On Some BS

alt title: Virginia Woolf’s To The Lighthouse and Melancholic Sincerity

The interesting thing is how the warmth in the novel, on why continue, the satisfaction in James’ climax is found in the anguish of responsibility. Everyone felt shitty but felt they needed to be there. Fulfilling a duty.

Woolf killing herself may diminish any serious merit this route may have if we want to justify such a dreary New England scene. In such a quaint and resilient fabric, we see tarnish. Can it be cleaned? Or taken to the cleaners and let them work their magic?

Can a hearty cheer take away our woes?

A separate question, are there other ways to the lighthouse? Are there other ways to build such a thing and fund a society that can travel and visit it?

Can the short scenes of validation support the rest of the ambitious structure, strained by low self-esteem?

Do we have to tolerate each other and look disturbingly inward to pass through? Contrasted by taking our anger out on others? Or to be too passive?

In the array of characters, we have descriptions of scenes as vivid as they are mysterious. Using “he’s” and “her’s”, the audience doesn’t know who is being described because the characters overlap in personalities, historicity, and trajectory. Making their individuality trivial and meaningless. Characters could have switched lives in various moments and they would still have ended up the same.

The duality and multiplicity, reiterations and strange loops found are dizzying. Even so, we can’t be for sure if Woolf did it on purpose or not. The only good thing that can be said of the book is that it seems the most accurate humanity has gotten at a form and execution of storytelling that mimics how God must narrate Reality.