Pageant of the Universe (at last!)

A while ago, I began an orchestral composition of Mrs. Dalloway by Virginia Woolf. The book is set up in a way that highlights thoughts, personalities, and the effects people have on one another. Through this composition, I had hoped to accomplish this interweaving, but I can’t say I’m entirely satisfied yet.

There was a lot of deleting. Especially at the opening. I knew I wanted the alto saxophone to start, with a rhythm close to the speaking of “I will buy the flowers myself.” However, I felt it sounded a bit empty, but the emptiness was necessary for the alto to be heard. Working out the intermingling between instruments was difficult due to the program’s lack of balance in its playback, so I had to cut many scenes that I wanted to delve into more, such as Richard Dalloway’s flower scene, Elizabeth Dalloway’s desire for freedom, and the group scenes (such as the skywriting incident, or Clarissa’s party). This is fun, though. I’ll keep writing until it’s done.

As it is, though, the piece opens with Clarissa Dalloway on alto saxophone. The rest of the instruments soon join in for the introduction as she walks down the street, finishing with a timpani roll. The trumpet starts the fanfare, leading into body of the piece.

Peter Walsh comes in first on tenor sax, with Clarissa joining soon after, since it seems that Peter appears in her mind before she consciously intends to think of him. Then the trumpet fanfare resumes, announcing the motor car, and everyone responds in a Gershwin-like fashion.

My interpretation focuses on admirable Hugh during the motor car scene (not true to the book, I know), and Septimus overhears him and responds. Hugh’s pompous tuba fades and Septimus trails off into his own world while Rezia counters, trying to pull him back.

Next, we enter Septimus’s world. The narrator starts, providing a backdrop before the doctors bring in the madness. Dr. Holmes ominously trods in on first trombone, and Septimus struggles to be heard. Big Ben beats three times, showing Septimus’s feeling that he’s running out of time. Following Septimus’s first outburst, Dr. Bradshaw enters, harsher than Holmes, and Septimus continues to wail. Big Ben returns. As both doctors gang up on him, the narrator joins to assist, but Septimus is too far gone. He branches into his own cadenza, symbolizing his feeling of hopelessness. His cadenza ends with a downward glissando, representative of his fall.

Big Ben beats once more (for Septimus’s time is up) and all characters release a brief cry of mourning. All but three instruments drop out--Clarissa, Rezia, and the narrator--creating the only dynamic effect I could accomplish. Rezia and the narrator fade, but Clarissa remains, connecting to the memory of a man she never knew. Septimus’s ghost supplements Clarissa’s introspections, and the trumpet announces the party. The mood shifts back to the joy of the beginning, and concludes.

Things I learned:

• Musescore automatically groups the notes as if in 3/4 time even though the piece is in 6/8. It is also strongly resistant to change.
•  Musescore’s playback feature doesn’t recognize drum rolls. So you have to expand it into endless sixty-fourth notes.
•  The only way to bring out an instrument’s part in the playback is to use less instruments. And don’t counter it with an oboe.
• The clarinet and alto saxophone sound strikingly similar.
• Dynamics and Rubato sections are arbitrary.
• Don’t attempt to change the tempo in the middle of the piece. It gets confused.

Maybe it would help to find real people to interpret the parts.

Instrumentalists:
Big Ben: Timpani
Clarissa Dalloway: Alto Saxophone
Peter Walsh: Tenor Saxophone
Richard Dalloway: Flute
Hugh Whitbread: Tuba
Elizabeth Dalloway: French Horn
Announcer (of things like limos, skywriters, parties): Trumpet
Septimus Warren-Smith: English Horn
Lucrezia Warren-Smith: Oboe
Dr. Holmes: Trombone 1
Dr. Bradshaw: Trombone 2
Narrator: Clarinet

Beauty, Magic, and Secrets: Rochester's Madness

Secrets may by nature be hidden, but their presence is hinted at in their surroundings. Often, even the best-contained secrets are tinted with an aura of discomfort and laughter. But sometimes it can be hard to determine whether the uncomfortable laughter it a signal of a secret or if it is simply there, perhaps magnified by a paranoid mind. The trouble becomes, then, that if you are not “in the know” about a secret, how can you be sure that there’s truly one there? This notion of potential secrecy, I believe, is what prompts Rochester into madness in Jean Rhys’s Wide Sargasso Sea, as he attempts to make sense of his new environment in the midst of unexplained laughter and untold stories.

