“Did it matter then, she asked herself, did it matter that she must inevitably cease completely; all this must go on without her; did she resent it; or did it not become consoling to believe that death ended absolutely?”
If somebody told you that an hour is long enough, would you believe it? That, when measured against a string of forgotten, dry, and vain days, an hour is your only means of getting through life. The scales of time on a clock are well-defined, perhaps, to illustrate desire and the lack of it. The scales of time, however, inside our minds are not the same. They resist the temptation of passing. They grasp at what’s near; what’s remarkable and symbolic. Time asks nothing of us and still, we give to it our whole selves. So that later on, when we have become forgotten memories to time, time is somehow immeasurable to us.
Reading about age against the receding grains of mortality is thrilling. It’s disquieting as much as it’s the only thing sincere to the act of living. And Woolf’s Mrs. Dalloway, which is a book about a single day, is overwrought with the temporality of humanity. And why, as long as we are alive, living is a serious anomaly that most of us, for the most part, are oblivious to.
Mrs. Dalloway is a book about contemplation and presence. It halts the train of time so that it can offer you, in these troubling and uncertain moments, budding hope. Woolf’s embryonic stream of consciousness and awareness of time is insightful and inspiring. After reading To The Lighthouse and The Years first, my admiration for her work has only deepened.
The central theme of the book is time and its lasting effect. The narrative is perplexing; her language is determined to put you where her characters are placed; where their lives are given identity and also where they’ve been deprived of them. I wish I could have read this book in a single day. To live the entire story myself and walk the streets of London, past the urbanity of life. Precisely because it so redefines our idea of a normal life, considering the global pandemic. And helps us understand Woolf highlighting hers, in 1923, when Influenza was only a few years old.