Seeking the Beyond
Seeking the Beyond:
Transcendence in Woolf, Lawrence, and Joyce
If God did not exist, it would be necessary to invent him.–Voltaire
It is expedient there should be gods, and, since it is expedient, let us believe that gods exist. –Ovid
Men rarely (if ever) manage to dream up a god superior to themselves. Most gods have the manners and morals of a spoiled child.–Robert A. Heinlein
In the mid-19th century, a revolution took place, a revolution that had been building for at least a hundred years. It took another fifty years for this revolution to manifest fully, and longer yet for art to assimilate its implications. This revolution was Science. Based on rigorous logic, constant inquiry, and a belief in proof, science quickly overtook the world and today its ramifications are everywhere. It is perhaps impossible to appreciate the extent to which science has codified our worldview unless we were alive to see the world of the 1890’s, or were children in the rural United States during the 1930’s. Everything has changed, thanks to science–it is hard to imagine a facet of daily life that has gone untouched by industry or by relativistic theory or the trip to the moon.
In cultural terms, it did not take long for the effects of science to become manifest. A new leisure class was born, one that cut across previous class boundaries. The poor did not get poorer, but their living conditions worsened. It would take over a hundred years for the link between environment and health to be made, and the first workers in British factories were doomed to early deaths.
As the countryside’s green became speckled with black factories and coated with soot, a wave of nostalgia for the old days and for unspoiled nature arose in the arts: the last gasp of a supposed golden age. But even as the Romantic movement flourished in England, French poets were tackling the new scientific world. Whereas Wordsworth, Blake, and others were seeking out and celebrating the transcendent in nature, French surrealists were questioning if nature was there in the first place. It was the first manifestation of what was to become the central idea of the twentieth century: relativism. By 1950, God and the author were dead, intent was anachronistic, and mimesis futile. The modern world had arrived.
In the years leading up to the deconstruction of virtually everything, artists had to deal with questions such as the possible reality of transcendence and the impossibility of objectivity. The emotional outpouring of the Romantics had started to seem passŽ, and intellectual rigor and formal experiment were the coming thing. The result was Modernism. Three writers in particular dealt with the issue of transcendence in the modern subjective world. Virginia Woolf, D. H. Lawrence, and James Joyce all sought for and found transcendence despite the barriers set up by subjectivity and the incessant murmuring of the self, and they all found it when exploring the thought/emotion dichotomy that was at the heart of their society.
In beginning any discussion of this subject, the definition of transcendence must be the starting point. Although it was years later that the cover of Time asked “Is God Dead?” (not to mention Nietzche!) the question had been implicit in the development of physics as a science. The universe was no longer an ineffable place. Instead it operated by rules, rules that Man was busily uncovering. It seemed that almost anything could be accomplished by science. If a young man who had studied Paracelsus and the experiments of Dr. Erasmus Darwin and Luigi Galvani was capable of creating life, as in Mary Shelley’s novel Frankenstein, then surely God’s powers were within human reach? Although Shelley’s novel has a strong cautionary tone, this may at least in part be ascribed to the Romantic background of the author. Later works would ask such questions seriously; and there is no horror implicit in Verne’s technological power fantasies.
The horror perhaps may arise from living in a clockwork world. The subtext to the Industrial Revolution was that there was no supernatural. Even in the gothic novels that arose in imitation of Radcliffe and Walpole, there was frequently no real supernatural element. The world was revealed to be an inhumanly safe place. Anything that killed could be understood and explained away–even eliminated with the proper precautions. It was not long before the modern detective story was created, helped along by Arthur Conan Doyle and Edgar Allan Poe, whose seminal detectives not only knew that the world was clockwork, but knew just how to wind it.