Rochester is severely disoriented in Granbois. Although it is naturally beautiful, its vivid colors are surreal and intimidating in their contrast to industrial England. The unknown is suffocating and the beauty blinding.

"On one side the wall of green, on the other a steep drop to the ravine below. We pulled up and looked at the hills, the mountains and the blue-green sea. There was a soft warm wind blowing but I understood why the porter had called it a wild place. Not only wild but menacing. Those hills would close in on you. […] Everything is too much, I felt as I rode wearily after her. Too much blue, too much purple, too much green. The flowers too red, the mountains too high, the hills too near. And the woman is a stranger."

Rochester never settles into the land, though. Rather, he becomes convinced that there is something behind it all that he cannot grasp, but everyone around him has. “It was a beautiful place – wild, untouched, above all untouched, with an alien, disturbing, secret loveliness. And it kept its secret. I’d find myself thinking, ‘What I see is nothing - I want what it hides - that is not nothing.'" The most ambiguous part is that Rhys never reveals what exactly Rochester suspected the secret was, or even if a magical secret did in fact exist. Therefore it’s hard to judge Rochester as coping with unfamiliarity with paranoia versus being legitimately concerned about something in the atmosphere.

Even more, Rochester begins to associate the secrecy with Antoinette. “She trusted them and I did not," he remarks about her relationship with the people. This observation implies that Rochester senses that Antoinette understands something he is not privy to, which adds to—or perhaps results from—his feelings of alienation as the lone Englishman. It seems to Rochester that Antoinette is more closely aligned with the people there than she is with him—a feeling that causes him to envelop her into his interpretation of secrecy. Coupled with the fact that he barely knows her, Rochester drives himself mad imagining the secrets she may hide.

For this reason, Rochester feels affirmed by Daniel Cosway’s letter, which revealed bits of Antoinette’s past that Rochester hadn’t known before. “I felt no surprise,” he says. “It was if I’d expected it." After spending so much time being anxious, he was almost glad to know that his delusions were valid. But as the laughter of the servants—and even Antoinette herself—continues, his world becomes even more elusive. The most notable hint at the motives behind the laughter is given by Amelie, who laughs often. “Like Hilda she put her hand over her mouth as though she could not stop herself from laughing and walked away. Then turned and said in a very low voice, ‘I am sorry for you.’ ‘What did you say?’ ‘I don’t say nothing, master.'" I think this added mystery is what ultimately prompted Rochester to seek out Daniel Cosway. At the end of his visit with him, Daniel remarks about Antoinette,

"They fool you well about that girl. She look you straight in the eye and talk sweet talk – and it’s lies she tell you. Lies. Her mother was so. They say she worse than her mother, and she hardly more than a child. Must be you deaf you don’t hear people laughing when you marry her. Don’t waste your anger on me, sir. It’s not I fool you, it’s I wish to open your eyes."

When Antoinette tells her story for herself, Rochester still has this conversation in mind and remains unsure about what to believe. Thus the mysteries of the land become the mysteries of Antoinette.

Finally, Rochester goes mad with the notion of secrecy. The ambiguous nature of laughter causes him to worry so much that he becomes angry, and the way he speaks in his possessive anger towards the end of Part Two illustrates his insanity.

"So I shall never understand why, suddenly, bewilderingly, I was certain that everything I had imagined to be true was false. False. Only the magic and the dream are true - all the rest’s a lie. Let it go. Here is the secret. Here.
(But it is lost, that secret, and those who know it cannot tell it.)
Not lost. I had found it in a hidden place and I’d keep it, hold it fast. As I’d hold her."

The madness comes from his lack of control. Rochester’s prideful desire to be on top is thrown to the ground by foreign laughter. So he goes mad trying to regain control, leading to him renaming his wife to recreate her personality, and, when that fails to satisfy, locking her away in the attic for eternity.

