I listened to the gentleman ahead, Gabriel Conroy, as he told me the story of what had brought him here today. He had begun first with the party his wife, and he had attended. It reminded me so much of those that I had helped throw in Darlington Hall. I wondered then if this man had ever been under my services at Darlington Hall, as he did seem to be quite a standup fellow – aside from the fact that this man was very clearly Irish bred and born. Not that I have a problem with the Irish; it is just they so often have a problem with the English. But not this gentleman. He is quite special in his own position – and most dignified. In fact, he appeared to have a dignified personality that resembled most English men I know.

‘I beg your pardon, sir. I do not mean to interrupt your tale – as I am most interested in it. However, I must ask where you come from. I do not mean to insult you, and I understand from your tone that you are Irish, but your demeanor tells me that you are an Englishman.’ I said to him, trying to approach politely. Some Irish folk can be quite sensitive about their country. Luckily, he said:

‘Why yes, I am Irish. However, I have traveled extensively within the United Kingdom, and I write a literary column for The Daily Express every Wednesday.’

After his response, he seemed to be puzzled by the fact that he had spewed forth for a moment. Yet, he eventually got his wits about him and continued on about his tale once again. I wondered if his work had been an issue of great pain for him perhaps. I did not mean to intrude with my questioning. I can see how work could be troubling for the gentleman. I relate on my own accord. I am endlessly proud of my work. I served Lord Darlington with the best years of my life. I only wonder if they may have been spent better – perhaps if Mrs Benn had remained Miss Kenton. That is, if she had remained with me at Darlington Hall. However tempting that thought may be, it is fleeting and dishonest. Mrs Benn lives a happy life. Separate from all of the hustle and bustle that remains at Darlington Hall. And I, too, have found my own path away from Darlington Hall – at least, I do hope to find the electricity if I ever do escape this churchyard.
The gentleman proceeded to divulge an epiphany that he had experienced that night regarding his wife. As he continued, all I could think was how insulted I was that he had ever compared us. How could we have ever been in similar states of mind? I am sure this man had honorable intentions with his wife, but from the sounds of it he could not be farther from the ideal sutor. I find it hard to understand why this man ever thought he was a good husband. I suppose I am no expert on the issue – I never was a husband. But perhaps, in one view, you could say I was married to my work. I served and protected the grounds of Darlington Hall to the absolute best of my ability, and is that not what a husband provides unto a wife?

Maybe my relationship with Darlington Hall was less of a convent of marriage than it was like a parent and child. I loved Darlington Hall, and I still do. But I do not believe I ever fancied Darlington Hall in the way a husband does a wife. No, I have only fancied one like that before. It was a terrifying ordeal to say the least.

That’s when I realized I was doing it again. I keep doing this, don’t I? I can hear Mrs Benn’s words rattling in my head:

‘One can’t be forever dwelling on what might have been. One should realize one has as good as most, perhaps better, and be grateful.’

It did not really settle until now, but I finally understood the message that she wished to convey. I shall, Mrs Benn, I shall. In doing so, my first action was to escape the dreadful conversation and company of Gabriel Conroy. I do not wish to remain dwelling on this time, wishing I had escaped but never had.

‘If you’ll excuse me, sir. It was a pleasure to meet you, but I must go now. Take care, sir.’ I said as I rose from my position. I left the churchyard that afternoon with damaged trousers but a much more content person as I had finally escaped that dreadful dwelling and buried it in the churchyard.

Lily was employed as the caretaker’s daughter to serve Miss Kate and Miss Julia to any accord. To be in the position of a servant is an honor, especially to a significant member of society. To demonstrate the ability of dignity, there must be confinement of liberation and loyalty to one’s employer. While Miss Kate and Miss Julia had the luxury of gossip and hysterics, the staff assuredly did not. Concerning many a distinguished house, the service entails the capability of alertness and ability. The modest diamond-bone sirloins, three-shilling tea, and the best-bottled stout that Lily prepared for her three mistresses certify class and nobility, but only for regular occasions. The annual Christmas dinner party hosted at the Morkan house was always a grand affair, and those in service ascertain all preparations are in order. Mr. Conroy’s delayed arrival time ceaselessly burdened Miss Julia and Miss Kate, which justifiably excused their agitated demeanor. It had been years since Kate and Julia had left the house in Stoney Batter thereafter their brother Pat’s passing, and taken Mary Jane to live with them on Usher’s Island. Mary Jane is their only niece and ascended to being a respected woman of the household equipped with extraordinary musical ability, of course, whom Lily would also have to answer to. It must be something lingering in the air, what could possibly be the cause for Gabriel’s absence? This nature is to be expected of Freddy Malins who is possibly preparing his intoxicated state prior to arrival at the property. Attendance to Miss Morkan’s annual dance is a dull, repetitive endeavor for Mr. Gabriel Conroy. Upon Mr. and Mrs. Conroy’s arrival and entrance into the house, Lily made it clear to Gabriel that his presence had been anticipated for some time. Beaming ear to ear Mr. Conroy replied eagerly, it was not his quality to arrive after the estimated expectance time, but in fact because of the extended time it takes for Mrs. Conroy to appear presentable for such an event. Succeeding Lily’s announcement of the arrival of Mrs. Conroy below the stairs, the hidden, unsteadied figures from above met Mrs. Conroy in an embrace. It was of utmost importance to ensure Gabriel’s arrival before sweeping Mrs. Conroy up the steps. Thereafter, Lily guided Mr. Conroy into the pantry to remove his outdoor garments. To attempt to break the silence, Gabriel thought to engage in what the unrefined Americans defer to as “small talk”. Asking Lily if she still went to school would determine the maturity of her decision and course of life. Lily replied assuredly that she would not be returning to school for many years, which introduced the possibility of marriage. How lovely for this young girl, she has my warmest congratulations! Alas, the reaction to this question was not to be expected. She spoke with great bitterness against men and love entirely. Overwhelmed by generosity, Gabriel offered a coin to Lily to kindly repay his ill-spoken moment. As a dignified servant, the right thing would be to allow Mr. Conroy to do as he pleases, and avoid upsetting him. Fortunately, Lily accepted the coin from Mr. Conroy and could free him from any guilt weighing on his chest. Unfortunately, Lily could not maintain her composure and demonstrated weakness by being spiteful to Mr. Conroy. Gabriel prepares a speech every year and this year was no different. Being a graduate of Royal University, he had the education to transcend all the guests’ intelligence. Under no circumstances could Gabriel relate to any of the guests or servants, they would not be able to comprehend his thinking or intellect.  The recognition of Robert Browning is evidence of Gabriel’s superiority,  I admire his transition from Irish to English support, it is far more dignified. It is in this moment where an awareness of social divisions is glaringly obvious. Mr. Conroy though he failed Lily, and will make a fool of himself by quoting poetry that is refined and cultured. Then, he saw his wife and reminded of his responsibility as her husband, the rules that must be made and followed, or else there would simply be chaos! Whilst Greta criticized Gabriel’s galoshes which were an invention of the future,  Freddy Malins posed a risk to the entire event. Once again, the responsibility lies on Gabriel’s broad shoulders, would any task be accomplished without his capability? 

