The Conceptualization of Time in Pre-Modernist and Modernist London - “Confessions of an English Opium-Eater,” “Mrs. Dalloway,” and “The Waste Land”
“Rigid, the skeleton of habit alone upholds the human frame”
Big Ben Clock Tower, London
“If she lived, doubtless we must have been sometimes in search of each other, at the
very same moment, through the mighty labyrinths of London; perhaps, even within
a few feet of each other - a barrier no wider in a London street, often amounting in
the end to a separation for eternity!... I should know her again amongst a thousand,
if I saw her for a moment” (De Quincey 1821).
This passage is one of my favorites, not only in Confessions of an English Opium-Eater, but amongst all the texts we have read. Written by Thomas De Quincey and published in 1821, this work is a biographical account of De Quincey’s experiences while addicted to opium in early 19th-century London. One notable aspect of this work is that it warns against the harms/dangers of opium while also exploring the pleasures of the drug through descriptive accounts of its influence on his psyche. Confessions is characterized by poeticism and vulgarity, which is, at least I think, partially why it gained so much fame.
While venturing through the streets of London, specifically through Swallow Street, the barely-adult, opium-addicted Thomas De Quincey met and fell in love with a prostitute named Ann. The later De Quincey’s retelling of this short-lasting and bittersweet love story, after Swallow Street had disappeared due to the industrialization London was undergoing, may be observed in the above passage, in which De Quincey both anguishes over and meditates on the possibility that he and Ann may have been in search of one another at the same point in time or space without even realizing it; but, being entrapped and restricted by these barriers, the “mighty labyrinths of London,” have created an eternal separation between the two.
Perhaps the most notable themes we may extract from this passage are those of Time and Space. De Quincey tells us that Swallow Street, where the young De Quincey used to walk to meet up with Ann, has been destroyed and is completely nonexistent in the later years that mark his “confessions”. Because of this, when the older De Quincey travels back to the space where Swallow Street used to be, in an effort to recollect his time with Ann and the feelings of nostalgia tied to it, he finds himself almost at a complete loss–for how can one evoke memories, associations, and nostalgia without the presence of that thing which those memories, associations, and nostalgia are tied to? Though this aspect of the themes of Time and Space is more contextual and not as directly related to this particular passage, it is nevertheless essential to point out when considering the way Time and Space are constantly, unavoidably, and in some ways tragically manipulated by the fast-paced, busyness of the city. This busyness, which earlier authors touch on–like William Blake in his poem “London,” or William Wordsworth in many of the poems that make up his work The Prelude–illustrates the fluidity of Time and Space in urban London, which one cannot help but get ‘lost’ in. De Quincey is a prime example of someone who found himself entangled in this fluidity of Time and Space, most recognizably during his addiction to opium, but also, even without being under the influence of a narcotic.
I find it interesting and worth mentioning also that the word “labyrinth” has two dictionary definitions: (1) “a complicated irregular network of passages or paths in which it is difficult to find one's way; a maze,” which makes sense when we consider the complexity of London’s geography; but also, (2) “a complex structure in the inner ear which contains the organs of hearing and balance.” Though De Quincey’s characterization of London as a conglomeration of “mighty labyrinths” is surely tied to the physical chartered geography and architectural landscape of the city, we cannot ignore the allusion to the importance of hearing and balance within this bustling, crowded, constantly stirring city. Again, this sense of hearing and balance is not only physical, but especially psychological, emotional, mental, and even spiritual. While enmeshed in the hustle and bustle of London, whether that be in its fluidity of time or maze-like atmosphere, De Quincey ponders the possibility of his and Ann’s crossing–or missing–of paths.