Mankind has never been able to survive for long without gods of some kind, and technology was quickly placed in the position previously occupied by the inexplicable. It acquired its own priests and mysteries, and in many ways remains so today. However, one of the realizations that science brought to the collective mind of man was that of subjectivity. The act of observation that is such a large part of experimentation was perhaps what brought the question of observer and observed to the forefront of the arts. The awareness that nothing can be truly observed or communicated manifested itself in the pictorial arts as Impressionism and later Cubism, in music as first the Impressionism of Debussy and later as the nonmelodic, nonrepresentational system of composition called twelve-tone serialism.
Once the absolute relativity of perception is grasped, the natural and inevitable conclusion is a solipsistic one. The self is all one truly perceives, and even it is perceived more by the way it colors events than though its own nature. One is reminded of the ending of Twain’s The Mysterious Stranger. Self thus becomes extremely important to the moderrnist. Two possible directions immediately become apparent: a world with no self, where self-erasure is the goal (one thinks of John Cage’s chance-generated writings or music); or a world were self is exalted to become on a par with godhood (solipsism, obviously–but also perhaps the rise of metafictional forms in the latter half of the twentieth century, and certainly the incredible vogue in confessional poetry). In either instance a further handful of dust is tossed upon God’s grave, as total self-involvement negates all the ethical precepts mankind has been able to come up with.
Therefore transcendence may be defined as what bridges the gap between individual selfhoods. The world had been collectively envisioned as a giant intellectual construct, one which also paradoxically prevented any form of true communication. One may see where the roots of deconstructionism lie. However, transcendence, or immanence, must be capable of breaking the barriers of self that are imposed by subjectivity. This is interpreted by different writers in different ways; some identify the transcendent with a conventionally supernatural force, others with the feminine principle or creativity, or other things. Whether presented as external transcendence (creating God anew) or internal (elevating a human to near-godhood) the premise is the same: to make the world into a place where unpredictability and absolutes reign again.
Virginia Woolf was fascinated by the problem of subjectivity. In her novels To The Lighthouse and Jacob’s Room she tackles it head on. Jacob’s Room,Êa modernist version of the biography or even of the elegy, is notable for its commitment to the idea that nothing and no one can be truly known. Thus the book focusses not on Jacob Flanders’ life but on his room and on the swirl of events around him. However, his every action pervades the book, because any form into which reality is forced must be colored by the lens through which we see it. In To The Lighthouse we have a book with a tripartite structure, the middle section a representation of the awesome impersonality of the universe. Despite the huge entropic workings of the world and despite the naturalistic touches, in both books Woolf presents us with transcendent moments. Perhaps the most telling one is when the workings of nature destroying the Ramsay house are presented with supernatural trappings.
Jacob’s Room is built around the fictional life of one Jacob Flanders, a name which immediately tipped off the reader of 1922 that this was a young man who died on the battlefield of Flanders in World War I. Woolf’s technique is to avoid entering the young man’s mind whenever possible. He is presented to us as a composite of other people’s views of him. Only rarely is he described directly, and when he is, it is as more of an inanimate object than as a person:
The light drenched Jacob from head to toe. You could see the pattern on his trousers; the old thorns on his stick; his shoe laces; bare hands; and face.It was as if a stone were ground to dust; as if white sparks flew from a livid whetstone, which was his spine; as if the switchback railway, having swooped to the depths, fell, fell, fell. This was in his face.
Whether we know what was in his mind is another question.
(Jacob’s Room, p.94)
However, despite the erasure that the self of Jacob has undergone, despite the lack of knowledge of his mind, it is clear that his presence or absence is the defining quality of the text. Jacob is the God of Jacob’s Room in that he is the creative impulse behind it, the Presence that pervades every action taken. Just as the egoist assumes that every action in the world is undertaken because of him, so do we see Jacob Flanders as the sum of a myriad of actions taken by those around him. He is a remarkably passive character in and of himself, but he becomes a transcendent character according to the definition set forth earlier: he is a character who has broken the barriers of self. He can hardly be termed human, after Woolf is done erasing him, for he has become truly superhuman: a figure who defines the world he inhabits by his very absence. A character who has lost his own self in order to become the aggregate of other people’s perceptions.