"I hated the mountains and the hills, the rivers and the rain. I hated the sunsets of whatever colour, I hated its beauty and its magic and the secret I would never know. I hated its indifference and the cruelty which was part of its loveliness. Above all I hated her. For she belonged to the magic and the loveliness. She had left me thirsty and all my life would be thirst and longing for what I had lost before I found it. [...]
Very soon she’ll join all the others who know the secret and will not tell it. Or cannot."

Rochester’s lack of ability to discover this potential secret of the land leads to his own insanity, as his confusion transforms into hatred and he strives to maintain power. I think Jean Rhys’s novel revolves around secrets that cannot be touched and the ambiguity of knowledge. While the novel hints toward Antoinette’s insanity, it is impossible to hold down whether it was caused by her secrets or by Rochester’s perception of secrets. But even as he pushes Antoinette into an isolated insanity, Rochester pushes himself into a madness of his own.

Just so caught up in it

I had trouble drawing the connection between The Man Who Wasn't There and The Stranger, mostly because of the protagonists. While they seemed to think in similar ways and didn't find their meaning in common things like love, I saw the Ed in The Man Who Wasn't There as more of an ordinary man caught up in a murder, while I can't say I felt that way at all in The Stranger. The protagonists' characters defined the storyline, so when their characters are different, the stories must be different, as well.

Meursault's lack of a moral compass is what caused problems for him. Yes, his apathy is part of his personality, but this willingness to be on anyone's side makes him dangerous. He doesn't recognize value in life until he's confronted with losing his own. I didn't view Meursault as an ordinary man caught up in a murder at all; he didn't have to shoot. He wasn't defending himself. He had a gun in his hand and reacted by shooting. Because the sun was too hot. Perhaps you could argue he was caught up by his environment, but every morally questionable choice he made led to the murder.

Ed, on the other hand, just wanted to be a dry cleaner. Similar to Meursault, he didn't seem to have a sense of traditional moral values when he blackmailed Big Dave. But Ed didn't initiate the killing. Stabbing Big Dave was entirely self-defense. So he wasn't charged for that murder, but his wife was. What Ed did end up being incriminated for, he didn't even do. Ed seemed to be truly wrapped up by associating with Tolliver in the first place. He really didn't pick up on the sketchiness of the situation until later. While Ed was unobservant, Meursault recognized that others would see wrong in the situation and didn't care.

Odd Impressions

So there's that scene in The Stranger (see p. 85 in our book) where Meursault sees the reporter looking at him and feels like he's watching himself. Correct me if I'm wrong, but I can't think of any moment before that where Meursault looks inward at all. All of his descriptions are about the people around him, the weather, or, in a few cases, his instincts. He's tired, he wants Marie, the sun's in his eyes. For a man who is so surface-centered and physical, it makes sense that he would be able to pick up on a like-minded person from just a face. Then if Meursault identifies with this man, what does this man's appearance say about Meursault? Or, if Meursault identifies with this man, perhaps this man also identifies with Meursault, implying that the character Meursault projects onto the reporter identifies the character he sees in himself, which at the very least, he hasn't confronted in a long time. Woah. Deep.

The reporter’s appearance is described in great detail, leading me to believe that there is something significant about his looks. Meursault describes that he “was much younger than the others, wearing grey flannels and a blue tie, had left his pen lying in front of him and was looking at me." From this, we get the sense of an ordinary guy who’s discontent with society’s judgments. I think the fact that he’s staring at Meursault while the other, older reporters all “had their pens in hand” with the “same indifferent and somewhat snide look on their faces” implies that he is the type of person who looks deeper into situations, or at least doesn’t take judgments as fact. Meursault seems indifferent to readers in his impersonal relationship with life, but I think the way he sees this young reporter in comparison with the others reflects that, rather than being indifferent, Meursault--and the reporter, as well--prefers to stay unbiased and withhold judgment.

