An Unwritten Novel by Virginia Woolf

----> Link to the story

Since I read this on my Kindle, I had no idea in what context the story took place (because the novel doesn't come with the handy-dandy "teaser" on the back cover). At first, I imagined it to be some sort of ramble about a character in a book, as the narrator was creating stories in her mind. That was rather inspirational I must admit, although it was completely wrong. And so, I googled it and the All Knowing One linked me to Pol Culture:
"The narrator is a passenger on a commuter train. At first, she is absorbed in her newspaper, but she finds herself distracted by the faces of the other passengers."
Well then! And so, I reread the story- and it seemed to make more sense! Even though, honestly, I still don't understand all of it. I got lost in some parts of it.

" [...] so many crimes aren't your crime; your crime was cheap; only the retribution solemn; for now the church door opens, the hard wooden pew receives her; on the brown tiles she kneels; every day, winter, summer, dusk, dawn (here she's at it) prays."

"I was heading her over the waterfall, straight for madness, when, like a flock of dream sheep, she turns t'other way and runs between my fingers."

"Have I read you right? But the human face--the human face at the top of the fullest sheet of print holds more, withholds more."

She expands on the term "to read a person" by actually comparing it to a sheet of print.

"Hang still, then, quiver, life, soul, spirit, whatever you are of Minnie Marsh--I, too, on my flower--the hawk over the down--alone, or what were the worth of life?"

She refers to her concept of Minnie Marsh- she wants to dwell on it, or what is life worth?

"There I've hidden them all this time in the hope that somehow they'd disappear, or better still emerge, as indeed they must, if the story's to go on gathering richness and rotundity, destiny and tragedy, as stories should, rolling along with it two, if not three, commercial travellers and a whole grove of aspidistra."

"How the mud goes round in the mind--what a swirl these monsters leave, the waters rocking, the weeds waving and green here, black there, striking to the sand, till by degrees the atoms reassemble, the deposit sifts itself, and again through the eyes one sees clear and still,"

"But when the self speaks to the self, who is speaking?--the entombed soul, the spirit driven in, in, in to the central catacomb; the self that took the veil and left the world--a coward perhaps, yet somehow beautiful, as it flits with its lantern restlessly up and down the dark corridors."

"There's the vista and the vision--there's the distance--the blue blot at the end of the avenue, while, after all, the tea is rich, the muffin hot"

This gave me the impression that whatever we see, we see as a "vista" and a "vision" outside of ourselves. As if we were looking out of a window, detached from ourselves. Of course, this probably isn't what Virginia meant.

Supported by the title, the concept of the book is almost a memorial-a "prayer for the departed, some obsequy for the souls of those one nods to, the people one never meets again"-for the things that never were: hinting at the unlimited world of "what-ifs" and possibilities. I feel like she writes this to literally bring this vague world into reality, just by the simple of act of writing it. Usually such wonderings and questions about strangers on the street are nothing more than fleeting thoughts, that are usually barely noticed. One thinks these thoughts in the moment, and soon are lost to the whirlwind of the continuation of life. You think these thoughts, and oh, there's your stop, leaving the connection you had formed in your mind forever there, and forget about it. As new worries, new thoughts envelop you. But no, Virginia commemorates these fleeting thoughts by recording them and turning it into a real story; engraving it on a sheet of paper, if you will.

I remember thinking about such things while on a train, wondering about other people's lives- but that seems to be so far in the past, so much has happened since. My life has moved on from that single thought (naturally: one doesn't want to be stuck on a train forever, spending one's time wondering about other people) and left it behind in the past. But it seems like Virginia refuses to move on, by writing this story directly confronting this vague sense of wondering.

The narrator immerses herself so much in her speculation that she even forgets whether it was she created this reality, or if it is really real. "There she is, tight to her blossom; opening her hand-bag, from which she takes a hollow shell--an egg--who was saying that eggs were cheaper? You or I? Oh, it was you who said it on the way home, you remember, when the old gentleman, suddenly opening his umbrella--or sneezing was it?" As if she's talking to the woman saying, "Oh no, no remember? This is really what happened." She seems to actually convince the person she is silently communicating with, as well as herself, that what she created is real. Why does she need to do this? Why does she need her imaginings to be real? Maybe she is looking for some connection with these characters, but at the same time wanting to be detached from them- find comfort in these silent communications. She becomes attached to them in some very intimate, and yet impersonal manner. And I think she prefers that. She prefers to muse about them, instead of asking them outright "What is your story?". She loves them in her own way, thinking of their feelings and desperations, and yet, they are still a concept to her. These characters are merely just sources of inspiration. Therefore, they themselves don't matter- only the stories they generate. "I come irresistibly to lodge myself somewhere on the firm flesh, in the robust spine, wherever I can penetrate or find foothold on the person, in the soul, of Moggridge the man." Anywhere, just to get a source of inspiration. It is merely a "foothold" for her imagination. Once James leaves the train, the narrator says, "James Moggridge is dead now, gone for ever." He might as well be dead, as far as she is concerned. Because he was alive to her as long as he stood in the same train as her. So as they left, the narrator felt empty because she lost her only connection to them as concepts, "Well, my world's done for! What do I stand on? What do I know? That's not Minnie. There never was Moggridge. Who am I? Life's bare as bone." She realizes that it really wasn't real, and that she made it all up. And yet, at the end she still loves them for their vaguness, because to her, they exist in her mind as Minnie and Moggridge. "Wherever I go, mysterious figures, I see you, turning the corner, mothers and sons; you, you, you. I hasten, I follow...If I fall on my knees, if I go through the ritual, the ancient antics, it's you, unknown figures, you I adore; if I open my arms, it's you I embrace, you I draw to me--adorable world!" She adores them for what they mean to her. That's something- that's more than most.

--
From "The Works of Virginia Woolf: 12 Novels and Short Stories in One Volume"
Published by Halcyon Classics