caballing
with L.; after lunch to [Birrell & Garnett's] bookshop, where the gossip
(too secret for the telephone) was imparted; to London Library where
Gooch—a tall, pale mule, affable & long winded, was seen, & Molly
dustily diligently reading the Dublin Review for 1840, walk home;
Clive, to refute gossip; James to get St Loe to sign; then Maynard
ringing up to command us to print the Nation as the N. Statesman is
printed; to wh. I agreed, & L. disagreed; then dinner; a motor car
collision—more telephones ringing at the moment 9.5.
May 11 , 1926
I may as well continue to write—this book is used to scandalous
mistreatment—while I wait—here interruptions began
which lasted till the present moment/ when I write from 12.30 to 3
with Gerald Brenan in the study composing with infinite difficulty a letter
to Mr Galsworthy. Arguing about the Ar[chbisho]p of Canterbury
with Jack Squire at 12 seems now normal, but not—how often do I
repeat—nearly as exciting as writing To the Lighthouse or about de
Q[uincey]. I believe it is false psychology to think that in after years
these details will be interesting. The war is now barren sand after all.
But one never knows: & waiting about, writing serves to liberate the
mind from the fret & itch of these innumerable details. Squire doesn't
want to "knuckle under". To kneel is the duty of the Church. The
Church has no connection with the nation. Events are that the Roneo
workers refuse to set up L.'s article in the Nation, in which he says
that the Strike is not illegal or unconstitutional. Presumably this is a
little clutch of the Government throttle. Mr Baldwin has been visiting
the Zoo. In the middle of lunch admirable Miss Bulley arrives, having
visited Conway unsuccessfully. St Loe has joined. So Rose Macaulay
& Lytton. Tonight the names are to be handed in; & then perhaps
silence will descend upon us. Ralph & Gerald are our emissaries. But
then everyone rings up—the most unlikely people—[Donald] Brace for
instance, Kahan; the woman comes with the new sofa cover. Yester-
day Ralph & Frances Marshall were in a railway accident. She had her
teeth jangled. One man was killed; another had his leg broken—the
result of driving a train without signals, by the efforts of ardent optimistic
undergraduates. Billing has been in to say he will print anything, all
his men being back & needing work. So, as poor MacDermott has been
dead since January, perhaps the Nation will be done by them. Come to
think of it, almost all our type is standing, so our printing was in any
case hardly feasible. Must I now ring up James? Day's Library boy was
set upon by roughs, had his cycle overturned, but kept his books & was
unhurt after calling here for 6 Tree. Tree dribbles along. There is an
occasional order. Mrs C[artwright]. arrives on Faith's bicycle which is
red with rust.
May 12, 1926
Strike settled. (ring at bell)
The Strike was settled about 1.15—or it was then broadcast. I was in
Tottenham Court Rd. at 1 & heard Bartholomew & Fletcher's megaphone
declaim that the T.U.C. leaders were at Downing Street; came home to
find that neither L. or Nelly had heard this: 5 minutes later, the wireless.
They told us to stand by & await important news. Then a piano played
a tune. Then the solemn broadcaster assuming incredible pomp & gloom
& speaking one word to the minute read out: Message from 10 Downing
Street. The T.U.C. leaders have agreed that Strike shall be withdrawn.
Instantly L. dashed off to telephone to the office, Nelly to tell Pritchard's
clerk, & I to Mrs C. (But N[elly]. was beforehand) then we finished
lunch; then I rang up Clive—who proposes that we should have a drink
tonight. I saw this morning 5 or 6 armoured cars slowly going along
Oxford Street; on each two soldiers sat in tin helmets, & one stood with
his hand at the gun which was pointed straight ahead ready to fire. But I
also noticed on one a policeman smoking a cigarette. Such sights I dare
say I shall never see again; & dont in the least wish to. Already (it is now
10 past 2) men have appeared at the hotel with drainpipes. Also Grizzle
has won her case against the Square.