Why, and now of all times, does it seem like Meursault just looked in the mirror for the first time? Throughout the novel, I wavered back and forth on the presence of empathy in Meursault's character, and this scene confuses me even more. On one hand, I think the reporter looks empathetic from our perspective. He seems to be seeking to understand him while others pass him by. But if Meursault sees himself in the young reporter, maybe Meursault (along with the reporter) looks as if he's identifying (or empathizing) with another person on the outside, when really they're both separated from the meaning of empathy and instead are just looking at the world coldly and objectively, which I think should be the antithesis of empathy. Sure, Meursault understands why Marie wants him to love her. But he doesn't think it's relevant for him. Yeah, he sees why his boss didn't like him taking a day off right before the weekend. But he couldn't relate. (He didn't even connect the days together!) He gets why the priest and criminals want to find their meaning in God, but he doesn't feel that longing in the slightest. He sees other people, but maybe seeing alone should be the opposite of feeling. Identifying with this reporter, having the "odd impression of being watched by [himself]," forced Meursault to sort of reverse empathize. By meeting eyes with the reporter, Meursault was able to empathize with himself.

Behaving Badly

Robert Cohn sickens me as a character. I try to feel sympathy for him--really, I do--but Jake doesn’t make it easy for the reader. Frankly though, I think that even if Cohn were the protagonist of this story, I still wouldn’t like him. He’s selfish, socially inept, and overly emotional. I’m not saying that emotions are a bad thing; I’d take emotions over apathy any day. The problem with Cohn’s emotional state is that he uses his emotions to manipulate those he calls his friends. The combination of these flaws creates a person I can’t imagine anyone would enjoy being around. Maybe he should come with a “does not play well with others” sign.

I think the source of Cohn’s problems is his selfishness. Everything he does is for the good of himself, without stopping to think about the others involved. For example, when Cohn is about to leave Bill and Jake to go back for Brett and Mike, he “confides” in Bill and Jake. However, his sharing is not for the purpose of strengthening his relationship with either of them, but is instead to make him feel better. Jake describes that “He was being confidential now and it was giving him pleasure to be able to talk with the understanding that I knew there was something between him and Brett” (106). The whole previous scene had been leading to this, with Cohn on the edge of his seat (“I have never seen a man in civil life as nervous as Robert Cohn--nor as eager” [104]) just waiting for the moment he could flaunt his excursions under the guise of confidentiality.

The most frustrating part is that Robert Cohn is perfectly capable of changing. His pride isn’t some character trait he’s stuck with for life; he’s clearly able to be a nice, reasonable person. After he’s left. Jake and Bill discuss the puzzle of Cohn’s character.

“The funny thing is he’s nice, too. I like him. But he’s just so awful.”
“He can be damn nice.”
“I know it. That’s the terrible part.” (107)

Both characters recognize that Cohn is not inherently a bad person. He chooses to act obnoxiously selfish, while he is completely aware of how to act politely. These aren’t just improper, undeveloped social skills; these are choices he makes to behave badly.

I don’t think I’m picking on Robert Cohn too unfairly here. These flaws are all things he can see in himself and change, except maybe his lack of social skills. But even his social skills would improve if he only improved on his other issues. Because Cohn is so focused inward on his own wants and his own motives, he is ignorant to the feelings of those around him unless they are laid out forcefully and blatantly as they were with Mike. If he would only pay attention to the social cues of his friends and focus at least a little bit on their well-being, I think everyone would like him more.

Pageant of the Universe (that ancient song)

I'm afraid my self-proclaimed masterpiece (read: amateur project assembled with immense efforts that will be entirely disproportional to the inadequate final quality) is still in the making. Since this blogging period is done before my piece is, I'll just rant about it for now and add the final product onto the post later. So for now I'll begin with my out-of-context ramblings and assume you understand my madness. Please, if you have any advice or suggestions of any kind, I would appreciate the help.

Building off of my last post, Mrs. Dalloway is set up wonderfully for this musical adaptation. As Mr. Mitchell brought up in class one day, Virginia Woolf is sort of like the conductor of an orchestra. Since lists better allow for tangents, here is a mini-list of  my validations why Mrs. Dalloway is really a musical artwork.

