ater length another time, while I'm writing it no doubt, but I'll mention it briefly. It's called The Middlebrow Fantasy and The Fantastic Middlebrow - looking at the idea of the middlebrow in the interwar years, the use of the term and ethos in fiction, criticism and public arena, and how porous the boundaries between highbrow and middlebrow are. From this, I want to look at novels which I shall call the 'domestic fantastic' - not out-and-out fantasies like Lord of the Rings, but novels with an element of fantasy within a domestic setting or scenario. I think this use of genre and other worlds and consciousness of boundaries (temporal, spatial, mental) is interesting in relation to the middlebrow debate - how these two ideas feed into one another. Was that at all clear? I think I need to practise saying it to myself a few times before I try to explain it to anybody in person...Anyway, back to Orlando. This is THE highbrow domestic fantastic text, as far as I'm concerned - for those not familiar with it, the novel is a sort of faux biography of Vita Sackville-West, only in the person of Orlando, a man who lives for hundreds of years and turns into a woman halfway through. This was the third time I'd read the novel - the second was when writing about Woolf and clothing, so that was my main focus. This time I made copious notes whenever Woolf mentioned boundaries or fantasy or class - in fact, those notes are waiting in a pile to be typed up properly, which I might achieve tomorrow. The constant scribbling made this re-read more of a struggle than the previous times, but I still think Orlando is a wonderful novel. Like all Woolf's writing, there is something about her writing which is lyrical without being pretentious; beautiful without distracting from the heart of the novel. And funny. People forget that Woolf can be amusing. I liked this section, when Orlando is being 'entertained' by supposedly witty society, which is governed only by the illusion of wit:
She was still under the illusion that she was listening to the most brilliant epigrams in the world, though, as a matter of fact, old General C. was only saying, at some length, how the gout had left his left leg and gone to his right, while Mr. L. interrupted when any proper name was mentioned, 'R.? Oh! I know Billy R. as well as I know myself. S.? My dearest friend. T.? Stayed with him a fortnight in Yorkshire' - which, such is the force of illusion, sounded like the wittiest repartee, the most searching comment upon human life.
Is Woolf gently mocking the image people had, and still have, of the Bloomsbury Group? Mayhap... rather a lot of Orlando is tongue-in-cheek, and all the more fun for it. I don't know if I'd recommend this as the first Woolf novel to read, but, if you've got one or two under your belt, this would be a great one to go onto. (And I must put in a good word for the beautiful new Oxford Worlds' Classics editions. Once I've fiddled with my camera I'll show you the ones I've bought - their choice of cover painting, by Charles Haslewood Shannon, is an exceptionally good choice - looks very much like (s)he could be either man or woman.)
Traditionally, when I mention Woolf here, the comments go rather silent... I'd be intrigued - what are your opinions on old Ginny? And have you read anything by her? I know some of her most vehement opponents haven't got as far as reading her work, and then there are some who love her diaries and letters but hate her fiction. And then, of course, there is poor Our Vicar who started listening to a radio production of The Waves and now looks physically pained whenever Virginia is mentioned...
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