My truck is still stuck on the ice in front of my house, icicles dripping from the doors down to the ground. Inside is a stray program from a Guthrie performance, a few receipts, and my beloved hula girl stationed on the dashboard. It’s a somber sight, like one of those frozen mummies found in the Andes, hair still intact and blowing about its face as if it’s merely resting, crouched in the snow.
My goodness, that was creepy. Sorry, guys. I’ll talk about my mummy obsession some other time. (read an interesting article here, though)
Anyway, the purpose of this post is not to give you nightmares. The purpose is to explain why exactly I haven’t been posting very frequently, and to use said explanation to gush a little bit about Virginia Woolf. Because I’ve never done that before.
You see, although my Woolf class ended last semester, I didn’t feel done with her. She’s a difficulty lady to get to know. Since I have to complete a capstone project this semester anyway (in order to graduate with honors), I decided to take the opportunity to expand my existing Woolf paper from last December. And because honors capstones have to be interdisciplinary, I get to bring my minor to the party and beef up my paper with historical context.
I won’t give away the paper topic, because I’m overly confident and wish to pursue publication someday if I possibly can. But it concerns Woolf’s To the Lighthouse, and makes arguments about the nature of domesticity in the novel, and the nature of domesticity in the late Victorian era.
I’ve been spending my days reading luscious books about fainting couches and powder puffs and beaded dresses. There are grim parts too, of course: there was a certain amount of oppression in the Victorian household, especially if you were a woman. And there’s also Freud, who’s literally unavoidable if you wish to study the era, and who doesn’t make it a point to be particularly cheery.
Generally, though, it feels good to dive once again into a research project of this caliber.