1. Woolf jumps around minds like the melody would travel between different instruments. The reader's (or listener's) attention is drawn to one or two people at a time as certain ideas are featured.
2. She orchestrates scenes to bring everyone together. Like the streetcar montage. Or the skywriter speculations. Or even Clarissa's party. George Gershwin used the image of traffic to bring instruments together in "An American in Paris," having saxophones imitate car horns while various other instruments present their own variations on the melody. See also Gershwin's "Rhapsody in Blue," with the siren-like clarinet intro.
3. She keeps time with Big Ben. There's a little percussion section in the back reinforcing the time while adding an aspect of rhythm and flow to the day. Like in an orchestra, it reminds you of the duration of the story.

At the bottom you'll find my selection featured instruments and the characters they've been assigned to. Again, feel free to comment with your suggestions. I originally also had Elizabeth on French Horn, but she was mentioned so little, I figured I could insert her part later if it really felt missing without her. I cut Mrs. Kilman altogether. I couldn't think of an instrument for her and figured she'd disrupt more than anything. Maybe, like Elizabeth, I'll add her in later, though. I'm also debating cutting Hugh or Sally. We'll see.

It's hard for me to pinpoint why I chose characters for the instruments I did, but I don't know. It just felt right? Clarissa seems saxophone-ish to me. Maybe it's because I'm a sax player, but I don't feel like I identify with Clarissa that much so I'm not really sure what my saxophone stereotype is. Maybe it's her free-spirited solo-ready type. Even though it seems like she's actually not that independent. But she's buying the flowers herself, and to make her a saxophone, that statement is enough for me.

Peter's on tenor sax because of his long-standing connection with Clarissa. It seemed fitting to have them on the same instrument. Plus, tenor sax has more of that rough, deep timbre. It has quite the alluring tone, if I say so myself. And Peter's pretty darn alluring. He's passionate but sweet, which I declare to be very tenor sax-esque qualities.

Richard Dalloway, on the other hand, gets the flute. He's lofty and sensitive, not to mention cute. However, Richard isn't bold like the saxophone. He isn't gossipy like the clarinet or abrasive like the trombone. He floats above the rest of the instruments and relies on repitition. His solos aren't lengthy and diverse, but he stays focused on his lovely riff, restating his point "in so many words" until his task is accomplished.

Then there's admirable Hugh. Pompous, admirable Hugh. He's uppity and sticks to his beats on one and three. Hugh knows his routine and doesn't improvise much away from that. I can't think of a better way to describe a tuba's sound than pompous. It's a beautiful instrument, don't get me wrong, but its filled-out tone is perfect for a character who's full of himself.

Sally Seton carries a different sort of confidence than Hugh. It's still pride that carries her, but it's more of an I-know-what-I'm-talking-about educated pride than an I-have-money-and-therefore-I'm-better-than-you pride. The trumpet fits her because it gets to almost carry the band with its solos. It's a strong instrument full of certainty, and its primary tone quality is loud. The first trumpet is rarely asked to play more quietly in any setting, from orchestra to jazz. Its sound is relied upon and often it sets the mood. Like Sally, the trumpet is influential.

I know I said in a previous post that Septimus would be on oboe, but english horn just seemed so much more fitting for him than for Rezia. The english horn is often mistaken for an oboe, being lower and only slightly off in sound. But it is off, nonetheless. It's an overlooked instrument that possesses a warm, haunting timbre that I often envy, personally. Septimus's solos will be long, rambly, and make frequent use of the melodic minor scale, leaving the impression of being outside a key signature. His english horn poetry will be rich with emotion, culminating in his final cadenza (literally a musical fall). I'm excited for Septimus's part.

Lucrezia, on the similar-sounding oboe (because she's on Septimus's side, so he's only sort of alone instead of entirely), tries to communicate with Septimus. She'll break into his thoughts while he either interrupts her irritatedly or continues with his musings. Often Septimus and Rezia's parts are in harmony.

Meanwhile, Dr. Holmes and Dr. Bradshaw come in with their trombones, which were formerly established as abrasive. I'm quite against the trombone as an instrument, so perhaps my bias plays in a bit on this placing. But the trombones rudely slide into Septimus's fearful tirades, massacring all the remnants of beauty. Then Septimus's thoughts become wails and the doctors' become laughs as the communication wall rises.

