Thinking Is My Resistance: Selected Diaries of Woolf, by Virginia Woolf, translated by Qi Yanjing, CITIC Press, September 2022, 256 pages, 49.00 yuan
Virginia Woolf (1882-1941) is an anthology of her diary, which lasted four days before she committed suicide by throwing herself into the water. After Woolf's death, her husband, Leonard Woolf, compiled and published her diary, which, as far as I know, was entitled A Writer's Diary (by Virginia Woolf, The Hogarth Press Ltd, 1953), which was just over three hundred pages long. The Diary of Virginia Woolf (Harvest Books, 1980), edited by Anne Olivier Bell, consists of four volumes. It is a bit regrettable that the current Chinese translation does not introduce the collation and publication of Woolf's diary, as well as the current compilation method of this Chinese translation and the original version on which it is based. The reason why I first thought of this question is not only because the compilation type of translation seems to account for the above situation, but also because the title of this Chinese translation seems to have attracted the attention of many readers, including myself. "Thinking is my resistance" comes from Woolf's diary written on May 15, 1940, in the face of the war waged by the Nazi Reich, Woolf and her husband are talking about the direction of the war, even talking about Hitler's suicide as soon as he invaded, and the last sentence is "Suddenly think: the army is the body, and I am the brain." Thinking is my resistance" (p. 189). From the context, this sentence has a more specific point, that is, in the face of a possible Nazi invasion situation. The Chinese translation uses it as the title for an expanded reason, referring to the fact that "Woolf has always resisted the world in her own way, and thinking is her resistance" (see the back cover of the book). For Woolf's life, character, and thought, this is certainly a meaningful summary. From the reader's reception context, its meaning may also be further expanded, so it will pay special attention to it. A delicate little book, the diary of a female author, and the illustration of the woman in a long dress leaning on a large open oyster on the cover have all changed the style of the painting because of the phrase "thinking is my resistance" as the title of the book, and have a new meaning of time and space.
Leonard Woolf wrote in the preface to the original edition of A Writer's Diary: "In addition to recording daily life and thinking about life and the universe, the diary for Woolf is also her unique expression as a writer, in which she contemplates the works she is writing or preparing to write." It's a writer's unique relationship with a diary, but for Woolf, the diary seems to have a more important meaning. Even in this Chinese translation diary, you can see that she often feels anxious about missing the diary: "What a shame - there are so many blank pages left on this diary!" (p.65) "For some reason, the diary is so thin: half a year has passed, and I have only written down a few pages. (p.84) What is special to her is a question that often comes to mind: "I don't know what the significance of these diaries is. It's just that I've made a habit of not writing unpleasantly, and there are some things that may interest me in the future. But what will it be? I never write in depth, too superficial. (p.167) She has a more vivid description of this habit: "Keeping a diary is like tickling for me; Or if it is written smoothly, it is like taking a bath..." (p. 54) In her diary of March 20, 1926, she has already thought of the question "what will be the ultimate fate of these diaries": "Yesterday I asked myself. What would Leonard do with them if I died? He should not be very good at burning them and not being able to publish them. Well, I think he would extract a book from the diary and burn the original. I dare say there must be a small book hidden in these diaries, if only the traces of these alterations could be dealt with a little. God knows. As I write these words, I am in the midst of mild depression. Lately, I've been stuck in this state from time to time, feeling old, ugly, and always repeating the same old tune. But as far as I'm concerned, as a writer, I'm just writing down what I think. (p.74) She was undoubtedly affirmative of the value of her diary, and more than twenty years later, her husband had compiled a diary for her to publish.