Mr. Browne and Miss Furlong, Miss Daly, and Miss Power join for refreshment as Miss Kate had a direct course to exit. The dances emerge, and the quadrilles demand to be attended to. The partners get assigned, excitement is buzzing,  and Gabriel still has the responsibility of supervising Freddy.  Mary Jane captured all but Gabriel and my attention with her Academy piece. The  meladoy was one I would not appriciate. Suddenly, Mr. Conway found himself paired with a prideful Irish woman. She began to bother him with what his business was with The Daily Express, while Gabriel felt his opinions should not be shouted about. West Briton is the term of an Irish person who supports English control, which truly is the most educated decision an Irish person could make. Gabriel was forced to defend his position as a writer and consequently deflect his West Briton identity. Miss Ivors allowed Mr. Conroy to honestly reflect on his relationship with his wife because of the vastly different social classes. Gretta being from Connacht is not something Gabriel associates with because he would rather go to France or Belgium to escape the Irish society and life of Dublin. Ultimately Gabriel makes his position known as he spoke, ‘if it comes to that, you know, Irish is not my language.’ This statement refers to Miss Ivors being a firm believer in the Irish homeland being the only land needed to inhabit, other places would not be worth visiting. (This unfortunately excludes Darlington Hall of course) West Briton rings an alarming bell within Gabriel’s conscience, which unexpectedly causes an internal conflict of his moral standards. Afterward, Greta does not understand what Gabriel is experiencing, so Gabriel must act cold to Greta, to survive. The cold outside the home entices Gabriel, the Wellington Monument would be all the more pleasant than battling an additional Irish nationalist. As the night continues, Gabriel continues to fight and he wins a small battle when Miss Ivors decides to leave the party.

Finally, the momentous event had arrived. The carving of the goose. Gabriel proudly took his seat at the head of the table and exchanged plates with the guests. The time for speech was present. So it began. Mr. Conroy discussed a new generation, which is mainly self-reflective, and discussed that the present is the time for new ideas and certain qualities of humanity that belonged to the older day. Now the time is for thinking and development. The days are too short to give up on what you fully believe in. The union of Irish culture surrounding Gabriel made him want to leave, they do not truly understand his ideology. For the Three Graces of the Dublin musical world, Gabriel continues his revolutionary speech, but  Aunt Julia is not able to comprehend. All the guests drink for the health and prosperity of the Three Graces, and especially for themselves as well. After an abundance of singing and laughter, Gabriel found himself gazing at a woman whose feminine characteristics enticed him, revealing him to be his wife. She was quite distracted and her attention to the music left her frozen on the staircase. Bartell D’arcy, the musician who could not sing the entire night left the remaining inhabitants in shock. The Lass of Augbrin awoke Greta, and Gabriel saw a beauty in her that he sought to possess. The fleeting night was calling, and  Mr. D’Arcy, Miss O’Callaghan, Gabriel, and Greta departed. Gabriel desired Greta to meet his eyes and be obnoxiously affectionate. He longed to be alone with her, everything was aligned in Gabriel’s mind during the walk to the cab. Could one call it feelings of love? The cab trekked across the O’Connell Bridge and Gabriel distinguished a white man on the statue. Gabriel was delighted to pay the driver and cordially wished them a prosperous New Year. Mr. Conway felt immensely proud of his wife and reminded her of her touch and memories. Logically I think, love is a construct to avoid employment, and there must be control for success. Gabriel was prepared for nobility once again, he shot the lock to their room and gazed down the street to keep his impulses in check. A complication arose, and his emotions were shielded due to an inopportune moment. Gabriel began speaking go Malins, and displaying true generosity in front of the woman he loves, why is she not responding correspondingly to him?  Then, she kissed him, and he put his hands on her hair. Strangely, the complication seemed to answer itself, he had to wait for her to present herself to him. Gretta is silent with the thundering thoughts quarreling in her mind.  Gabriel now thought he understood her, Gretta erupted in a combative response. The Lass of Augbrim, a traditional Irish song revealed a secret Gretta hid. Gretta was provoked to remember her passionate, tragic true love. The grave of Micahel Furey. As Gabriel told me the tale, it was not love Gretta was seeking from Gabriel, Gretta had been in love already. Michael Furey and Gretta were involved in their earlier years, and he faced a death in the gasworks at the age of seventeen. Michael sacrificed his health to see Gretta again, and paid the price for her. Time is fleeting and death never ceases in any circumstance. Gabriel’s indecisive identity and relations with Greta cost him happiness and his life. I feel Mrs. Benn could have been my life, but at what cost? I would not know life without servitude and sacrifice for my employers.  As a foreigner to Ireland, Dublin is vastly different from life at Darlington Hall. I believe, a quality that will mark out the English landscape to any objective observer as the most deeply satisfying in the world, and this quality is probably best summed up by the term ‘greatness.’ I would say that it is the very lack of obvious drama or spectacle that sets the beauty of our land apart. What is pertinent is the calmness of that beauty, its sense of restraint.

