She must assemble

Recently the majority of my literary thoughts have been preoccupied with Virginia Woolf's Mrs. Dalloway. (Yes, again. I know.) I find that I am increasingly fond of that novel as the years pass by. Of Mrs. Dalloway especially, as if we are kindred spirits.

When I first read Mrs. Dalloway in Modern European Lit, my lovely professor said that she found the novel even more poignant and meaningful with age. Because I first read the novel as a 17-18 year old (the same age as Clarissa in her flashbacks), I've promised to read it again when and if I reach my fifties. Of course I will continue to reread Mrs. Dalloway, but I must remember to read the book when I am 51.

I wonder if I, as a reader, associate with characters because I relate to them in the first place, or if the characters I read about shape me. The more I read Mrs. Dalloway, the more I feel that I could be Mrs. Dalloway. But if I had never read the book, would I have continued to become the person I am now? Or would another have influenced my personality?

Perhaps there is a give and take. A reader has to have a certain disposition to relate to a character in the first place. But every novel, every character, changes its reader as well.

This give and take is why I would argue that novels are very much alive. Initially, they are created by a living, human mind and then set free into the world. Books are never static; they adapt and change with every reader. Their shape and meaning melds with the eyes and mind that reads their pages.

Such is all art. Novels, poetry, music, visual art, dance, film. Single expressions that in turn, have a specific and unique meaning to every mind that experiences their light.

Right, well that got out of hand. This post was not originally going to be a passionate discussion about the meaning of art in our lives. Funny how things turn out.

Back to Mrs. Dalloway. There's a particular passage that has been clanging around inside my head all week. Goes a little something like this:

"She felt somehow very like him--the young man who had killed himself. She felt glad that he had done it; thrown it away. The clock was striking. The leaden circles dissolved in the air. He made her feel the beauty; made her feel the fun. But she must go back. She must assemble."

Particularly those last three words. She must assemble. Clarissa identifies strongly with Septimus, the character who kills himself and this is the moment where their two lives intertwine at the party. Both characters fight against the coercive powers of war, love, psychiatry and even religion. By dying, Clarissa believes that Septimus has somehow preserved his soul. Though it's too late for Clarissa, she knows she must return to her party. She must assemble. Her party is a reassembling of life. The war fractured England and Mrs. Dalloway is trying to put it back together with her party. She brings people back together and gives them one night of brilliance and light. She gives parties to cover the silence.

Nerdalert: On a side note, whenever I see or hear the word "silence" used with the article "the," I think of this:

The Silence, from Doctor Who. It is very, very distracting.

Anyway. She must assemble. This is possibly my new mantra. Thank you, Virginia, for this brilliant three word sentence. And thank you for Mrs. Dalloway.

She Must Assemble

She must assemble
must assemble.
Her love is a plastic bag.
They are only children,
unwittingly they place the bag
over their heads
choke
smother.
She must assemble
must assemble.
Her life is a packed suitcase
waiting to find its home
so she runs farther
belong
escape.
She must assemble
must assemble.
Throw it!
Toss the shilling in the Serpentine.
She must assemble.
Must assemble.