EVA POLYVIOU
Published in Greek in Paideia News on 10 April 2021
This year marks 80 years since the death of the iconic modernist writer Virginia Woolf (1882–1941) and 92 years since the publication of her classic essay A Room of One’s Own (Hogarth Press, 1929), which appeared in Greek as Ένα δικό σου δωμάτιο (Odysseas, 1980) and more recently with the slightly modified title Ένα δικό της δωμάτιο (Metaichmio, 2019).
The essay was based on two lectures Woolf delivered in October 1928 at Newnham and Girton, two traditional women’s colleges at the University of Cambridge. It is rightly regarded as a landmark in women’s literary studies, in which Woolf links women’s literary writing with the socioeconomic and intellectual emancipation of women: “A woman must have money and a room of her own if she is to write fiction.” In other words, a woman needs a stable income that ensures her financial independence and a private space—both literal and metaphorical—in which she can create and express herself freely, as men do.
To further illustrate her argument, Woolf invents a character, Judith, the sister of William Shakespeare and an equally—if not more—talented playwright. Judith feels an irresistible need to write, but unlike her brother, who is encouraged and celebrated, she is forced to suppress her creativity, as neither society nor her family values her work. She marries unwillingly, has children, and ultimately descends into madness and suicide. The hypothetical case of Judith Shakespeare makes us reflect on how many female Shakespeares—or Prousts, Joyces, and Eliots—went unnoticed in the darkness of prejudice, and how different the literary canon might be today if women had been given the same opportunities as men earlier.
Woolf, of course, addressed a narrow circle of educated and privileged women, much like herself—women whose fathers or husbands could theoretically provide the means to write. As she notes in another lecture in 1931, later included in The Death of the Moth and Other Essays (Harcourt Brace, 1942), women’s writing could be accepted in a male-dominated environment, provided it was seen as a “respectable” and “harmless” pursuit that did not disrupt domestic harmony.
But how can a woman who wishes to write be honest with herself and others under such conditions? Woolf answers this question in her 1931 lecture: to make serious claims, a woman must first “kill the angel in the house,” the archetype of the charming, sweet, selfless, and pure woman, borrowing the title from Coventry Patmore’s well-known poem The Angel in the House (1854). In other words, to gain the “room of her own” that men take for granted, a woman must shed the perfect image imposed by generations of patriarchy and secure the right to think, feel, desire, and express herself freely. For Woolf and her contemporaries, writing was not simply a form of creative expression but above all a political act, inseparably linked to the feminist ideals of their time.
Turning to our era, one might assume that the situation—at least in the Western world—has improved. Gender equality is legally protected, access to higher education is no longer the privilege of a small elite but the right of any woman who seeks it, and economic independence is theoretically ensured through the right to work. We say “theoretically” because in practice, financial insecurity remains a major problem for millions of young women in the West, who often must live with parents or partners they do not love because they lack the income to afford their own space. This is not just a women’s issue but a broader generational challenge, with long-term implications for the arts and letters.
Let us focus, then, on Woolf’s notion of a “room of her own”—a space for free and creative expression, where a woman is not subjected to interference or censorship. How many educated and talented women today truly have such a space? The answer could be many, judging by the literary output of the past five decades, in which women’s presence has increased dramatically. Contemporary women write, publish, enter literary competitions, and win awards. At the same time, what Hélène Cixous termed “écriture féminine” in her 1975 manifesto Le rire de la Méduse continues to gain traction, developing a theoretical framework enriched by examples of internationally renowned writers such as Virginia Woolf, Marguerite Duras (1914–1996), Toni Morrison (1931–2019), and Clarice Lispector (1920–1977).
Yet there is another side to the coin. Most women writers who gain critical or popular recognition tend, consciously or unconsciously, to reproduce—or at best not challenge—the contradictory contemporary stereotype of feminine nature: strong yet tender, intelligent yet sensitive, passionate yet graceful, outspoken yet moderate or introspective. Traits such as “tenderness,” “sensitivity,” “grace,” and “lyricism” are what critics have traditionally sought in women’s writing. It is therefore unsurprising that many women practice self-censorship, often harsher than any they might have endured under patriarchy.
Striking the right balance between authentic expression and satisfying readers and critics is challenging for any artist, yet it remains the Achilles’ heel for women striving to enter a literary canon shaped without them. Navigating ambitions, social expectations, personal desires, and guilt, it seems easier for a 21st-century woman to secure her own home or office than truly to possess a “room of her own.” Perhaps this is why, even 80 years after Virginia Woolf’s death, and despite the remarkable increase in female literary output, genuinely distinctive and enduring voices among women writers remain comparatively rare.