Finally, we have the narrator on gossipy clarinet. On one hand, the clarinet's tone feels objective, not attached especially to any of the instruments. Yet, it often bridges the gaps as the instruments exchange melodies, introducing each change with a little run. Aside from this natural task, the clarinet will play over Septimus's hauntings, explaining his story in less-dissonant terms. The narrator works in harmony with Septimus, calm to the outside world's ideas of him.

Okay, rant done for now. I'll post the piece when it's done.

Instrumentalists:

Big Ben: Timpani
Clarissa Dalloway: Alto Saxophone
Peter Walsh: Tenor Saxophone
Richard Dalloway: Flute
Hugh Whitbread: Tuba
Sally Seton: Trumpet
Septimus Warren-Smith: English Horn
Lucrezia Warren-Smith: Oboe
Dr. Holmes: Trombone 1
Dr. Bradshaw: Trombone 2
Narrator: Clarinet

Deep, Dark, Musical Undercurrents

The thing I love most about film scores is the potential ability the composer has to manipulate the entire story by affecting the way the audience feels about it. Few things turn me off more from a movie or TV show than a bad use of music. Especially when popular songs are involved. If you're going to use a song with lyrics, please, I beg you, take advantage of it! Words are a wonderful addition to music, and although they're not by any means necessary, when music with lyrics is used, it should be used with the lyrics. Sierra recently introduced me to the TV show Dollhouse by Joss Whedon, and I loved how the music, mainly the ending songs, used the lyrics to line up with the episode, capturing the characters' feelings in a musical bottle. That's how music should be used.

Anyway. In The Hours, I was a little concerned at times, just because the mood of the song seemed too dark for certain scenes. But as the movie went on, I realized what an excellent job Philip Glass did in manipulating the emotional undercurrent. In Mrs. Dalloway, Virginia Woolf has a narrator to bounce between minds and reveal the sometimes surprising darkness within each of them. The Hours has the soundtrack to fill this role. Although the scene may seem happy, the music shows there is more going on than meets the eye.

Then there's the use of polyrhythm. Ohmygoodness. Basically it's this neat thing that Impressionist composers were known for especially, where two contradicting rhythms are played at the same time. (You can get this effect by simultaneously tapping eighth notes with one hand and triplets with the other.) Polyrhythms are cool because they provide subliminal emphasis. The contrasting flows paradoxically both separate the melodies and unite them under a single flow, not unlike a harsh, lovely river current. So it gives this feeling of weight and emphasis to the melody while revealing an undercurrent of peaceful chaos. Like there's all this heavy emotion boiling beneath the surface that only the music, in its wonderful intricacies, can make us see. This is the song that specifically stood out to me in its polyrhythmic beauty (the cool part starts at 2:50):

Music can make or break a movie. I'm thrilled with the addition Philip Glass brought to The Hours.

Orchestrating traffic/defining eternity/pageant of the universe

Before I (or you) begin, please read this. I will reference it often.

That poem you hopefully just read, "The Circus of the City" by Colleen J. McElroy, was one of the first things that came to mind when I was trying to title my next blog post. When Mr. Mitchell tossed up the idea the other day of Virginia Woolf as an orchestral conductor, revelations sprung up all over the place. Suddenly, Woolf's uses of repitition and head-jumping made perfect sense!

Eh, enthusiasm passes.

Just kidding.

Instead, here I am, dedicating two-thirds of my title to a poem from the beginning of first semester last year. But why?

1. Because while Crazy Mary orchestrates traffic, Virginia Woolf orchestrates people. She bounces from mind to mind, creating perfect scenarios, such as the motor-car montage and the sky-writing incident, in order to show several perspectives on a single idea. (In other words, we hear different variations of the same melody.)

2. Because Crazy Mary reminds me of Septimus in her semi-unrecognized knowledge. (Hmm. Interesting. But severely tangential. Perhaps even more so than the next point . . . . Let's move on.)

