The Space Between Our Inner Worlds

An examination of how distance shapes perception in Virginia Woolf's 'To The Lighthouse'.

One of the core concerns of To The Lighthouse is the relationship between perception and reality. With the exception of the section titled ‘Time Passes’, subjectivity—personal perspective—seems to take centre stage. Virginia Woolf’s decision to employ stream-of-consciousness narration, a style characterised by its fragmented and fluid nature, highlights the complex and differentiated interior landscapes of every individual in the Ramsay household. Everyone’s experience of the same sequence of events is different; each perception is distinct. And yet, of course, it is also true that the world is comprised of certain objectivities—realities, truths—whose existence is not contingent on perception.

I am interested in investigating this tension. More specifically, I am interested in exploring the role of distance in shaping the relationship between perception and reality, the relationship at the heart of this tension. What do I mean by distance? In the first instance, I mean distance literally—that is, spatially—but I also mean it interpersonally—that is, the emotional proximity two people feel with one another’s experience—and, thirdly, temporally—that is, the effect that the passage of time has on memory, something we can think of as historical perception. I have chosen experiences of three characters—James Ramsay, Mrs. Ramsay and Lily Briscoe—as case studies for this investigation.

Let us begin at the end of the novel with James’ first close-up encounter of the lighthouse which he has observed from a distance since his early childhood. Before describing what he sees, Woolf frames his perception of the lighthouse according to his memory of it: “The Lighthouse was then a silvery, misty-looking tower with a yellow eyes, that opened suddenly, and softly in the evening.” (p.186). By framing his encounter with this memory, Woolf suggests to us that James’ perception of the lighthouse is inextricable from how it seemed to him as a young child. And yet:

“James looked at the Lighthouse. He could see the white-washed rocks; the tower, stark and straight; he could see that it was barred with black and white; he could see windows in it; he could even see washing spread on the rocks to dry. So that was the Lighthouse, was it?” (p.186).

This is the lighthouse he saw in the distance as a child, the lighthouse that his mother, with all her love and affection, wanted him to be able to visit; the lighthouse that his father prevented him from seeing. Its existence, its very reality, then, represents his mother’s love. Now that he is up close to it, however, James sees the lighthouse as it really is. His romantic notions of its “yellow eyes” and “silvery, misty-looking” façade are uprooted by its “stark and straight… black and white” actuality. The suddenness of this realisation is captured neatly by the hyphen, “Now—” (p.186) to end the paragraph.

And so he is faced with a choice: now that temporal and spatial distance—the factors which have shaped his perception of the lighthouse most strongly— have been removed, will he allow his memory of his mother, a memory so intrinsically linked with the “silvery, misty-looking tower”, also to be cast aside? He reaches his conclusion in the very next line: “No, the other was also the Lighthouse. For nothing was simply one thing. The other Lighthouse was true too.” (p.186). James decides that reality is not as important as perception. Indeed, he decides that his memory—what we might think of as his perception from temporal distance—is a form of reality not less veracious than what he sees before him now. In other words, distance matters, and the removal of distance, whether spatial, temporal or emotional, does not necessarily clarify reality.

If this is one example which helps us understand the role of distance in shaping the relationship between perception and reality, let us consider another, this time through two scenes which depict the experience of Mrs. Ramsay. The first occurs at the dinner when Mrs. Ramsay, animated by the intensity of hosting, has a moment of supernatural interpersonal perception during which everything—and everyone—seems to move in slow motion. In a moment of penetrating sagacity, “her eyes were so clear that they seemed to go round the table unveiling each of the people, and their thoughts and their feelings, without effort…” (p.106) So swept up is she with concern for her guests’ experiences of the evening, she seems to be drawn into a kind of intimacy—a closeness—with their subjective point of view. This is particularly true for her sense of Mr. Ramsay’s experience, a sign of the intimacy that exists within their marriage:

“It was as if she had antennae trembling out from her, which, intercepting certain sentences, forced them upon her attention. This was one of them. She scented danger for her husband. A question like that would lead, almost certainly, to something being said which reminded him of his own failure.” (p.107).

