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Wednesday, May 5, 2010

He’s afraid of Virginia Woolf

lupus est homo homini

Virginia Woolf Society
1st Thursday of each month
@ Friend’s meeting house


Hmm, looks interesting, what day is it, Thursday? And the date is? Let me see, um…what is it, must be, well his birthday was on the, oh shit, that bastard Howls, always preying on my mind, forget it, now, where was I…so, 1-2-3-4-5-6-7, yes, it’s today. Good timing, for once I find out about something before it happens, good. Now, what time is it? Six, no time for a bath; well, it’ll be a bunch of crusty old men anyway, as usual, um, what’s the time again? Six? Shit, where the hell is this place anyway - Friend’s meeting house? I’ll have to check, where’s a directory? Maybe I’ll just ask someone, um, she doesn’t look very friendly; maybe not. Well, maybe it’s that place on Station Road, I’ve got time anyway.
-Good evening dear, you look like a lost little lamb that’s strayed from the herd, are you looking for the pack of wolves?
-Sorry? Wolves?
-Yes, Woolf’s, get it?
-Ah, yes, so this is the place.
-Indeed it is. You can call me Miss Lovell.
And you are?
-Fearless, Alfred Fearless.
-Are you indeed, well, come along; meet the rest of the girls.
-Let me introduce a new lamb for the slaughter; or perhaps we should refer to him as our “little lamb laid on the altar”. Get it, girls? Ha ha ha! Don’t worry your pretty little head about that boy; it’s just one of our little private jokes. Now girls, don’t be afraid, he’s Fearless, but we can call him Alfred - can’t we Alfred. We’re all friends here.
-Uh, yes, OK.
-Don’t be shy. So, what do you think of our virgin?
-Sorry, I, yes she’s, um…who?
- Fearless and witless…you know, the Woolf woman, our Virginia.
-Oh, yes, very thoughtful, flowing with ideas, a font of wisdom…
-Oh my...You’re just drowning us here with your clich├ęd aquatic metaphors, quick girls, “To the lighthouse”.
-So, lamby-kins, what did you think of my talk, I haven’t scared you off, have I?
-Uh, no, no, I was a bit in the dark, to be honest, a bit lost at sea, you could say…but you illuminated it, with your flashing rays of light.
-That’s it; I’m putting you on a strict metaphor detox diet for next month. Leave the lyricism to our Lady Lupus. Moreover, we’re doing “A Room of One's Own” next month, so get reading. Well, must dash, twas a pleasure.
-Yes, bye then. But I thought that was by a man, E.M. somebody…

-Hah, our black sheep has strayed again.
-Alright? So, I’m the only man again, then; is this a women only society (as it’s so unpleasant to be locked out)?
-Very good, but sometimes “it is worse perhaps to be locked in.” So my little lamb as white as snow, what did you think of her little “essay.”
-Yes, it was very sad, the thought of all that wasted talent.
-Yes, don’t you just hate yourself?
-Sorry…but is she’s being serious here? It seems a little naive, epistemologically speaking, looking for Truth, Facts. Thus Spake Nietzsche: “only interpretations…”
-Oh my wooly little friend, she was being ironic; you know? Showing the naivety of the “narrators,” I use the plural, for obvious reasons.
-Huh…and all this about Queen Austen, I never understood all that; subtle sustained irony, so I’m told. She wasn’t a patch on Willy!
-Oh, you are a lost little lamb aren’t you? Silly Billy…but I don’t think we should ask: could women have written the plays of Shakespeare, given his opportunities? Instead, we should ask, could a man have written the Novels of Austen, given her restrictions?
-Well…I think that you’re just ripping off what Woolf wrote about Lev Nikolayevich Tolstoy: that if he’d “lived at the Priory in seclusion with a married lady…however edifying the moral lesson, he could scarcely, I thought, have written WAR AND PEACE.”
I think we should ask: what if chimpanzees were given £500 a year (or perhaps bananas, or even nuts, whatever they like, after all, you can’t think well or write well, if you haven’t dined well), and a room of their own (not to mention a typewriter - or laptop, or notebook, pending their astuteness)? Would they come up with the works of Shakespeare? I think not, but perhaps those cheeky chimps could churn out the wooly, waffling works of Woolf.

I also think that Woolf’s works are just a load of elitist ramblings anyway. I’m glad she killed herself. Shame she didn’t drown herself earlier; stupid, loony dyke!
-I say…well, there goes our wolf in sheep’s clothing.