3. Because Crazy Mary is like that singer on the street whose full role I still can't figure out, other than to provide a transition from Peter to Rezia. (see p. 79 of Mrs. Dalloway.) But this woman shares Crazy Mary's bold, unsettling, ancient-seeming personality. Even the language used to describe the women is similar in everlasting nature-y themes. Woolf frames her woman with phrases repeating ancient-ness and eternity, such as "the voice of an ancient spring," "the ancient song bubbled up," "the passage of the ages had blurred the clarity of that ancient May day," and "that eternal spring." McElroy says, "she keeps defining eternity, telling us we're in it" and she "beats the air into obedience." Woolf's crazy woman, described first as a sound rather than a person ("A sound interrupted him; a frail, quivering sound, a voice . . . with an absense of all human meaning"), conducts "the passage of ages." Yet we don't know her name. Although McElroy does provide the label "Crazy Mary," she's still more of an idea than a person. She's a woman "who will sing at top lung in public places," "stashing clouds in her shopping bags" while she "vanishes into traffic." The resemblance is uncanny. But then, I guess even London is allowed to worry a crazy into existence.

4. Because Woolf and Crazy Mary both present the "pageant of the universe," if you will, "performing dreams while the city dreams itself awake." They each create their mini-worlds while the players in their worlds become alive as almost separate entities. One of the most important connections drawing Woolf to the role of the conductor is that none of the characters really goes away while we are in the head of another. Each instrument's entrance may differ, and the moods and melodies morph through the characters, but there are always minds still reeling and weaving in the background.

Now I can't just write a post like this and not follow up with an orchestral representation of Mrs. Dalloway. I honestly don't think my brain would let me. Stay tuned.

Sneak Peek: The Hours soundtrack freak-out over polyrhythmic mood setting + Septimus Warren Smith's big oboe cadence!

Beauty was behind a pane of glass

All our lives, we go around thinking we know our family, our friends, ourselves. Woolf shatters this illusion for us by showing that you can never know enough about another to understand the whole person. As readers, we've been given an immense portrait of Clarissa Dalloway; one that even her closest friends can't get. We see Clarissa through her own eyes, as well as the eyes of those around her. But character is infinite. There is always more to reveal. Clarissa herself had a theory (dictated by Peter) that "to know her, or any one, one must seek out the people who completed them; even the places. Odd affinities she had with people she had never spoken to, some woman in the street, some man behind a counter--even trees, or barns." It resembles the age-old question, if walls could talk, what would they say? The full person cannot possibly be known until you observe through the perspective of the walls, trees, companions, and strangers.

Too often, we forget that this depth, this complexity belongs to each person we come into contact with. It is easier to focus on the surface, making judgements based on the apparition. To many at Clarissa's party, Clarissa Dalloway is little more than a face. She is charming, the perfect hostess. No one stops to think of the human underneath. I think one of Virginia Woolf's goals was to demonstrate that even a worldly, frivolous party woman has a story, complete with a brain capable of deep, philosophical contemplations.

When we fail to acknowledge each other's humanity, pain and conflict arise. Thus we enter the cycle that captured Septimus. A few powerful individuals didn't seek to understand a few other powerful individuals, so they fought. Their power allowed them to set their faceless minions against each other, not even recognizing that each had a story and a name. The soldiers, whose individuality had been stripped by the system, were forced to view their enemies as sub-human, desensitizing them entirely from the moral dilemma of killing and watching their comrades get killed, causing them to overlook humanity to cope.

Septimus, a shell-shocked survivor, describes himself as blocked off from the world by a pane of glass. He is incapable of seeing anybody or anything as others do. Other people, such as Dr. Holmes and Dr. Bradshaw, don't look below the surface by choice, and for this reason, they represent human nature. This aspect of human nature--overlooking the true meaning--has been imposed on Septimus by human nature itself. Because other people saw him through a pane of glass, no matter how hard he tries, he can't see through his own cloudy pane. The difference, though, between Septimus and those who choose, is that, because the blindfold was forced upon him, he is fully aware of its presence. His awareness causes him to see what those around him choose not to see, while simultaneously alienating him from the world. As Septimus puts it, the glass kept him distanced, such that "even Holmes himself," the epitome of human nature, "could not touch this last relic straying on the edge of the world, this outcast, who gazed back at the inhabited regions, who lay, like a drowned sailor, on the shore of the world."