This is clearly a very modernist sort of transcendence. Instead of the Christian version of personal transcendence, it has more in common with the Eastern Nirvana, or erasure of self. Woolf here is showing us a young man caught up in the machinery of war, analogous to the machineries of a mechanistic world, and even portraying him as less than human throughout the novel; yet he emerges at the end, as E. M. Forster put it, as a “solid figure of a young man.” Despite all the ideas of relativism and subjectivity clearly brought to bear on the story of Jacob Flanders, he not only comes out as a person despite all the depersonalizing, but as unique, a man beyond all the chattering figures that surround him.
It is interesting to compare this transcendence to that found in To The Lighthouse. In the middle section of this novel, entitled “Time Passes,” the pathetic fallacy is revived with a vengeance. The impersonal universe of Jacob’s Room gives way to a universe that creeps, ventures, swallows, brushes, and even muses. (Lighthouse, p. 126) This is a world that is alive. And while human characters are still caught in the vast movements of time, nature takes on an immanent quality, becoming supernatural. It gains consciousness, but refuses to explain itself–not unlike the more traditional God of the Hebrews, which gains divinity at least in part through its unknowability. Consider the following passage:
…it was impossible to resist the intimation which every gull, flower, tree, man or woman, and the white earth itself seemed to declare (but if questioned at once to withdraw) that good triumphs, happiness prevails, order rules;…[Prue Ramsay died that summer in some illness connected with childbirth…]
(TTL, p.132)
The world itself is clearly magical or transcendent here, yet its motives are totally unclear. Prue Ramsay dies attempting to bring forth new life, the ultimate expression of nature, at the same time that nature itself is declaring that good prevails. The question that must arise, forced particularly by the juxtaposition of the death of Prue and the statements given immediately before, is “Why did she die?” Nature’s thought processes are suddenly murky; we are faced with an entity that seems all-powerful and yet incomprehensible.
These mysteries are what Virginia Woolf finds to be the new God: Mystery itself. She finds transcendence in the shimmering unknowability of life, It is her thread that is picked up later in the 20th century by John Cage, who works with chance processes, asserting that he wishes to keep Finnegan’s Wake mysterious by recombining words from the book with the flip of a coin.
D. H. Lawrence’s view of the transcendent shares something with Woolf’s, and that is nature. But Lawrence and Joyce both find unknowability itself insufficient. They are not content to erase the self in order to transcend it. For both of them transcendence must arrive by going beyond the self; perhaps beyond the cultural trappings, beyond the roles set up for humankind. Lawrence in England, My England’s short stories gives us a world where a single touch can mean instant bondage in love or lust; where a shattering of human norms is achieved by finding atavistic depths within the human psyche. In The Rainbow he presents to us the saga of a family, the Brangwens, who seek to go beyond their limited definitions of self, each successive generation fighting their nature to become more than what they are.
Although Woolf delivers the language of the transcendent throughout her work, she does not grapple with its existence in the way that Lawrence does. Rather, she seems to take it for granted. The magical words, the pathetic fallacies, all come easily to her pen, and she does not examine the basis of her belief. She has unquestioned faith. Lawrence on the other hand comes to wrestle at the altar. Whereas transcendence is Woolf seems generalized and ascribed to vague concepts such as “nature” or “man,” Lawrence’s vision is of a truly personal transcendence. He is willing to name exactly where and when a person has gone beyond his self to shatter the subjective world.
Lawrence is preoccupied with the dichotomy between thought and emotion. Whether this binary opposition is termed Apollonian and Dionysian or understood with sexual parallels, it remains one of the overriding concerns of the modernist movement. Modernism, being an essentially formalist movement, relying on philosophy for its inspiration, often seems to abandon emotional outreach. The problem with formal experiment is that it may lose the reader–thus it is doubtful that many readers are truly touched emotionally by Jacob’s death, for they have not grown to know him in the way that the reader grows to know Old Yeller (to chosoe a mawkish and clearly sentimental tale). Woolf is not interested in having us relate empathetically to Jacob, for her philosophy maintains that any true relationship based on empathetic understanding is impossible. In To The Lighthouse we are touched by deaths, but they occur against the backdrop of the vast universe, which minimizes their emotional impact.
