
To The Lighthouse book cover (credit: Powell’s Books)
Freshman year is the gift that keeps on giving. Untoward anxiety about your future, LinkedIn connections, friends you spend sixteen hours out of the day with, and most importantly, a hefty collection of Literature Humanities books. Many of us know that trying walk back from Book Culture, with your $100 box of books for the entire year in your hands, or the painstaking process of visiting CLIO to try and get the last Library Reserves copy of the book you were supposed to read a week ago.
Although freshman year gave me the distinct and unforgettable (try as I must) memory of walking into LitHum with a cardboard box full of books, I didn’t know what was buried deep inside. Fast forward seven months, I cracked open To The Lighthouse by Virginia Woolf in April 2023. The lawns were busy, the weather was getting nicer, and I was almost done with my first year at Columbia University. Little did I know, the best was yet to come in LitHum.
For those of you who haven’t taken it yet (or were too busy with spring festivities first-year), I’ll try and explain. Beyond the foggy sight of a lighthouse lighting up the night sky lays the hazy world of Virginia Woolf’s To the Lighthouse. Set at the precipice of World War I, it paints a fragmented picture of the Ramsay family’s annual vacations to their summer house off the coast of Scotland. The novel, characterized by Woolf’s stream-of-consciousness writing style, lacks plot, dialogue, or action. Instead, Woolf uses the characters’ thoughts and observations to engross the readers in her mystery of time and reality. Although her novel is technically true to reality, she bends the rules of time and subverts our conceptualizations of her narrative world. One moment can take up ten pages, and ten years can take up one page.
In an early section of the book, an old friend of the patriarch of the Ramsay family, Mr. Bankes, reflects on their friendship. Woolf writes, “They both smiled, standing there. They both felt a common hilarity” (20). Mr. Bankes continues his rumination, thinking about how “Ramsay lived in a welter of children, whereas Bankes was childless and a widower,” until claiming “their friendship had petered out on a Westmorland road … their paths lying different ways” (21).
Woolf uses a shared memory to lure the reader into a false warmth, yanking it away and replacing it with truths about the passage of time. We can all feel the depth of their friendship through a moment shared in silence. Woolf moves their relationship, like the Greek Moirai, binding them through space and time before yanking them apart.
What a gut punch my first year of college. It was spring, and I thought I was about to see the light on the other side! But Virginia Woolf (and by proxy, my LitHum professor) yanked that away from me too. In To The Lighthouse, there is no other side. In fact, there are no sides at all. Time has no construct. She paints a world of art and love and relationships and memory, but no time. All the deadlines, the stress, the imagined futures weren’t as fixed as I thought. They could stretch, bend, collapse, or vanish, just like Woolf’s pages. Yes, I still had to submit my final LitHum paper and take my Latin final.
However, there was no straight line towards clarity. There was barely even a straight line back home to Maryland at the end of the semester. And returning home that summer wasn’t all quite I had hoped. I wasn’t suddenly on a different path, my familial relationships and home friendships turning left on Westmorland road, where I turned right. Perhaps it was a ripple. A stone skidding across the lake towards my own proverbial lighthouse. And Woolf refuses to let her characters, and refused to let me, escape that illusion.
Two years after that, my trip to the lighthouse still echoes. The sound of laughter late into the night echoes through my townhouse, even when everyone has left. When I turn on the lamp I bought at University Hardware in 2022, I’m back in my freshman year double again. But then the room lights up, and suddenly I’m not. In ten, twenty, or fifty years, I’m sure I’ll find these memories fragmented in my mind. Maybe I’ll find that some of my college friendships have been twisted by the relentless road.
Or maybe I’ll still have that same lamp, turn it on, and it will be April 2023 all over again, and I’m about to start To the Lighthouse for the first time.
Julia Sherman, CC’26
Work Cited:
Woolf, Virginia. To the Lighthouse. Mariner Books, 1981.