Woolf not only admonished himself to keep a journal, but also encouraged others to keep a journal. Nigel Nicholson, son of her close friend Vita, wrote in a memoir that Woolf once told him that "without description, everything is like not happening." She believes everyone should keep a diary. She said: 'There is no second possibility of life, it must be left in words. (See S.P. Rosenbaum, eds., Reverberating Silence: Silhouettes of the Bloomsbury Cultural Circle, translated by Du Zhengming and Wang Yang, Jiangsu Education Press, 2006, p. 43) "Traces must be left in words", although because "without description, everything is the same as if it did not happen", but just as the phrase "thinking is my resistance", its meaning will expand in different contexts. In the past, some people have always referred to the writing genre of diary as "drawer writing", both to indicate its private nature and to write about the future as an allegory. The Department of History of Fudan University and the Institute of History of the Shanghai Academy of Social Sciences have had an important research project (hosted by Jin Guangyao and Jin Continental), and its results include the diary genre in the "Research Data Compilation", which is an extremely important and precious historical material.
Virginia Woolf's place in the history of modern literature as a renowned modernist writer and feminist is unquestionable, but the symbolism of the cultural traditions generated by her relationship with the Bloomsbury cultural circle is equally important. T.S. Eliot has a wonderful discussion about this in the article "Virginia Woolf and the Bloomsbury Cultural Circle": "I just want to tell everyone that Virginia Woolf is the soul of such a mysterious cultural circle and even the London literary circle. The reason why she has such a high status is that her talents have been blended with the environment of the era in which she lives, which is completely unprecedented, and I am afraid that there will be no more in the future. In her, we can feel the noble and excellent cultural traditions of the upper middle class of the Victorian era—in that cultural context, artists were neither the servants of the high-toed patrons, the parasites of the aristocratic rich families, nor the tools of rabble and mediocrity to find pleasure; In that cultural background, the creator and appreciator of art have equal status, regardless of high or low. With the passing of Virginia Woolf, a cultural model is crumbling—perhaps the only symbol of that culture in some ways, but because she lived in a time when she was the most faithful practitioner of it. (S.P. Rosenbaum, ed., Reverberating Silence: Silhouettes of the Bloomsbury Cultural Circle, translated by Du Zhengming and Wang Yang, Jiangsu Education Press, 2006, p. 165) Eliot's interpretation of that "noble and excellent cultural tradition" is worth considering, and the dignity and independence that must be maintained between the powerful and the bottom of society is the guarantee for the free and equal development of literary and artistic creation. Throughout Woolf's diary, you can see her voice and smile in this cultural circle, revealing her talent and independent personality in many gossip and anecdotes. Her position in the circle is by no means some kind of "connection", as Stephen Spender puts it, "there always seems to be a gap between her and others, and she tries (perhaps not very satisfactorily) to build bridges by asking questions" (ibid., p. 139). In Woolf's own words, "I love it all (I mean this conversation)." It's an atmosphere that allows people to constantly generate new ideas, express them without hesitation, and then understand – or oppose – or oppose them. (Thinking is My Resistance, p. 41) Developing relationships through reflection and discussion, and holding an objective and honest stance in discussions, both toward oneself and others, even when disagreeing, is a cultural tradition of the Bloomsbury Cultural Circle embodied in Woolf. Woolf wrote in his diary: "Our friendship with members of the Bloomsbury community grew stronger and closer. If we were together twenty years from now, how intertwined and inseparable our gang would become. I shudder at the thought of this. (ibid., p. 66) The last sentence is very similar, and can only be said by her, expressing self-mockery and vigilance against the solidification of relationships.