Lawrence distrusts this intellectual distance. He comes down on the Dionysian side, whereas Woolf’s world is an Apollonian one. Nor does he always perceive transcendence as a good thing. In the story entitled “The Bilnd Man,” a moment of touch removes the distance between two men and eliminates the notions of self that existed before:
…Then he laid his hand on Bertie Reid’s head, closing the dome of the skull in his sioft, firm grasp, gathering it, as it were… He seemed to take him, in the soft, travelling grasp….
The lawyer stood almost annihilated, unable to answer.
…
Then suddenly Maurice removed the hand of the other man from his brow, and stood holding it in his own.
“Oh, my God,” he said, “we shall know each other now, shan’t we? We shall know each other now.”
(England, My England, p. 74)
Bertie’s reaction to this is absolute horror. “He could not bear it that he had been touched by the blind man, his insane reserve broken in. He was like a mollusc whose shell is broken.” (EME p. 75) What better description of a transcendent union of souls? Over and over again in Lawrence, touch serves to break the mold of self and cause the soul within to transcend its limitations. In “The Blind Man” and in other stories, Lawrence acknowledges the subjective world but brushes it away, destroying barriers with mere touches. In every story, the emotional overpowers the inttectual constructs.
In The Rainbow Lawrence addresses the think/feel dichotomy more directly. The novel comprises the story of three generations of Brangwens, and in each generation there is a problem to be resolved with the dynamic of emotion and intellect. Lawrence feels that although emotion is stronger than intellect, and blood-intimacy stronger than mind, a balance between the two is necessary to achieve personal transcendence. In this he is not unlike Joyce.
The first generation of Brangwens has a man who is deeply connected with the land, and a woman who represents greater consciousness. The second generation reverses this; it is Will who clings to infertile intellectual patterns, and Anna who embraces physicality and emotion. The third generation, Ursula, embodies the struggle within one body. Although Lawrence does not resolve the struggle in favor of thought or feeling, it seems clear where his sympathies lie; Anton Skrebensky and Winifred, Ursula’s failed relationships, fail precisely because they are not primal, Dionysian, emotional. For all that Lawrence professes a balance, in the end the most treacherous pitfalls are the infertile ones of intellect.
The transcendence that Lawrence perceives is usually expressed as a merging of the sexes, although, as we have seen, the Apollonian and Dionysian qualities are not necessarily embodied in one gender or another. Whereas Tom Brangwen is manifestly a man in touch with nature, Will is not. It is only after much arguing with his wife that he comes to perceive transcendence outside of the cultural patterns that are set up for him, realizing that “a temple was never perfectly a temple, till it was ruined and mixed up with the winds and the sky and the herbs.” (The Rainbow, p. 248) Despite this, Will persists in setting patterns on top of the transcendent, a process that, it may be argued, destroys what it is trying to explain. “Still he loved the church. As a symbol, he loved it.” (p. 248) The process of using symbols to explain away the immanent may remind us of the formulae used to describe physics–an Apollonian endeavor, to symbolize and confine. Will Brangwen never breaks free of this completely, despite the fact that Anna, his wife, is Victrix.
It is in Ursula that the balance, which is also a merging, finally takes place. Ursula resolves the sexual patterns placed upon the previous generation by engaging in a lesbian affair: she plays the part of male and of female in the novel, eliminating the gender differences. Where her mother was content to bask in fertility, and where her father merely needed to rediscover the sensual, Ursula has a far greater task: to reconcile thought and feeling, to bridge Apollonian and Dionysian extremes. Ursula’s life seems to be a series of problems posed to her on this fundamental question. She coul dmarry Skrebensky, and thus marry someone with no notion of blood-intimacy; she could run off with the folk on the barge, and deny that she has passed beyond that simplicity of conceptualization.