Woolf’s use of synaesthesia to convey that Mrs. Ramsay could “scent danger” in a statement on behalf of her husband attests her sense of proximity to—her lack of interpersonal distance from—his perception of the world. Similarly, in the ultimate scene of ‘The Window’, during which Mrs. Ramsay “triumphs” (p.124) over her husband, we witness what seems to be a narrowing of the liminal space between two people, an aligning of their perceptions of reality. Mrs. Ramsay knows “that [Mr. Ramsay] was thinking, You are more beautiful than ever. Will you not tell me just for once that you love me?” (p.123) This seems to be another instance of Mrs. Ramsay’s self-assuredness that she is able to perceive reality from the perspective of another, that she is able to close the interpersonal distance between her and her husband. Indeed, she feels such an intimate understanding of Mr. Ramsay that she believes she is able to communicate her love for him through a smile and with a simple acknowledgement of his sound prediction of the weather. This communication of love, the result of which is that “he knew” (p.124), seems to be a celebration of intimacy, of the ability of this woman to close the interpersonal distance between herself and her husband to such an extent that their perception of reality, even for just a moment, aligns without crinkle. As opposed to our examination of James’ encounter of the lighthouse, in which the removal of spatial and temporal distance does not necessarily clarify reality, Mrs. Ramsay’s conduct seems to elevate the closing of interpersonal distance in order that two people might share a perception of reality.

Before either of these scenes, however, there is a moment which may lead us to doubt the validity of Mrs. Ramsay’s perception. It occurs in the mind of Lily who, recognising “the complexity of things” (p.102) as they pertain to her art, reflects that, “what happened to her, especially staying with the Ramsays, was to be made to feel violently two opposite things at the same time; that’s what you feel, was one; that’s what I feel, was the other, and then they fought together in her mind, as now.” (p.102). Lily, standing at a distance from the Mr./Mrs. Ramsay dynamic, recognises just how radically different two people’s perception of the same sequence of events can be. We must ask ourselves, therefore, whether Mrs. Ramsay’s perception of the world is trustworthy. If Lily recognises it to be so different from Mr. Ramsay’s perception, can they both be accurate, or must at least one of them be a delusion? Is it that her high levels of empathy allow her to perceive reality more exactly than him? Or, as we saw in the case of James’ perception of the lighthouse, can two perceptions of the one reality be true at the same time?

(An artist’s impression of Lily Briscoe’s painting: https://benjaminbagocius.com/.)

In order to add some nuance to our discussion, let us close with an examination of Lily Briscoe’s struggle to convey reality through her painting. Lily’s struggle is, in fact, not just to convey reality through her painting, but to perceive reality with enough insight that she might be able to convey its essence onto the canvas abstractly. Lily thinks that she “must hold the scene—so—in a vise and let nothing come in and spoil it” (p.201); her vision has to be clear. But as she seeks to express her vision through her art, she wants to appeal to the viewer in such a way that they might “feel simply that’s a chair, that’s a table, and yet at the same time, It’s a miracle, it’s an ecstasy.” (p.202). It seems that Lily’s artistic burden is to become close enough to her subject matter that its abstract essence becomes concrete in her own mind, while at the same time remaining distant enough from it so as not to nullify its broader essence, the very element which makes her abstract art compelling. Indeed, Lily’s struggle is not only artistic but also temporal; the temporal distance that now extends between this moment and the memory she holds of her subject matter—Mrs. Ramsay and the household as it used to be—obstructs her ability to paint. In a moment of sharp literality, Woolf crystallises the significance of distance in determining the relationship between perception and reality thus:

“So much depends then, thought Lily Briscoe…, so much depends, she thought, upon distance: whether people are near or far from us…” (p.191).

Here is expressed, it seems, the very heart of what Virginia Woolf conveys so powerfully throughout her novel: distance is a key factor in shaping our perception of reality. In James’ case, proximity to the lighthouse distances him from his memory of his mother; he chooses, therefore, to focus on his perception of the lighthouse from the window of his home, from distance, in order to remain close to his mother. And in Lily Briscoe’s case, her realisation that distance shapes one’s perception of things seems to liberate her to see her subject matter more holistically. Indeed, as she thinks about the distant Mr. Ramsay landing on the shore, she looked at her “blurred” canvas and, “with a sudden intensity, as if she saw it clear for a second, she drew a line there, in the centre.” (p.209). It seems that an appreciation of distance allows Lily to perceive the essence of her own painting—a piece of art richly imbued with everything the now-gone Mrs. Ramsay represented—with renewed clarity. It is this clarity that allows her to say, “It was done; it was finished. Yes, she thought, laying down her brush in extreme fatigue, I have had my vision.” (p.209).

References

Woolf, V. (1927). To The Lighthouse. Mariner Classics: New York.