But this distortion of Time and Space is not even the thing which distresses De Quincey most; it is the fact that the author cannot control these distortions of Time and Space and the chaotic environment that is London. And to make matters even worse for him, the author has no clue whether Ann is dead or alive, which adds another layer of insecurity and instability onto his pre-existing ones. What’s also quite interesting, though, is that this lack of control due to distortions of Time and Space are quite frankly the exact feelings one gets (and actively seeks) when using opium. So, I find it incredibly paradoxical and intriguing that De Quincey, despite his being addicted to opium and writing his Confessions in part to shine a light on the euphoria that stems from the drug’s dissociative and out-of-body effects, he also condemns these feelings, caused by the city alone, when they prohibit him from rediscovering his love, Ann. The question in my mind then becomes: Is it only worth ‘losing’ oneself in Time and Space when this enables us to escape from what we view as mundane, unappealing, challenging, etc., but not when it hinders us from pursuing, feeling, and/or discovering Love? Does Love operate within the scope of Time and Space? I do not think so. But if it does not revolve itself around Time and Space, what else can it latch on to? Or does everything else revolve around Love? Though I lean toward the latter belief, De Quincey’s tragedy with Ann makes me question this: for if everything in life revolves around Love (the only real Universal Truth, I think), why was De Quincey never able to find and reunite with Ann? The only answer I can come up with (which, it might be noted, serves no purpose, really) is that perhaps De Quincey and Ann were simply not ‘meant to be’; perhaps Love, even though it may be the Sun which all other figurative planets revolve themselves around, does not always unfold life in our favor; perhaps Love is far beyond human understanding, and because of that, there is no way to truly know or make sense of its wonderful, confusing, and multitudinous manifestations. If this is so, I guess therein lies its beauty.
Virginia Woolf’s Mrs. Dalloway is one of my favorite works by Woolf and within my own conglomeration of favorite novels. Right behind it in my list of favorites is the poem The Waste Land by T.S. Eliot. Both of these works were written during the early 20th century, as London society was making its way into a ‘modern world’ characterized by an art, literary, and philosophical Modernist movement. Beginning with The Waste Land and its publication just three years before Mrs. Dalloway, this ground-breaking poem considers the sense of ‘unevenness’ that was born out of this time period which still held traces of pre-modern society but was obviously undergoing major modernization, specifically following the First World War. Relating the discordance that quite literally permeated through the post-war atmosphere of London to the period’s conceptualization of Time, we see an emerging emphasis on mechanical clock time in response to modernity’s need for social order. This desire for control sprouted from the turbulent circumstances created by the war, and Time–a phenomenon which can scarcely exist within the brutalities of war, where things like mass death and PTSD become almost normalized–perhaps seemed like the most reasonable and accessible way to gain a sense of control and reestablish social order, balance, and predictability. What is incredibly interesting about this may be observed in lines 141-173, the end of the poem, where Eliot writes “HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME.” (Side note: one would think Eliot meant to write “IT’S” instead of “ITS,” but I think his decision to disregard the apostrophe further hints to the distorted, ‘out-of-whack’ conceptualization of Time by the speaker, since “ITS” signifies someone or something’s ownership of “TIME,” as opposed to just simply saying “IT IS TIME.” The phrase can certainly mean both.). Both the phrase “HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME” and the lines in between each repetition of this phrase (for instance, “Goonight Bill. Goonight Lou. Goonight May. Goonight. / Ta ta. Goonight. Goonight. / Good night, ladies, good night, sweet ladies, good night, good / night”)* point us readers to the fact that even though the logics of Time are present in this poem, this age, and even though Time is technically progressing, it is also being thwarted and slowing down. It may be inferred then that Time, despite its definitive establishment and relative importance during this period, no longer ‘works’ (it is kind of like the big mechanical CLOCK imposed on London to provide stability, order, and a sense of ‘sanity’ has been broken; without it, how can Time be thus ‘properly’ conceptualized and followed?). In other words, just as a kind of climax is reached with the development of modernism, it all starts to fall apart–at least in the minds of those who are aware of its superficiality, such as artists, writers, philosophers, etc.. A good example of someone like this is the character Septimus in Mrs. Dalloway, who–while faced with the effects of PTSD–witnesses and experiences a temporal and spatial breakdown of Modern Time, governed by the clock. We see this in its fullest form on pages 57 and 58 of the book where Woolf writes:
But he himself [Septimus] remained high on his rock, like a drowned sailor on a rock. I leant over the edge of the boat and fell down, he thought. I went under the sea. I have been dead, and yet am now alive, but let me rest still; he begged (he was talking to himself again—it was awful, awful!); and as, before waking, the voices of birds and the sound of wheels chime and chatter in a queer harmony, grow louder and louder and the sleeper feels himself drawing to the shores of life, so he felt himself drawing towards life…
He had only to open his eyes; but a weight was on them; a fear. He strained; he pushed; he looked; he saw Regent's Park before him. Long streamers of sunlight fawned at his feet. The trees waved, brandished. We welcome, the world seemed to say; we accept; we create. Beauty, the world seemed to say…and now and again some chime (it might be a motor horn) tinkling divinely on the grass stalks—all of this, calm and reasonable as it was, made out of ordinary things as it was, was the truth now; beauty, that was the truth now. Beauty was everywhere…
‘It is time,’ said Rezia.
The word ‘time’ split its husk; poured its riches over him; and from his lips fell like shells, like shavings from a plane, without his making them, hard, white, imperishable words, and flew to attach themselves to their places in an ode to Time; an immortal ode to Time. He sang. Evans answered from behind the tree. The dead were in Thessaly, Evans sang, among the orchids. There they waited till the War was over, and now the dead, now Evans himself—(Woolf 57-8).
Septimus epitomizes the experience of ‘losing’ Time and losing oneself in a Time not conceptualized by modernity or the clock or things like “motor horns,” and therefore, also a loss of all the associations tied to the modern understanding of Time, which someone like Rezia lives by. Now, Septimus’s case is, of course, unfortunate in some ways, seeing that his ‘loss of Time’ stems from a condition caused by the traumas of WWI. However, the ‘distortions’ he experiences shine a light on the underlying ambiguity of Time, which can exist even without PTSD. The story’s author Virginia Woolf, for instance, is a prime example of this. She shows us that whether a person deals with PTSD or is just simply able to think outside the box of modernity (the mechanical clock), these seemingly crazy or mad or insane perceptions of Time are just as real as that created by the minute and hour hands of a clock.
But I guess the question is: how much good does it do us, or how worthwhile is it, to imagine Time in a different way from that of established clock time–or instead, to throw away the notion of Time altogether? Look at Septimus, look at Woolf herself: both took their lives. And of course, in the latter’s case at least, suicide as a viable option of escape or relief or whatever else arose from more just the individual’s own grapplings with this suffocating, oppressive, dominating sense of Time. But Time, at least in the modernist’s perspective, governs everything; so, how are we to truly live, to fully extract all the essence and Beauty and value and meaning out of Life as we can if we are constantly and inescapably bound by the constraints of mechanical time? Because sure, Time exists in one way or another–but only on an individual level, determined by each living thing’s logical conceptualization and desired perception (say, in terms of how it benefits or harms them) of Time and Life, and if/how they are intertwined. To answer my question: I do not know. I do not know how worth it is, or if it is even worthwhile at all, to break free from the chains of mechanical time and embrace our own individual view of it.
What to do?!
* Note the various depictions/distortions of the word “Goodnight”: Eliot first writes “Goonight,” which lacks the letter “d” and is used in reference to bidding the various first names mentioned in the same line a good night; then he writes “Good night,” separating the words “Good” and “night” as though they are distinct entities, also using this term when bidding farewell to “ladies” and “sweet ladies”; then, finally, in the last “good / night” Eliot creates a definitive division between the two words, this time separating them entirely through a line break. (I could go into the significance of these various uses of “Goodnight,” but I will save that for another essay).
~ Brinn Wallin