May 13, 1926
I suppose all pages devoted to the Strike will be skipped, when I read
over this book. Oh that dull old chapter, I shall say. Excitements about
what are called real things are always unutterably transitory. Yet it is
gloomy—& L. is gloomy, & so am I unintelligibly—today because the
Strike continues—no railwaymen back: vindictiveness has now seized
our masters. Government shillyshallies. Apparently, the T.U.C. agreed
to terms wh. the miners now reject. Anyhow it will take a week to get
the machinery of England to run again. Trains are dotted about all over
England. Labour, it seems clear, will be effectively diddled again, &
perhaps rid of its power to make strikes in future. Printers still out at
the Nation. In short, the strain removed, we all fall out & bicker &
backbite. Such is human nature—& really I dont like human nature
unless all candied over with art. We dined with a strike party last night
& went back to Clive's. A good deal was said about art there. Good dull
Janet Vaughan, reminding me of Emma, joined us. I went to my
dressmaker, Miss Brooke, & found it the most quiet & friendly & even
enjoyable of proceedings. I have a great lust for lovely stuffs, & shapes;
wh. I have not gratified since Sally Young died. A bold move this, but
now I'm free of the fret of clothes, which is worth paying for, & need
not parade Oxford Street.
May 20, 1926
Waiting for L. to come back from chess with Roger: 11.25. I think
nothing need be said of the Strike. As tends to happen, one's mind slips
after the crisis, & what the settlement is, or will be, I know not.
We must now fan the books up again. Viola & Phil Baker were both
struck on the wing. Viola comes, very tactfully, as a friend, she says, to
consult after dinner. She is a flamboyant creature—much of an actress—
much abused by the Waleys & Marjories; but rather taking to me. She
has the great egotism, the magnification of self, which any bodily display,
I think, produces. She values women by their hips & ankles, like horses.
Easily reverts to the topic of her own charms: how she shd. have married
the D. of Rutland. "Lord — (his uncle) told me I was the woman
John really loved. The duchess said to me 'Do make love to John &
get him away from —. At any rate you're tall & beautiful—' And I
sometimes think if I'd married him—but he never asked me—Daddy
wouldn't have died. I'd have prevented that operation: Then how he'd
have loved a duke for a son in law! All his life was dressing up—that
sort of thing you know." So she runs on, in the best of clothes, easy &
familiar, but reserved too; with the wiles & warinesses of a woman of
the world, half sordid half splendid, not quite at her ease with us, yet
glad of a room where she can tell her stories, of listeners to whom she
is new & strange. She will run on by the hour—yet is very watchful not
to bore; a good business woman, & floating over considerable acuteness
on her charm. All this however, is not making her book move, as they say.
Eddy came in to tea. I like him—his flattery? his nobility? I dont
know—I find him easy & eager. And Vita comes to lunch tomorrow
which will be a great amusement & pleasure. I am amused at my relations
with her: left so ardent in January—& now what? Also I like her presence
& her beauty. Am I in love with her? But what is love? Her being 'in
love' (it must be comma'd thus) with me, excites & flatters; & interests.
What is this 'love'? Oh & then she gratifies my eternal curiosity: who's
she seen, whats she done—for I have no enormous opinion of her poetry.
How could I—I who have such delight in mitigating the works even of
my greatest friends. I should have been reading her poem tonight:
instead finished Sharon Turner—a prosy, simple, old man; the very spit
& image of Saxon. a boundless bore, I daresay, with the most intense zeal
for "improving myself", & the holiest affections, & 13 children, & no
character or impetus—a love of long walks, of music; modest, yet
conceited in an ant like way. I mean he has the industry & persistency in
recounting compliments of an ant, but so little character that one hardly
calls him vain!
May 25, 1926
The heat has come, bringing with it the inexplicably disagreeable
memories of parties, & George Duckworth; a fear haunts me even now,
as I drive past Park Lane on top of a bus, & think of Lady Arthur Russell
& so on. I become out of love with everything; but fall into love as the
bus reaches Holborn. A curious transition that, from tyranny to freedom.
Mixed with it is the usual "I thought that when you died last May,
Charles, there had died along with you"—death being hidden among
the leaves: & Nessa's birthday among the little hard pink rosettes of the
may, which we used to stop & smell on the pavement at the top of
Hyde Pk. Gate & I asked why, if it was may, it did not come out on
the 1st; it comes out now, & Nessa's birthday, which must be her 47th,
is in a few days. She is in Italy: Duncan is said to have "committed a
nuisance" for which he has been fined 10 lira.
Diary of Margaret Woods: day to day reactions to the General Strike
http://www.woolfonline.com/?q=diaries/mw/overview
