After visiting the Westminster, St. James’ Park, and the Piccadilly areas of London in June, I felt that I simply must reread Virginia Woolf’s Mrs. Dalloway.
And so I am rereading.
What a brilliant work of literature!
I find myself thinking some of the same things that Mrs. Dalloway was thinking.
About a woman that Clarissa Dalloway wishes she might have been, Lady Bexborough–“…with skin of crumpled leather and beautiful eyes…she had the oddest sense of being herself invisible, unseen; unknown; there being no more marrying, no more having of children now, but only this astonishing and rather solemn progress with the rest of them, up Bond Street, this being Mrs. Dalloway; not even Clarissa any more; this being Mrs. Richard Dalloway.”
Clarissa “…felt very young; at the same time unspeakably aged.”
Clarissa’s “…only gift was knowing people almost by instinct…”
I believe myself to know people by my instinct.
I also feel, on occasion, invisible.
I am a romantic.
Where does this leave me?
Perhaps, as I continue on Clarissa Dalloway’s walk around London as she prepared for her party, I will gather insight.