N: An unseasonably cold day in London had led me to the depths of Waterstones in Piccadilly, where after many shelves perused and many titles purchased, I found myself tucked away at a  table of the 5th View Restaurant. Far beyond the bar, where echos of “Guinness!” bounced off the finished wood, I sat pressed into the right wall’s corner, fiddling with the aglet reading “Earl Grey” that hung from my near-empty cup. Staring into the cork-colored drink, I laid out the rest of the trip’s plans, and had thought to signal the waiter, when I was alerted to unfamiliar voices in heated debate.

W: “James, you cannot honestly believe that what you have just said is not identical to what I have been explaining for the past half-hour!”

The jay’s song dissolved in the air and settled amongst the crowd who, ignorant to life’s sudden wind, remained, sighing collectively for all sorrows, unable to commit it to the sea, but no uptorn shore or violent wave could have shaken the gaze from the distant table.

N: For there she was, Virginia Woolf, blooming with grace. You will forgive me not immediately noticing the gentleman beside her, or the one at the hostess stand, until my line of sight was cut, and I saw James Joyce offer his left elbow toward her. The couple walked to a table adjacent to mine where the second man waited. Upon further inspection, I realized I was looking at Kazuo Ishiguro, and was all of a sudden grateful for my covert angle with which to view and hear the ensuing conversation. I pulled my laptop out of my briefcase, and ordered another cup of tea.

J: “O Ginny, I really do believe that what I am saying is entirely different, and that one’s self and one’s environment are not equal contenders when one chooses to write. Did Jung not say that it is our inner child that affects us for all of life? And is it not the environment that child was nurtured in that takes half the blame of our future wellbeing? Why then, should it not be the purpose of all literature to understand the places we were raised?”

W: “James, you know that I find you truly remarkable, but I cannot believe that, as you seem to suggest, one’s self can be half-removed from where we happened to see our early years, or that who we once were is anymore important as to who we are now.”

J: “Ginny, I do not think you are fully hearing-”

W: “On the contrary, James, I believe my ears are working just fine.”

N: Playful banter, I think, though awfully passionate for it to be inconsequential. While Joyce and Woolf were consumed with one another, Ishiguro was rather quiet, stoic even, and ordered a round of afternoon tea.

W: “People ebb and flow throughout their existence, do they not? And as people shift, does society not as well? It is certainly more telling of the greater human experience to explore how one changes throughout their life rather than chronicle how their life was. To live in our organized society shows as much human dilemma as is needed to come to grips with who we are; literature proves that.”

N: A cloud passed by the window, darkening Woolf’s once illuminated face, but the dim light overhead left Joyce and Ishiguro quite plainly visible.

J: “How very Russian of you.”

N: Ishiguro peered at the pair through his rectangular frames.

I: “If you will allow me to interject, could one not argue that it is our past we search for in writing, an understanding of how we came to be through the time before us?”

N: It was at this time the tea arrived, and the group was left to mull over the suggestion. Ishiguro splashed milk into his tea, as did Woolf, who added two sugar cubes. Joyce left his as is.

W: “While that may be part of it, Kazuo, I do not think that it is what we can call the purpose. In a properly conveyed written idea, any reader will be able to see the progression, see the character’s conscious, and if not relate to it, recognize what it means for the greater world; reflecting on one’s self and using it as a vessel for a larger group; holding a mirror to society; that is true purpose, and that is good literature.”

J: “You make it seem so philosophical, Virginia, but isn’t it the way one grew up that affects how they view themselves and their future surroundings? No matter how desperately one tries, it will always be what was known to us as children that impacts us the most, making the task of a writer not only to explore such events, but analyze them, explain them.”

N: The sun was further covered, and the bench holding Woolf and Joyce was sent into complete shade. Joyce’s monologue seemed to have tired him a bit, for his posture slightly failed and he reached for a scone, smearing clotted cream on the face and taking a bite.

J: “If we can agree on one thing, it is that for literature to not convey some point, whether that is who we are, what we have experienced, and where we come from, would be a complete waste of paper.”

N: Woolf grabbed a cucumber sandwich, biting the corner.

W: “A waste.”

N: Ishiguro looked up from his tea, his plate free of residue.

I: “A waste indeed. However, it would also be a waste not to realize the influence of the past on how we see the future, how we live in the world, how we view the world. Is it not our nation’s history, our nation’s evolution, that has formed our core identity? Is it not the parents who imprint on the youth, altering their perceptions in ways never known? And it all remains distinctly different from our environment, from what we remember.”

N: Woolf looked up from her tobacco-dusted fingers in time for the sky to cloud in entirety, and the table sat still in the shadows.

I: “That is, of course, all speculation of what can understand by some compulsion we share.”