Reading Woolf's diary from the perspective of "thinking" and "resistance", you will find that in those words full of lively spirituality, keen beauty, but also depression or meanness, political thinking and resistance are the hard core hidden in the abyss of the diary. Stephen Spender sees this clearly: "Virginia also has a deep political vision, because the imagination expressed in her novels, although often focused on small objects, such as the light on a tree branch, the traces of a wall of powder, ends up staying in the vast waters, madness, war, and destructive forces." (Ibid., p. 138) Although she is talking about her novels here, it is also felt in her diary that her gaze often ends up with something more essential and powerful. For example, in her diary, she sometimes expressed her views on social class, and when she saw an old-fashioned room with white paneling full of working women, "I felt relieved to see them laughing so hard that they leaned forward and back, like schoolgirls." That's good. These women are still so memorable – because they seem to see themselves as having a heavy responsibility on their shoulders and a strong sense of responsibility" (Thinking Is My Resistance, p. 7), and "the West End makes me sick." I looked out the window of the car and saw fat-headed, big-eared dignitaries sitting on the cart like bloated jewels in a satin jewelry box" (p. 10). This contrast of aesthetic feelings undoubtedly carries the thinking of class and class attributes, but her observation and criticism of human nature are not solidified in the concept of class or group. Stephen Spender argues that Woolf has an equally keen interest in the upper, middle, and bottom societies, although these class distinctions are clear in her mind. For example, the British royal family is the topic she is most interested in talking about, and she is fascinated by the mysterious and unique life that comes from privilege, which contains the feeling of isolation from the outside world. (op. cit., Echoing Silence: Silhouettes of the Bloomsbury Cultural Circle, p. 138)
For the literati circle he was in, Woolf's "poisonous tongue" did not let go. Her close friend Veta won the Hawthorndon Prize, and she went to see the ceremony, and she wrote in her diary: "Oh my God! How insignificant we people seem! How dare we pretend to be funny and pretend that our work matters? Even the writing thing becomes offensive. But perhaps, the trickle of ink flowing through them was more important than their appearance—so tightly wrapped, so faint, Sven—. I feel like none of us are really mature. It was actually a group of clumsy and boring middle-class literati, not aristocrats, who gathered here. (Thinking is My Resistance, pp. 85-86) Even after entertaining friends at home, she would write in her diary: "Everything is so difficult, so unreal; My words are so inconsistent with my feelings; Their perceptions are so far from mine; I kept putting pressure on myself to do my best to make cakes the right way, to joke, and to show the right amount of enthusiasm and concern. ...... It made me realize how ugly, nosy, and hopelessly middle-class they were. In fact, what was most devastated was my sense of beauty – watching them make my home and garden vulgar, bringing the atmosphere of the Earl's Court district and the hotel; Standing on the terrace, among the apple trees and flowers, they looked so out of place, stodgy, urbanized, well-dressed and out of place. (pp. 106-107) This feeling about Woolf is very real, and it seems that in her bones she has a deep identification with the spiritual tradition of the English aristocracy, which is based more on the aesthetic feeling of spiritual temperament. This spiritual tradition led her to be harsh on certain honors that she actually longed for, such as the invitation she received on 29 February 1932 from the Dean of Trinity College, Cambridge, saying that the committee had decided to invite her to give the Clark Lecture next year, which she knew was a great honor, but she refused. Two days later, she was still glad that she had decisively refused, otherwise "if she accepted the invitation, she would be like an unruly hunter" (113). It's no wonder that she sometimes generates strong aesthetic criticism in certain life situations, such as when she says, "I began to resent my own people, and this feeling came mainly from observing their faces in the subway." Truth be told, the blood-red raw beef and the silver-sparkling herring are more pleasing to the eye" (ibid., p. 3).
However, don't think that Woolf's harsh and critical aesthetic feelings will cause her to ignore or casually mock the "small luck" in life, her cherishment of microscopic beauty and gratitude for life are often revealed in her diary, which is quite infectious: "I think that one of the great achievements of our life is that the treasures of life are hidden deeply." In other words, they are hidden in such mundane things that nothing can hurt them. She said that she likes to ride the bus, sit on the grass and smoke, pick up letters from the mailbox, open a letter, and ask "Are you doing well, buddy" while sitting for a while after dinner, etc., are all happiness that is bound to fill every day. (p.70) She sees these as the fulfillment of life and the treasure of life.