The transcendence Ursula needs to achieve is a personal one, epitomized by the rainbow seen at the end of the novel. She needs to continue expanding her conceptual range, while at the same time breaking down the barriers such ranges impose between people. Although she does not reach this goal by the end of the book, one can foresee the ultimate consequence: infinite understanding and infinite compassion–what better definition of God is there?
And the rainbow stood upon the earth. She knew that the sordid people who crept hard-edged and separate on the face of the world’s corruption were living still… that they would cast off their horny covering of disintegration, that new, clean, naked bodies would issue to a new germination, to a new growth, rising to the light and the wind and the clean rain of heaven… the world built up in a living fabric of Truth, fitting to the overarching heaven.(R, p. 548)
Although some have accused this final paragraph of The Rainbow to be sliding back into Romanticism, unjustified by the novel preceding it, it is really a firm gesture towards Lawrence’s view of personal transcendence. The supreme flaw of the “sordid people” is that they are “separate,” and it is their disruption of self that carries them to heaven; which, it must be noted, is not the blood-intimate land, but rather a “built” and thus Apollonian paradise, one with supreme emotional power (“living fabric”) and also one with the grace of intellect. Yet it cannot be denied that this passage has somewhat more of the emotional to it than the intellectual. Likewise, Ursula has to avoid many more infertile perils than dangers of fertility and emotion. Lawrence argues for a balance, but it is still clear where his sympathies lie.
Nor is it mere insistence on his part that forces him to accentuate the emotional. Emotion, after all, is a personal expression, and personal expression had started to seem outdated in the new modernist world. One may see the descendants of Lawrence’s attitude in confessional poetry, where the goal is to convey as much of one’s self as possible, primarily in an emotional vein. The modernist literary world, with its emphasis on formal experiment, looked askance on self-expression, and so Lawrence’s views, taken in context, seem to be more radically rebellious than might be expected. The balance is what he argued for, and indeed truly believed in; but one can surely understand if he reserved his greatest sympathies for the underdog, the emotional, Dionysian side that was being repressed?
With James Joyce a step further is taken. Whereas Woolf saw the immanent in the unknowable, Joyce sees it everywhere. He wrote a book, Finnegan’s Wake, that epitomizes the incomprehensible. Whereas Lawrence sympathized with the emotional and the fertile, Joyce reserves his highest accolades for the creative principle, embodying it in the person of Molly Bloom. Joyce also believes in a personal transcendence, one that brings us full circle to the God that science had killed: a creative force. And so Joyce gathers into his ethos the various elements that Woolf and Lawrence had worked with. In Leopold and Molly Bloom he creates an Apollonian and Dionysian dichotomy that Lawrence would have been proud of. In Stephen Dedalus he gives us a youngman in search of a personal transcendence. And in murmuring, lively Dublin itself, he presents us with the unknowability, complexity, and pervasive immanence of life itself.
Ulysses and A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man have these as such explicit themes that it is difficiult to choose a few examples. The overall sweep of Portrait gives us the childhood and adolescence of Stephen Dedalus, a boy destined to become a creator: a writer. It is a personal transcendence that is in fact symbolized by one of the oldest images of deification, flight. D¾dalus means artificer, and it is the name of the man who flew out of the prisons of King Minos, making himself wings of wax and feathers.
Perhaps the scene that best shows Joyce’s attention to the various factors working here is the one at the end of chapter four, where Stephen sees a girl in the ocean:
…She seemed like one whom magic had changed into the likeness of a strange and beautiful seabird……
Her image had passed into his soul forever and no word had broken the holy silence of his ecstasy. Her eyes had called him and his soul had leaped at the call. To live, to err, to fall, to triumph, to recreate life out of life!