N: The table laughed, and finished their tea with a debate over greek philosophy and ideology, but that is a blog post for another time. Around half past three, the group stood, Woolf linking to the left of Joyce, Ishiguro parting the way, and walked into the gloomy streets of London. So, as I sit with what I have heard, and weigh each argument with its counter long after the departure of the trio, I have realized that the nuance in conversation was so little, and they all, in fact, were cheering for the same opponent; had the same victor. And when I left 5th View, and Waterstones, and left in search of hot cross buns, I find the only thoughts in my head of the purpose of discrepancy, or the meaning of anything at all.

My life is now drastically different without my serving of Lord Darlington. Miss Kenton in her last letter believes it would be a nice change for me. She thinks I have spent too much of my life in the same place and need to see more of this world.  I must say my dismissal from Darlington Hall is not one that I expected. After all, I just did as Lord Darlington asked of me. It appears the lengths I went to to achieve the explanation of life as a married man were unwanted.  However, it seems that I could not have given Lord Darlington what he asked. I do not know the married life myself.  To this day I still think of my dismissal. I am now on my way to my new place of business. My life as a butler continues on.  Lord Darlington in my dismissal spared me some. He is sending me to a well-off man. Political I believe and of high stature in his town.  I have now been employed by a man and lady by the name of Dalloway.  They live in London, Westminster particularly.  I know very little of these people; and what they would have me do; I am not even sure of the estate I will be serving.  To forget my life at Darlington Hall is to lose myself and the life I have made for myself.  And dear Miss Kenton. What an astounding housekeeper she was. At her request, I will continue to write her about my new life. What a wonderful woman. Gone now I suppose. My journey to my new life should not be long however, I am seeing the landscape, nature, and the world in a light I have not quite seen before. Everything looks simply different. I am not quite sure if this is a good thing or not.  Westminister, what a bustling town. Not quite the pace I am accustomed to.  I arrived at the Dalloway estate to find no one was there, which was quite awkward if I do say so myself.  “Why hello there”.  A sudden voice. I turned to find a bird-like woman carrying flowers. “May I help you?” “Yes perhaps. I am looking for a Mr. Dalloway”.  As this woman opened the door to the estate, I saw a flash of my new life right before me. This woman, made her way gracefully about the house as if it were hers. “Excuse me miss, are you the housekeeper here? I really must speak to Mr. Dalloway.”  “Why sir I am no housekeeper. Do I look as though I might be one? I assure you you are speaking to Mrs. Dalloway.” “My deepest apologizes ma’am. In no way did I mean to be offensive. I am Mr. Stevens,  your new butler.”. What an astonishing woman. She asserts so much power as if she were Mr. Dalloway himself. How interesting it is to see this way of life so different from what I know at Darlington Hall. Miss Kenton would enjoy the company of this woman. “Yes, of course, Mr. Stevens.  Well then Mr. Stevens, I am hosting a party this evening and there is much to do. Mr. Dalloway will most likely not be around so I will instruct you on what needs to be done for my party. Oh and if you come by a man by the name Peter Walsh, inform him that his presence at this party is of utmost importance.  Now, Lucy will point you in the direction of where everything is. I am sure with your experience of butlering you’ll be just fine. Move quickly there’s much to be done.” Now feeling more myself, I indulged in my new butler duties. Going every which way I began to become blurry in my vision of what was going on this evening. Who was to attend this party? Are these people of importance? What discussion will take place? Yes, it was all very confusing, unlike the affairs of Lord Darlington.  Butlering is never something I have not been good at. Now having learned the layout of the estate through party preparations, the house is most magnificently prepared for this evening. Just in the nick of time too, as people were starting to arrive. I take it as though most of these men and women have not experienced a butler. The confusion on some of the faces was quite a change for me.  Suddenly, I hear the name Peter Walsh and as I turn I see an ordinary-looking man. His gaze, however, one I have never worn myself, one of a man in love. How Miss Kenton would like him. It’s as if he has seen a vision of utmost beauty just behind me. Now just like Mr. Walsh, my gaze is also transfixed on Mrs. Dalloway as she galavants around her party, however, I could never look at a woman with such love. Perhaps butlering this estate will teach me a thing or two about myself. Ah, Lord Darlington never fails.

 

A letter for Mr. Stevens, unsent by Miss Kenton

Dear Mr. Stevens,

I hope you are doing well at your new estate. All is well here at Darlington, although not the same without you. I do hope you like the Dalloways. I must confess,  I told Lord Darlington about them for you. My hope, Mr. Stevens, is that your heart would be softened by the shallowness of Clarissa Dalloway. That you might see the love that you both lack and unbeknownst to her you would learn to love. That is my great hope for you, Mr. Stevens.  I do miss you terribly. Stay well.

Miss Kenton

Students, I have once again encountered the presence of greatness this morning. While I was preparing for a nice calming lavender tea at the lovely 5th View restaurant in Waterstones Piccadilly, not one but three literary masterminds walked in. I got the privilege of hearing their riveting debate on the purpose of fiction in the modern world, leading to another discussion on the proper way to tell a story. Swiftly, I gathered my black ink pen and a napkin to transcribe the greatness that was being spoken. As the aspiring students you are, I have chosen to share this riveting conversation with you below. I refrained from entering, quite a few times, but I have included my ideas and thoughts throughout the transcript. What A Lark! What A Plunge! Now to enter the minds of these criminally good authors:

April 2nd,

Ishiguro: Well, thank you for joining me this afternoon.

Joyce: Oh. Yes, Yes. It is but a pleasure to be here.

Woolfe: For some can say, I am well assembled.
(The three burst out laughing.)