On top of the aesthetic critique from class and class observations, Woolf's "thinking" and "resistance" also point to the changes in the real situation, to the factors that really make her feel uneasy and frightened. Beginning in 1939, the shadow of Nazi Germany's war began to gradually hang over Woolf's diary. Although she did not pay full attention to the changes in the situation, her feelings were very keen. For example, the diary, though rare in its knowledge of the fascist demon Hitler, shows a sharp sensitivity. On January 29, "Barcelona fell. Hitler was going to give a speech tomorrow night, and the next make-up rehearsal began." In her diary for the day, she also recorded a quote from Dr. Freud: "He spoke of Hitler and said it would take us a generation to dissolve this toxin." (pp. 133-134) Her sensitivity to this statement is worth pondering today. When realizing that being able to prepare a dinner at home might be the last, the unsincere Woolf wrote in his diary: "I pray for this pleasant evening and, as usual, pray that Hitler will not be overwhelmed." (p.216) When there were fewer air raids in London than in the previous week, she became wary: "We ask: What trick is Hitler going to play next?" (p.236) From "toxin," "make-up rehearsal," and praying that the demon would "never recover" to visceral vigilant questioning, Woolf's thinking on resistance to fascist politics is not superficial, and her resistance to Hitler, though only a few sparks burst out in her thinking, is very decisive.
In Woolf's thinking about the current situation, there are some more complex and profound questions. When the Soviet-German treaty was signed, she was surprised and found that "we are now very much like a herd of sheep." Listless. Tough and confused. I suspect that there are those who wish to 'live with war'" (p. 153). With the danger of war approaching, her discoveries, feelings and reflections on the atmosphere in the country are complex and profound: "Every newspaper, every channel of the BBC competes to join this boring and exhilarating race to create gods. In six months, will these heroes become a stall of meat sauce on the street? I hate that false emotion the most. It's not entirely false, but its starting point is utilitarian. The war has entered the stage of creating gods. (p.194) "I don't like any of the feelings that war brings: patriotism, pooling, and so on. They are all sentimental and emotional parodies of our own emotions. But soon, we ourselves got involved. (p.204) But when she saw British fighter jets flying overhead and heading off the coast to fight, she wrote: "I managed to evoke in my heart an individual emotion, not the collective feeling that the BBC channeled." I wish them good luck almost instinctively. I wish I could record my emotions scientifically. (p.205) In addition, there are many descriptions in her diary about the mental torture of people by war, and the pessimism, confusion and helplessness are very real. Those young and immature children were torn to shreds. But the problem is that people are so numb that they can't think. Old Clive sat on the terrace and said, 'I don't want to live through the whole war. He went on to explain that his vitality was waning. The best things have ever been experienced. In fact, we all have a good life in private. Every day is filled with happiness. Cooking, reading, bowling, and so on. There is no patriotic ambition. The question is how to persevere and survive the war. (p.154) What the elder Clive said was really sad, and the life that was maintained for the time being made people feel dazed and worried about the future. I feel like war is a terminal illness. It is terrifying and soon exhausts the senses. Then, the sensory battery is filled again, and again—what do you experience? Experience the horror of the bombing. Fear of being hit by bombs on your way to London, and imminent disaster - once the enemy forces break through the defenses. (p.190) This feeling of powerlessness that is constantly being exhausted and evacuated is really not difficult to experience.
In this reflection, Woolf's resistance is heartfelt and very personal. "Reason is lost. Atrocities are everywhere. It was like hiding behind a makeshift bunker and watching the storm rag outside. We wait. (p.165) "I wondered: If this is the end of my life, shouldn't I have read Shakespeare?" But I can't. Shouldn't I have finished "Poynz Manor"? Shouldn't something be done as an end? The end gives its vitality, even its joy and arbitrariness, to ordinary everyday life. Yesterday it occurred to me that this might be my last walk. The waves of wheat rolled, wrapped in poppy flowers. In the evening, I read my Shelley. (200 pages)
Now, it's not hard to see why Woolf said, "Thinking is my resistance." I saw her diary on December 16, 1940, with these words: "The year is coming to an end; I was troubled and depressed. But I will take responsibility for everything: to wipe, polish, to make our life here as neat, bright and vibrant as possible. (p.234) Isn't this an act of "resistance" beyond "thinking"?