…
He felt above him the vast indifferent dome and the calm processes of the heavenly bodies; and the earth beneath him, the earth that had borne him, had taken him to her breast.
(PAYM, p. 171-2)
First we get the image of the transcendent placed outside the self, then the instant of communication. The solipsistic world in which Stephen might have lived is there forever shattered, just as the touch of the blind man eliminated all distance between men in Lawrence’s story. In the last paragraph cited there is the melding of the Apollonian and Dionysian worldviews: the universe as a mechanistic device, and the universe as a living breathing entity. For Joyce, as for Lawrence, the ability to perceive both perspectives is intrinsic to creativity, for creativity implies shaping the chaotic without losing its vitality. And where Portrait makes this case objectively, arguing that transcendence is in “life recreating life,” Ulysses makes the case by example, capturing the diversity and wonderful omnipresence of life in a finely reasoned and constructed net.
With a book such as Ulysses it is futile to pick and choose representative passages. It is intended to be an organic whole. The most fascinating thing about it may be the way in which it both affirms and denies the modernist paradigms of relativism, subjectivity, and impersonality. Its dense construction presents the events of a single day to us from infinitely varied perspectives, thus exemplifying relativism; but its fundamental precepts are that absolutes exist, and that the feminine principle (which is truly the creative, loving principle) embodied by Molly is one of these eternals. It gives us subjectivity galore, and presents the fundamental goal of transcendence (breaking free of self) as creativity, which is essentially communicating one’s subjective world to another person. It is hard to imagine a more complexly constructed novel, one working by more fixed and ordained patterns–one so like the scientific universe in the discoverability of its laws and rules and organization–but it is far from being an impersonal or mechanistic work of art. Ulysses is the book that puts it all together, and brings us full circle to the immanent God that existed before Shelley animated that corpse on a dare at a party.
The question which must remain with us, however, is to what extent this transcendence has been accepted as a replacement for what came before. Joyce’s heirs today are the Gaia worshippers, the ecologists, the science fiction writers who speak of psychic powers and creating life. But the various trends have continued on, and today the ideas that perplexed and preoccupied the modernist novelists continue to be debated, often without the participants noticing that they are indeed covering familiar turf. Deconstructionism is clearly heir to relativism, the free verse rage of the sixties to subjectivity, and language poetry to the worship of the unknowable. The terrifying beauty of this debate is that Woolf’s notions can cancel out Lawrence, and vice versa. One ends by wondering if Joyce’s masterful summary of all the issues surrounding the topic is not inherently self-annihilating, a book that destroys itself in its all-encompassing vision.
The best one can do is pray that it is not so, to whoever/whatever one prays for such things, whether it be the self or God; for the prospect of a world without the possibility of extending our awareness beyond the boundaries of our lonely selves is one that has driven good men and women mad. Perhaps the idea that we can transcend is one that is intrinsic to our natures. Voltaire’s statement that begins this essay, the famous pronouncement about needing to create God if one had not existed, implies a truth about the way we think: we assume that we are capable of creating God, and thus assume that we can be more than what we are. Even further, it implies that we are more than we think. Ovid puts it in terms of expedience, and a more contemporary writer, Heinlein, speaks of the all-too-frequent inadequacy of our inventions; but it is a statement of Heinlein’s that seems the best thought with which to end this essay. In his most famous novel, a book about a man who is also an angel and also capable of reaching completely outside of his self (which the author called “grokking”), Heinlein has his Stranger in a Strange Land declare, “Thou Art God,” when it seems more than clear that the Stranger himself is the most likely candidate for the title. Perhaps this is a fitting lesson to take from this examination of transcendence in the modern age: that labels are often reversible, and that seeking God, whether internally or externally, is likely to always return the question to us in its most fundamental sense: do you believe in more than what you see? And if the answer is in the affirmative, then perhaps the question need not be asked again. You have already transcended your subjectivity. You are already God.
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