*My inner voice: Who knew Woolfe had a sense of humor? I wanted to introduce myself but refrained. I have not assembled myself today!

Ishiguro: Very good Virginia! I wanted to start by saying I have read multiple of your books and thoroughly enjoyed the depth and heart of each character. One of which stuck out to me, Mrs. Dalloway. There was a depth and unknown that cast a shadow throughout the novel. Very Well, I might say. Oh! Mr. Joyce the same goes for you. Your work Dubliners completely blew me out of the water.

Woolfe: My Oh My, well I pulled on aspects of my personal life for that one, which is why there is such depth!

Ishiguro: All great authors pull from aspects within, so no shame from me!

Joyce: Since you have read my work, let me preface by saying that Dubliners, in its entirety, is a remark on the “modern day” Irish culture. I pulled from the depths of my culture rather than one’s interior monologue.

Woolfe: Oh what great treasure! Speaking of interior monologue, Mr. Ishiguro, I read your work Remains Of The Day, and I must say the incorporation of Stevens interior monologue made it a very read story.

Ishiguro: Ah Yes! That reminds me why I have asked you both to join me here today. As you know, I am working on the incorporation of a multi-literary analysis on the great authors of the times. My grandchildren have joined a fond educational program: The International Baccalaureate, in which they are tasked with defining the purpose of fiction in the modern world. By asking you to join me, I am asking you to share your thoughts on how you define this idea. I have given them some of my insight, but Oh No, Grandfather does not know anything. Woolfe, I would be delighted to hear your thoughts.

*My inner voice: Of course his grandchildren are IB Students! Woolfe started to gain thought in her mind, it was very evident that greatness was about to be released on us. I once again refrained from entering the conversation.

Woolfe: Personally, I think the purpose of fiction in the modern world is to provide thought and insight about the inner workings of the world itself. Not everything is perfect. Not everything is assembled. You have to use what you are handed in life and make the best or worst out of it. For example, in your novel, Stevens struggles with his decision to put work above everything else. He misses out on love. He misses out on life in its entirety. People in the modern world are quick to succumb to the idea that only work gets you the places you desire to be.

Joyce: I would have to agree with Ms. Woolfe here. To expand, I would add the purpose of fiction is to tell a story while adding meaning behind. Referencing your book, once again, Stevens loses the one person who would ever fall in love with him. You wrote, “Of course, if two members of staff happen to fall in love and decide to marry, it would be churlish to be apportioning blame; but what I find a major irritation are those persons – and housekeepers are particularly guilty here – who have no genuine commitment to the profession and who are essentially going from post to post looking for romance.” It is in this instance that we realize Stevens is in the act of falling for Ms. Kenton, but he suppressed those emotions because of his profession. Ishiguro, you created a fictional story, yes, but you added meaning behind it. Very similar to the work Araby I wrote in Dubliners. A young man becomes infatuated with the idea of romance that he loses sight of all reality. The fiction side of the story only added depth to the true meaning of this ideal romance.

Ishiguro: Very interesting! As writers, we subconsciously connect the meaning of reality to fiction. Virginia, the meaning of Mrs. Dalloway marrying Richard while having feelings for Peter Walsh connects to the idea of the modern women marrying the safer choice rather than the choice of love.

Woolfe: Choice of love, or an understanding of using marriage as a ploy for the public… Either way, very well connected!

Ishiguro: Oh Oh! One last question, how do you go about telling a proper story? Personally, I believe it is through the use of symbolism and deeper meanings. Since we were all fond of Remains of the Day, I will use that as an example. A symbol I pulled throughout the novel was this idea of banter in connection to Steven’s anxiety. The man was incapable of holding or maintaining any kind of banter. He has to study the idea of banter in order to feel like he has successfully served Mr. Lewis. This showcases work consuming your entire life, leading you to be nothing more than a wheel in the machine. Steven’s ultimately becomes nothing more than his profession. A cold and emotionless man. That was the easiest way for me to share the meaning of the novel, while keeping the readers entertained.

*My inner voice: So, I guess it is settled. Stevens is a wheel and not a ladder. Interesting!

Woolfe: I would say it is exactly that. You incorporate the “boring” literary techniques while adding depth to the story. Those who read us want more than a story. They want life, experience, and reason all encompassed in 200 pages. We must provide that for readers and intellects.

Joyce: Yes! That is it. Depth. Reason. Life. Entertainment. Telling a proper story starts by looking within oneself and pulling from that to draft something real, not fake.

Woolfe: Ah yes! No pish-posh. All real.

Ishiguro: Well, I will be sure to report back to my grandchildren all of what we have discussed. They are sure to be blown away. Now, it is time to enjoy our tea.

Woolfe: As we must!

Joyce: Well, I have one question for you…its about the British Culture in comparison to the Irish Culture…You know….

Yes, Yes, Joyce must blabber on about England and Ireland, which is where I stopped transcribing and admired the three. It has truly been a fantastic day. I got to witness a great conversation about literature while simultaneously transcribing every word to report back to the distinguished IB intellects (as Woolfe would call you). Now, it is time to enjoy some light reading for the remainder of my trip filled with depth, life, and understanding. The remains of the day are catching up ever so quickly.
Enjoy!
Mr. Nigro

Against my best wishes and tightly straightened limbs, my body rattled in protest to the wintry ice of Ireland. It was quite embarrassing, truly, even if I had no witnesses to my ailment. I would not accept that my body could be weaker than my will.

