Spending Time in "Jacob's Room"
The first time I opened Jacob’s Room by Virginia Woolf I was 22 and on a plane to Las Vegas. I was going on a (mostly) impromptu weekend trip with 2 close college friends. I read some of Jacob on the plane, maybe 10 pages on the short flight heading south, and was less than hooked. The life of Virginia Woolf and her novel Mrs. Dalloway have been central to my favorite-things lists for as long as I can remember. I can never get enough of the brilliant and complex author, or the character Clarissa Dalloway. So, having trouble getting into another one of her novels worried me. The non-linear story, the flashes of other characters’ interiors, and their subsequent disappearances, was at times quite jarring. Where the stream-of-consciousness in Mrs. Dalloway felt masterfully tied together, in Jacob it felt broken apart.
Jacob’s Room is the third novel by Woolf, and was published in 1922. As Goodreads summarizes:
Jacob's Room is the story of a sensitive young man named Jacob Flanders. The life story, character and friends of Jacob are presented in a series [of] separate scenes and moments from his childhood, through college at Cambridge, love affairs in London, and travels in Greece, to his death in the war. Jacob's Room established Virginia Woolf's reputation as a highly poetic and symbolic writer who places emphasis not on plot or action but on the psychological realm [...] occupied by her characters.
After a warm-weathered blur of a weekend, I returned to school and put Jacob back on the shelf. Disappointed, yet hopeful to have time after the semester to dive back in.
Five years later, at 27, I decided to bring him with me again on a trip, this time to England. On the red-eye flight, I opened the novel to see where I’d long-ago left off, and out fell a Burberry business card. While in Vegas, I’d tried on a blue leather trench coat at the Caesar’s Palace store that, to this day, my vegetarian heart still desires. The gorgeous salesman had picked up on me lusting after it, and made sure to give me his card before he left. The sight of the card, leaving me with a flood of random memories from that trip.
During my busy and truly magnificent 17-day tour of England (which included visiting Virginia Woolf’s countryside home even though it wasn't yet open to the public), I’d hardly had time or energy to read much. When I returned home, Jacob was kept on my bedside table, maybe 40 or 50 pages read. I’ve since come across a review of Jacob’s Room from The Guardian, written in 1922. The unnamed author says:
Perhaps it is partly by the aid of the novelists that we have come to imagine our lives as sequences, but Mrs Woolf won't have that at all. She provides us with chunks of what seems arbitrary and is certainly not explicit, and leaves us to sort them. There is art in it, of course, and doubtless the unaccustomed reader permits himself to be disconcerted too much by the disjointedness. Mrs Woolf has no turn for the plausible, and scorns the canny. But she does not appear to have much interest in character except as it is manifested in the capacity to receive and record impressions.
Reading this review, I felt both a deeper understanding and a twinge of defensiveness for Virginia. The novel itself may also be self-aware of the critics last comment in the line from Woolf that, “It is no use trying to sum people up.” Yet, isn't that what we as readers are trying to accomplish, in order to better understand the characters? The same anonymous continues later that:
[Y]et this is one of the most arroga