Orlando, A Biography

Reading this playful book that Woolf herself referred to as a “bad joke” in a several letters to friends and family was a joy. I feel like my reading this time (as opposed to when I read it in 2016) was deeper due to the onramp I took toward it, fully immersed in her journals/diaries/essays. I know more about her constant stretching towards defining what a novel is, what fiction is, and revel in seeing her throw the label off completely by tagging this a biography, complete with preface and index. I’m more aware of who the friends are that she thanks in the preface, and can appreciate the gentle wave she gives to Lydia Lopokova (“the beauty of movement”). I see the gentle threads that connect this to her earlier work with an interest in the concept of time (see Chapter 2’s digression on whether or not simply saying “Time passed” isn’t easier, a direct connect to The Lighthouse’s section Time Passes). From her diary, I’m also aware of her examination of her own growing fame, put into words by Orlando that “fame impedes and constricts,… [but] obscurity is dark, ample, and free; obscurity lets the mind take its way unimpeded.”

Having just read her essay skewering Hemingway in 1927, I can see another barb for him here: “(And from this it follows that only the most profound masters of style can tell the truth, and when one meets a simple one-syllabled writer, one may conclude, without any doubt at all, that the poor man is lying.)”

What else? Of course the gender fluidity, plus commentary about reading, writing, teasing that she’s about to reveal the meaning of life, protesting against Victorian-era worship of the act of marriage, protesting about the treatment of women in general and women writers more particularly. It’s the most famous example of a labor of love, directed at Vita, swirling round Vita, with Knole as the backdrop and photos of Vita (and Angelica, VW’s niece) included to make it a proper bio.

Life? Literature? One to be made into the other? But how monstrously difficult! For – here came by a pair of tight scarlet trousers – how would Addison have put that? Here came two dogs dancing on their hind legs. How would Lamb have described that? For reading Sir Nicholas and his friends …, she somehow got the impression – here she rose and walked – they made one feel – it was an extremely uncomfortable feeling – one must never, never say what one thought. (She stood on the banks of the Serpentine. It was a bronze colour; spider-thin boats were skimming from side to side.) They made one feel, she continued, that one must always, always write like somebody else.