I stood in the lonely churchyard, the only thing audible beside my huffed breaths the whisper of the wind and the soft sigh of snow. It may seem nonsensical that I was here, chattering away in the cold. Unfortunately for the other guests as well as myself, the electricity at the Gresham had gone out. I must say that despite my departure from the butler role, I was quite embarrassed for the workers in the hotel. I mean no insult to their honor or dignity, but shouldn’t the staff of the grandest hotel in Dublin be able to fix a problem as simple as this? Perhaps a new staff plan would be wise. 

I laughed at my foolishness. Had I learned nothing since that fateful day on the Weymouth Pier? Why, of course not– and how do I know? Well, in my meandering from the Gresham to this desolate place, I had most horrifically damaged the once-pristine cuffs of my trousers. I was certain in my changed person for the fact that I did not care one bit about the mess.

My limbs suddenly rattled rather fervently, returning my mind to the present. The snow had become increasingly cruel as the powder– thick yet light like dust I may have once dusted from portraits in a library– fell in torrents around me. My eyes became focused on the crooked grave before me– a simple, wooden cross that had long before begun to rot. I squinted at the faded text etched into the wood, which read Michael Furey. My mind wandered for a length of time– the type of wandering that leaves one with no memory of their existence for those moments– before I was abruptly startled. It was not the cold this time but rather a deep voice that crackled over a particularly strong gust of wind. 

“I beg your pardon, good sir. Perhaps you’re wondering what brings me here to this desolate spot on such a day as this,” said the stranger. The voice came from my right, and I flinched slightly to find the black-clad figure barely a few centimeters away. He did not look at me and remained steadily staring at the grave. “But our meeting here is fortuitous, perhaps, for I see that we are in similar frames of mind. I’m Gabriel Conroy.”

I turned my head ever so slightly in an attempt to catch a glimpse of Mr. Conroy’s face, but the darkness of the late day and blur of snow against his cloak kept him shrouded from my sight. I did not really know what to think of the stranger, or how to converse with him– did he expect one of those clever witticisms as some gentlemen often do? Surely not– the tone of his voice was rather grave– and if anyone could know that, it would be myself. 

Realizing the awkward silence, I decided to address him. “Most warm greetings, Mr. Conroy. I am Mr. Stevens.” I stuck out my hand, trembling slightly from the cold, to shake his. He turned his body towards me and shook my hand in a tight grip. Looking up, I finally caught a glimpse of his face and swallowed a reaction at what I witnessed. I saw a man haunted by his past as I was by mine. His skin was gray with cold or grief– I did not know.

“Oh, please, call me Gabriel,” he said as he returned his hand to his side. I smiled before protesting. “Sir, truly, I could–” 

“Please, Mr. Stevens. I have not heard the timbre of my name in quite some time.”

I smiled again, sliding my cold hands in my pockets as I did so. “Gabriel, then. A pleasure to meet you.”

He cocked his head. “I notice a different accent. Where are you from?”

“Oh, an old house near Oxfordshire. In England,” I clarified. “I was in service at Darlington Hall. Perhaps you’ve heard of it.”

Gabriel seemed to ponder for a moment, his brow furrowed, before answering. “Yes, I used to be very interested in English affairs, despite my roots here in Ireland. People didn’t like me so much for it,” he chuckled. Did I hear a note of sadness there?

“Ah. I’m sure you had your reasons,” I remarked, not so sure of what else to say. Besides, I had been slightly busy puzzling over what the stranger meant by thinking us ‘in similar frames of mind.’ 

Gabriel suddenly turned towards my person, though I noticed he hesitated before turning his lingering gaze away from the grave before us. 

“Mr. Stevens. You seem an observant man, so I know you must wonder what I meant earlier when I said we are in similar states of mind. I know it is frigid out here and you likely have other things to tend to. But I wish to tell you a tale.” 

And a tale he did tell.

I do not plan to summarize or retell Mr. Conroy’s story because I believe it is his to tell. But I have my thoughts, and they all truly come down to one conclusion: that to look at Gabriel Conroy is to look into a mirror. It almost made me laugh. What suppressed, rotten fools we were! Breaking the spirits of those we loved only because we could not face the music. Music, yes– a highlight of Gabriel’s story. If my memory abandoned me I am confident that two things would never evade me– unless the correct description is I evading them: Miss Kenton’s face at our sorrowful goodbye and the vision of Gabriel’s wife standing, a statue in the shadows, as she heard the melody of her buried past. Buried indeed, I thought as I occasionally glanced at the poor little Michael Furey’s grave. 

It was comical how parts of Gabriel’s story brought forth bouts of rage in me that were impossible to quell. How tragically hilarious for me to find Mr. Conroy ridiculous for his loss while I was equally if not more ridiculous for mine. More ridiculous, certainly.

Mr. Conroy was quite the spectacular storyteller, though, and I found myself forgetting the knock of the cold and swirl of the wind. When he finished his tale, I found us no longer strangers but brothers– bound not by blood but instead horrific losses of our own doing.

Suppressed no more, I shuffled my frozen limbs to Gabriel as I embraced him tightly. He did not hesitate before reciprocating– a lesson we had both learned well before.

“Let’s get back to the Gresham, shall we?” I asked before offering him my arm. He chuckled his assent before we began trotting– hopefully– to the warmth and light of the hotel.

“Wait, Mr. Stevens,” Gabriel halted suddenly, turning around and walking back to the grave. He waved me over with his hand. “Assist me.”

In a joint effort, Gabriel Conroy and I straightened Michael Furey’s previously crooked cross, and for a moment the wind was still.

