Virginia Stephen was born into a family of skeptics and non-believers. Her father, Leslie Stephen, who descended from the Clapham Sect of evangelical Christians, renounced his religion and resigned his fellowship at Cambridge while he was still a young man. Virginiaâs mother Julia lost her faith after the death of her beloved husband, Herbert Duckworth; thereafter she immersed herself in self-sacrificing caretaking for her demanding second husband, Leslie Stephen; her household full of children and stepchildren; and the poor and the sick in her community. As Virginia Woolf writes in her autobiographical essay âA Sketch of the Past,â she was âborn into a very communicative, literate, letter writing, visiting, articulate, late nineteenth century worldâ (1985, 65). The Stephen family believed not in religion but in their own moral, intellectual, and social powers.
Upon leaving their fatherâs home in Kensington after his death, 22-year-old Virginia Stephen and her siblings formed what came to be known as the Bloomsbury group, a circle of artists and intellectuals who helped to define British modernism. Like many of their fellow modernists, those in the Bloomsbury circle rejected religionâs moralism, its anti-intellectualism, and its failure to explain or assuage terrible tragedies: in particular, the horrifying losses of World War I. Despite the Bloomsbury participantsâ general rejection of the moral codes and sense of âdutyâ that guided the Stephensâ Kensington upbringing, they shared the Stephen familyâs faith in the life of the mind and in their own powers to enact social and cultural reform.1
Virginia Woolfâs atheism and her sharp criticism of religion have become commonplaces, well-established and regularly repeated in the critical literature. Woolfâs work is often scathingly critical toward religion, associating it with ignorance, sentimentality, and simple-mindedness. She reserves her harshest criticism for religionâs authoritarianism, its claims to truth and its bullying restrictions on individual freedom.2
Yet Woolfâs sometimes withering critique of religion belies what might well be called a religious sensibility in her work. Woolfâs entire oeuvreâher essays, fiction, diary, and lettersâis replete with religious language and themes. Her characters often have heightened, even transcendent experiences that are not fully explained by their sensory and cognitive engagement with the world. She is preoccupied with the mysterious and the inexplicable. Woolfâs distinctive idiomâher unanswered questions, her frequent use of ellipses and other textual lacunaeâprobe what Judith Butler terms the âlimits of knowabilityâ (2003, 63).3 She poses weighty questionsâabout lifeâs meaning, the inevitability of death, the impossibility of knowing another person. As Christopher Knight writes, Woolfâs work is characterized by its âtone of enquiry, of questioning, wherein it is understood that if the object of the enquiry, of the quest, is to be imagined as worthy, it should admit of a full freedom of probing, of questioning, where even doubt and disbelief are not unwelcomeâ (2010, 83). Woolfâs rejection of religion, however vehement, does not answer the profound questions she poses; but neither does it foreclose her open and rigorous examination of them.
The chapters in this collection take up a challenge posed by Woolf herself: how to understand her persistent use of religious language, her representation of deeply mysterious human experiences, and her recurrent questions about lifeâs meaning in light of her sharply critical attitude toward religion. To overlook Woolfâs frequent use of religiously inflected language and her invocation of a world both enchanted and ensouled is to disregard a persistent pattern in her work.4 As Mark Hussey writes in The Singing of the Real World, Woolfâs body of work is âabove all a literature of rigorous honesty in its exploration of what it is to beâ (1986, xix); her work pursues not âan external, objective Realityâ but âour experience of the worldâ (1986, xiii). A significant dimension of that lived experience, for Woolf, is spiritual. This is reflected, not in her espousal of religious ideas, but in her persistent investigation of those otherwise inexplicable experiences from which religious ideas emerge. As theologian Michael Novak writes, âthe sacred does not define one class of things, while the profane defines another; the terms do not point to two different worlds, realms, or sets of objects.â Rather, Novak argues, âThe terms sacred and profane referâŠto the light in which things are regarded; they point to human interpretations of the realâ (1971, 26, 27).
In her essay âModern Fiction,â Woolf memorably criticizes novelists whom she terms âmaterialists,â who are bound by conventional novelistic form âto provide a plot, to provide comedy, tragedy, love interest, and an air of probability embalming the wholeâŠ.â By contrast, she argues, modern novelists seek to convey âlife or spirit, truth or reality, this, the essential thing.â While âspiritâ does not necessarily convey a religious meaning, it does suggest an invisible and elusive quality of human experience. Throughout âModern Fiction,â as in much of her writing, Woolf reaches for metaphorical language to convey this sense of mystery. âLife is not a series of gig lamps symmetrically arranged,â she asserts; âlife is a luminous halo, a semi-transparent envelope surrounding us from the beginning of consciousness to the endâ (1986â2011, 4: 160). Woolfâs metaphorsâthe âluminous halo,â the âsemi-transparent envelopeââchallenge binaries that separate the physical and the spiritual. They suggest a porousness between internal and external worlds as well as a numinous quality found in that liminal, âsemi-transparentâ space. As Naomi Toth argues, Woolfâs metaphors âdisplace the accent of fiction not towards an intimate, private interior, but towards that which exceeds the consciousness while remaining contiguous with itâ (2011). She is continually engaged, not in describing or responding to a pre-given world, but in depicting the world as a relationship in which the individualâs experienceâof mind, body, spiritâis inseparable from the surrounding environment.
In writing of her own illnesses, in particular, Woolf often depicts illness as a liminal state that offers a heightened form of âknowing.â Woolf suffered throughout her life with both physical and mental illnessâcharacterized by headaches, fevers, weight loss, hallucinations, and other debilitating symptomsâthat sometimes confined her to bed for days or weeks. Writing about these periods of illness in her diary and in letters, Woolf blurs distinctions between body and mind, between the rational and non-rational. Recovering from a depression, she writes that âI feel unreason slowly tingling in my veins,â her words locating insight both in the body and in a place outside of cognitionâin âunreasonâ (1977â1984, 1: 298). She describes a devastating bout of illness as âa plunge into deep waters; which is a little alarming, but full of interestâŠ.One goes down into the well & nothing protects one from the assault of truthâ (1977â1984, 3: 112). Woolfâs language thus suggests that her illnesses, however harrowing, provide entry to otherwise inaccessible insights. Periods of convalescence are often followed by bursts of creativity: âSix weeks in bed now would make a masterpiece of Moths,â she writes in her diary in 1929, referring to her working title for The Waves (3: 254). The following year, after a week-long bout of influenza, she writes, âOnce or twice I have felt that odd whir of wings in the head which comes when I am ill so oftenâlast year for example, at this time I lay in bed constructing A Room of Oneâs OwnâŠIf I could stay in bed another fortnightâŠI believe I should see the whole of The WavesâŠâ (3: 287). Woolf thus locates her creative power not in a disembodied mind, but a mind specifically connected to an ill body. And her insights, while related to her art, are not limited to the aesthetic. Rather, she frequently characterizes these experiences in spiritual terms: her illnesses are âqueer spiritual statesâ which bring her ânearest a true visionâ (1977â1984, 1: 298); they are âpartly mysticalâ (3: 287). In a letter to E.M. Forster, she writes of her âinsanities and all the rest...