Ho appena finito di leggere il mio primo libro di Virginia Woolf: Mrs Dalloway’s party.
In questo libro ci troviamo di fronte a 7 racconti scritti tra il 1922 e il 1927. Questi racconti ruotano intorno al romanzo di Mrs Dalloway. Si ritiene siano stati scritti dopo la stesura stessa del romanzo principale o che siano parti che Virginia, in seguito, preferì pubblicare separatamente.
In queste piccole storie emerge l’analisi psicologica condotta dall’autrice sulla tematica del ‘party’ e tutte le emozioni, ansie e limiti imposti dalla società dell’epoca.
Da un punto di vista narrativo questi racconti sono raggruppati in ordine cronologico; infatti le prime due storie “Mrs Dalloway is in Bond Street” e “The man who loved is kind” anticipano la festa descrivendo Mrs Dalloway che si reca in Bond Street alla ricerca di un paio di guanti e Mr Dalloway che incontra Mr Ellis e lo invita alla festa.
I successivi cinque racconti si svolgono invece durante la festa stessa e ognuno sottolinea un aspetto o un punto di vista diverso a seconda del personaggio a cui l’autrice da voce.
Il flusso di coscienza che viene usato nella narrazione ci porta ad immergerci realmente nel piano psicologico dei personaggi; sembra di intraprendere un viaggio all’interno dei loro pensieri più profondi e quasi ad immedesimarci e a provare le loro stesse sensazioni di inquietudine, gioia o nostalgia o nuove emozioni che l’autrice riesce brillantemente a suscitare nell’animo del lettore.
Alcune emozioni e pensieri descritti li ho trovati così familiari e vicini che ho pensato che la mia mente, quando si abbandona al flusso di coscienza, descrive gli stessi complicati sentieri e fa gli stessi intrecci come avrebbe potuto fare una donna di quasi 100 anni fa. E così non ho potuto fare a meno di pensare alla citazione di F. S. Fitzgerald dove dice appunto che la parte più bella della letteratura è “scoprire che i tuoi desideri sono desideri universali, che non sei solo o isolato da nessuno. Tu appartieni.”
E non c’è niente di più bello di scoprire di appartenere a un libro.
A seguito, se vi interessa, troverete alcune citazioni (in inglese) del libro.
Alla prossima lettura, cari amici lettori!
I’ve just finished reading my first Virginia Woolf’s book: Mrs Dalloway Party. In this book there are 7 novels written between 1922 and 1927. This stories surround the main novel ‘Mrs Dalloway’. They were probably either written after the author finished the main novel or as ‘appendix’ that she knew she was going to publish separately.
In this short stories the author lead a psychological analysis of the party and the feelings, emotions, anxieties and limits, dictated by the society, that will all affect the attendees.
The novels are narrated chronologically; in fact the first two “Mrs Dalloway is in Bond Street” and “The man who loved is kind” anticipate the party describing Mrs Dalloway buying some gloves and Mr Dalloway inviting Mr Ellis to the party.
Then, the following five take place at the party itself and each of them highlights either an aspect or a particular point of view depending on the character the author is voicing.
The flux of consciousness used to narrate leads us to dive deep inside the psychology of the characters, inside their deepest thoughts as we could almost identify ourselves in them, feeling the same feelings such as restlessness, joy, nostalgia or new emotions that the author brilliantly inspires in the reader’s soul.
I found some of those emotions described so familiar that inevitably I thought about my mind, and when she abandon herself to the flux of consciousness, describing the same complicated paths and the same plots as a woman of the 1920s would have done.
So, I could not but recall the quote of F. S. Fitzgerald where he says “That is part of the beauty of all literature. You discover that your longings are universal longings, that you’re not lonely and isolated from anyone. You belong.”
And nothing’s better than discover you belong to a book.
Following you will find some quotes from the book.
Good night readers!
To ride; to dance; she had adored all that. Or going long walks in the country, talking, about books, what to do with one’s life..
A lady is known by her gloves and her shoes, old Uncle William used to say.
How one can tell from a voice when people are in the habit, thought Clarissa, of making other people – ‘It’s a shade too tight,’ she said – obey.
Oh it was made of a million things and each so distinct to her; Westminster Abbey; the sense of enourmously high solemn buildings surrounding them; grown up, being a woman. Perhaps that was the thing that came out, that remained, it was part of the dress, and all the little chivalries and respects of the drawing-room; all made her feel that she had come out of her chrysalis and was being proclaimed what in the long comfortable darkness of childhood she had never been-this frail and beautiful creature who could not do what she liked, this butterfly with a thousand facets to its eyes, and delicate fine plumage, and difficulties and sensibilities and sadness innumerable: a woman.
And with the flower opened there came too, incontrovertibly, its world, so different, so strange; the towers of Westminster; the high and formal buildings; the talk; this civilisation, she felt, hanging back, as Mrs Dalloway led her on.
For she felt almost too much for flowers. Her mother had loved flowers; ever since she was a child she had been brought up to feel that to hurt a flower was to hurt the most exquisite thing in nature. Nature had always been a passion with her; the mountains, the sea. And here in London, one looked out of the window and saw more houses. One had a dreadful sense of human beings packed on top of each other in little boxes.
Their eyes met; collided rather, for each felt that behind the eyes the secluded being, who sits in darkness while his shallow agile companion does all the tumbling and beckoning, and keeps the show going, suddenly stood erect; flung off his cloak; conform the other. It was alarm; it was terrific.
And, strangely enough, for she had never seen him before, her senses, those tentacles which were thrilled and snubbed, now sent no more messages, now lay quiescent, as if she and Mr Serle knew each other so perfectly, were, in fact, so closely united that they had only float side by side down this stream.