Dear Students,

I have recently been blessed with a most incredible experience: James Joyce, Virginia Woolf, and Kazuo Ishiguro recently all attended the 5th View restaurant in Waterstone’s Piccadilly for lunch at the same time as me. Like any other sensible person would, I eavesdropped on the trio. It proved most rewarding indeed. In the beginning they were just exchanging pleasantries, then Joyce turns to Ishiguro and inquires about one of his more popular books, Remains of the Day. Joyce comments how his own book, Dubliners, and Woolf’s Mrs. Dalloway are very similar, to an extent, to each other in writing styles, structures, and messages. However, there were some differences in the way they shared their fiction with the modern world and how they told their stories. When Ishiguro asked Joyce to elaborate, the lunch table became a battle ground, not unlike Mr. Stevens’ parlor or Clarissa’s meeting with Peter in her drawing-room. Every question was a jab, and every answer was a block of a shield. None of the authors relented in their stance, and suddenly it hit me to write down everything they are saying as to aid my young scholars for their paper exams next month. I hope you will read this post with an open mind and absorbed the words of the great writers of literature. I have taken the liberty of skipping their initial pleasantries and instead skipped to the good stuff, starting right when Joyce inquires about Ishiguro’s book.

Enjoy,

Mr. Nigro

Joyce: Kazuo, I am very impressed with how versatile you can be with your writing. To write in a different genre each time is impressive. I was especially intrigued by Remains of the Day. Flipping through the pages felt like a scavenger hunt. I saw hints and symbolisms very close to my own book, Dubliners, and Mrs. Dalloway as well, Virginia.

Ishiguro: Is that so James? Looking at Virginia’s expression, I can see you have grabbed both of our interests. Do you mind elaborating a bit more on this?

Joyce: Why, certainly! You see, all of our books seem to have a theme connected in some way to the culture of a certain period, the confines of it, and how people either struggle to conform to it, or attempt to break free from it. There is also a connection of paralysis within our books. However, mine seem more obvious than you all’s. Don’t you agree Virginia?

Woolf: I do. In my story, Septimius had many instances where he experienced physical paralysis in the wake of his mental illness. The fear and confusion quite often stopped him in his tracks, very similarly to that one character in your book. What was her name again? You know, the young women who could not decide between an old or new prison.

Joyce: My goodness, are you speaking of Eveline? What an incredibly bleak way of describing her. I’m impressed. It’s quite accurate.

Woolf: Yes, yes. That’s the one. I am also realizing now how Kazuo’s book also contains paralysis. It seems that Mr. Stevens experiences mental paralysis. He can’t seem to leave his comfortable prison. He is afraid of showing his true self, so he hides behind his butler demeanor and role. Very similarly to Clarissa, Mr. Stevens, as you so beautifully wrote, felt that he “always [had] to pretend” (154).

Ishiguro: You are exactly right Virginia! Our books do seem similar in that sense, however, even though one of our themes are similar, our intent seems to be from different angles.

Woolf: Is that so? Well, I think it stems from our idea of the purpose of fiction is in this modern world. For instance, I believe that its purpose is to remind people of the different perspectives in life. There is never one side of a story, that is why I used a stream of consciousness narrative in a third person point of view.

Joyce: Very true my dear, however, I used the third person internal monolog for a different reason. I believe the purpose of fiction is to have readers encounter and live through different experiences throughout the story. To yes, get different perspectives not just through their interpretations, but by putting oneself in their shoes for a chapter.

Ishiguro: Both are very admirable goals.

Joyce: Oh, do you not feel the same?

Ishiguro: To an extent I do, but I would say I believe its role is to evoke such strong emotions from readers that it causes a change in their life. I try to do this by diving deep into a character’s story by examining every aspect through a first-person narrative.

Woolf: And how would you say you accomplish your goal using these elements? If you don’t mind me asking?

Joyce: Oh! Please use references to Remains of the Day since it is the book I have read most recently.

Ishiguro:  I don’t mind one bit! My goal was for readers to finish Remains of the Day with a sense of freedom. That a person’s life was their own and should be lived for themselves. I tried to stress this by have the book be told in the point of view of Mr. Stevens, a British butler who only lived to serve his master. Late in his life he realizes that his master had many faults that hurt many people, and Stevens had just devoted a lifetime to that man. I utilized flashbacks as he reflected on his past, and how the decisions made there resulted in his current situation. I used a lot of symbolism to support this theme. For example, I often had characters look at their hands before making major decision or when looking back at their life. Like when Mr. Stevens Sr. was dying, he looked “at his hands as though he were faintly irritated by them” (97). The hands represent the person’s life and the work they did throughout it. Mr. Steven’s father regretted how he spent his life as it was ending. He was not proud of how devotedly he worked and how he pressured that same devotion onto his son.

Woolf: So, you used hands to convey the message to live a better life?

Ishiguro: Not quite. More so to impress the importance of not making your work everything. Miss Kenton did a better job of showing this when on page 215 I wrote, that as Miss Kenton was contemplating leaving her job for the married life “[s]he glanced down a second at her hands, but then almost immediately her gaze returned” to Mr. Stevens. She was really struggling with the decision to leave the profession, especially because she did not want to leave Mr. Stevens, but she knew that if she stayed her life would have been nothing but work and the occasional half-hearted connection. She chose a life more centered around her happiness because she would not get that opportunity again.

Joyce: Ah yes, this scene was a tearjerker. Mr. Stevens just could not seem to look at the bigger picture. He really just looked right through every hint that Miss Kenton gave of her true feelings, or every indication of his master’s faulty ambitions. Almost like something was inhibiting him.

Woolf: Like a cloud? Or a fog?