Septimus is terrified by Bradshaw and Holmes, whom he uses as symbols for human nature, because he knows that neither of them truly seek to help him. Woolf allows us to experience both of their minds, and we know that they don't see Septimus as a person, but rather as a case to put on their records and further their own agendas. "Once you stumble . . . human nature is on you." The aspect of human nature that allows humans to overlook other humans only perceives the outward appearance of Septimus, and, as we see through Rezia's thoughts, Septimus appears crazy. No one except Septimus and the reader is aware of his deep, often accurate musings. Even Rezia, who believes she is on Septimus's side, can't see past the surface. After his rant about Dr. Holmes, "Rezia could not understand him. Dr. Holmes was such a kind man. He was so interested in Septimus. He only wanted to help them, he said. He had four little children and he had asked her to tea." Holmes and Bradshaw represent what the world interprets as success, while the ones who see through the mask are labeled mad.

In all states of mind and appearance, there are ideas of inexplicable beauty. We each impose a pane of glass on ourselves when we refuse to seek out the beauty behind the individual, the part that remains after our bodies fade and rot. Clarissa believed that "since our apparitions . . . are so momentary compared with the other, the unseen part of us, which spreads wide, the unseen might survive, be recovered somehow attached to this person or that, or even haunting certain places after death." Septimus did just that to Clarissa. Without even knowing each other, Septimus's story attached itself to Clarissa, as if his inmost person connected to her inmost person through their shared thoughts of death.

Not nearly the magnitude of (wo)man I had hoped I might be.

Nicholson Baker's mini coming-of-age story, effectively weaved into The Mezzanine, troubled me for the many moments it took to read. At first, I felt bad for Howie. It saddened me to think that adult Howie didn't quite live up to the expectations of little person Howie. But that disappointment quickly morphed into worry, and then contentment as the connections began rolling in.

I, too, am the sort of person who says "actually" too much. While this may be considered a minuscule, common link to any other American English-speaking human, it is a link nonetheless, and a single link can drive one to look for more. Some interpret this process of seeking out connections as over-analyzation, but these miniature realizations can open up the mind to a heightened self-awareness.

I've realized that I am the sort of person who longs to know more about the musicologists behind Pandora recommendations. I am the sort of person who despises writing more than almost anything. I am the sort of person who gets excited about the intricacies of language and the etymologies behind lovely words. I am the sort of person who geeked out in her saxophone lesson yesterday because a phrase that was minor and smooth all the way through ended with a major riff AND an accent, where it would have remained perfectly natural to taper the phrase and keep the little pitches of joy hidden in their subtlety. (It was crazy; I can't imagine how many times I had played those lines and not even noticed this gentle shift just before the new beginning!)

When I was younger, as it goes with most people, I had high aspirations for my future. I was going to be a rock star! No, wait, a veterinarian! Or the scientist known for curing unhappiness! Now, none of those things will happen. I won't change the world with my music (the music industry is too political for my liking), but maybe I can change someone's day. I won't heal living creatures' ailments (too little margin for error), but maybe I can be the companion of one. I won't cure unhappiness (for I've found that little can be accomplished without a degree of discontent, not to mention the infinite struggle for dominance between my brain and scientific writing), but maybe I can bring a smile to a person's eyes. These things that I will never do, I was never meant to do--and that's perfectly fine. To quote Howie, "once the first shock of raw surprise had passed, the feeling was not unpleasant."

It's hard to say if any of these realizations will lead me to greatness, but I won't mind if they don't. Like Howie, I've decided that the things I love are more important than the successes I may achieve. Measuring life in your own accomplishments is no way to live; just like declaring that all mortal life is "transient and trivial," this perspective limits a person's ability to pursue the simplicities. Of course, all of this is not to say I'm done with my large-scale growth as a human being quite yet. I know I still have a long way to go. It does, however, mean that I better know which way that path will lead.