Ishiguro: More like a shadow. I included that imagery throughout my book as well. I used the distinctions between light and darkness to highlight to readers when Mr. Stevens was realizing something, or completely missing it. For instance, on page 78 I wrote that during a particularly important event he had crossed through the shadowed back corridor and “had [he] not recognized Miss Kenton’s footsteps on the boards as she came towards [him], [he] would have been able to identify her only from her outline”. He then proceeded to comment on an area he believed her to be lacking on. She then blew up at him as he stood dumbfounded. The shadows represent how he could not see the stress she was in over the whole affair. It later shows Miss Kenton moving into the light as he realizes just how pressured she felt. I also put some of this imagery in the scenes where Miss Kenton tries to share deep feelings with Mr. Stevens, but she is shrouded in darkness because he refuses to do the same, loosing the fragile connection he already has with her. That is also why he is gazing at a sunset as he has his epiphany.

Joyce: Well said, well said. That epiphany was a good one. Although, I feel like he’s tied with Gabriel as of now. Virginia, could you pass the milk please?

Woolf: I am sorry James, it seems we have cleaned the tea, milk, and sugar out at our table. Also, I believe Clarissa Dalloway blows both Gabriel and Mr. Steven out of the water.

Joyce: Ah, what a shame. I guess that means we should continue on our journey. I think this conversation was quite fruitful. Now if you don’t mind, shall we make our way back to the Ford to continue our trip up north for the People’s Story Museum liked we planned. I am dying to try their haggis I have heard so much about!

In response to the public outcry wishing to hear the confidential encounters of such a profound literary debate, here is all I am at liberty to share with you to not violate the privacy of such greatness in our modern world. I have ripped the flyleaf out of the great literary work I’m reading and scribbled down the astounding realizations that have come off the teeth of such eminence. I feel like if Chelsea was sitting down at a cafe and Taylor Swift walked in, this is the greatest thing to ever witness. 

There I was… just sitting at the 5th View restaurant in Waterstone’s Piccadilly, trying to once again get through Ulysses, and I saw an angry Virginia Woolfe walk in followed by a laughing Kazuo Ishiguro and a confused James Joyce. 

She angrily turns around to both of them and says, “Yes, I’m aware that writing precisely and accurately about one’s life is difficult, yet it’s a struggle worth enduring! Life portrays awkwardness, why should the writing not imitate that? What is wrong with that?” she expresses, using her hands. 

“Understandably so, Ms. Woolfe, but shouldn’t the techniques of such writing follow the formal pathway that great literacy requires? Why attempt to write modern-day fiction with awkwardness, when the formality of writing requires preciseness among the absurdist?” Joyce declares with confidence. 

“I find that both of you don’t understand the concentration and full body emersion required to write a work of this greatness..” Ishiguro says, brushing them away. 

“Can I get a beer?” Joyce asks, “I can’t deal with this immaturity any longer.”

“Sir, this is a cafe,” the worker says, uninterested. Typical public high school student… what kind of individual is uninterested in a manner of this sort? 

“What kind of establishment is this…”

Woolfe shoots daggers at the two men, “How are you supposed to achieve a new sense of fiction in a modern world if you never take risks?’

“Risks? Oh, tell me about risks!” Joyce, aggravated, exclaims.

“All we do is take risks, no one wants to hear about what’s inevitable in the real world, so who’s going to step up and educate them? ME!” Ishiguro says. 

“Still focused on the external focus of what literature has historically represented. It’s about changing what’s within. What’s within oneself… No, I do not want to share such vulnerability with the world, yet it’s worth it for such a profound difference in the basis of literature entirely,” Woolfe says, still frustrated. 

Mind you, they’re still all standing in the middle of this cafe. How original and modernist is that? There’s nothing modernist if not three of the greatest literary figures standing in the middle of this cafe debating what is classified as modernism. Brilliant…

“And how do you suggest we do this that’s so different than originality, Ms. Woolfe?” Joyce asks with an eyebrow raised. 

“Focus on your interior, the awkwardness and true moments in life. That is originality. That is fiction,” She says, satisfied with her argument. Wow, what a mind. 

“I somewhat disagree with that Woolfe..” Ishiguro begins. 

“Oh do tell,” she says, annoyed again. 

“All of us are connected through the value we seek in life. Whether that be from a job, a lover, or a child, when we are on the brink of death we must ask ourselves what value we have given to the world for the duration of our lifetime. Each day of our lives is just a piece of what we look back on at the end. That is modern fiction,” Ishiguro says. Again, what a mind. I can’t even begin to grasp the full intentions of this man’s words in a literal sense. It’s astonishing. In Remains of the Day, Ishiguro illustrates such symbolism in the way he portrays time passing. I mean I can only remember when Stevens uses the symbol of hands to see time passing and people getting older. One of the first things you can notice about someone’s aging is their hands, coldness, wrinkles, veins. Hands are the tools of life, the roughness of one’s hands determines the work they’ve put into their life, stated Ishiguro. Looking back at life, many factors determine the value and work you’ve put in to make this life yours. 

“Oh enough of this… fiction is what you make it. It’s not real for a reason. You can add a disconnected stream of consciousness, absurdist drama, mythical parallelism, paralysis.. there’s freedom! That is modernist fiction… The ability to decide that you want to write something so far stretched out that it might not make total sense the first time. It’s fiction!” Joyce says, still looking around for the nearest pub. 

I remain watching in awe, scribbling down keynotes as fast as I can. What a moment in time this is…

“Can we just agree to disagree and understand that we’re all successful modernist writers in different ways?” Woolfe asks, checking her watch seeing as if she has somewhere to be and this entire conversation has been an inconvenience to her. 

“Yes please,” Joyce says already walking out the door. 

Before I can even get a chance to speak to any of them or simply ask for a picture, they’ve vanished in the streets of London, just like one’s memory of such greatness… almost too great to grasp.