Earlier this year, as I walked around the house grumbling about never finding time to work on my writing anymore, Michael responded by saying, “You need the kill the angel in the house.” That got my attention. What angel did we harbor, I wondered, who was interfering with my writing? What was he talking about?
In answer, Michael referred me to published remarks made by Virginia Woolf in 1931 in a lecture titled “Professions for Women” to the Women’s Service League, a group concerned with female employment issues. Then he handed me his textbook, “The Rhetorical Tradition: Readings from Classical Times to the Present,” with a yellow sticky marking the spot.
I set the book aside for a less hectic moment and got around to reading it several weeks later. I wish I hadn’t waited because it turned out that I really needed her ideas. The concept of the “Angel in the House” originated with a poem by Coventry Patmore written in 1854. Glorifying the self-sacrificing, pure woman, his poem found such an eager audience among the Victorians several decades after he wrote it that for Virginia Woolf’s contemporaries it became a cultural icon they would immediately understand.
Aside: No modern woman will want to wade through Patmore’s epic poem entire (he published it as a book), but even reading short passages will make you struggle to control your gag reflex and your funny bone simultaneously. We sometimes speak of damning someone with faint praise; Patmore profoundly demeans women with his effusive praise. If you have the stomach to read the passage most associated with Woolf’s essay, click here for a link: YUCK!
Speaking to her audience about the poem, Woolf said, “You who come from a younger and happier generation may not have heard of her – you may not know who I mean by the Angel in the House. I will describe her as shortly as I can.”
Rather than quote the entire essay, let me paraphrase Woolf succinctly. This Angel who plagues women writers (and by extension creative women of every stripe) is ourselves. I can’t help recalling cartoonist Walt Kelley’s famous quote, inscribed on an Earth Day poster in 1970: “We have met the enemy and he is us.”
Even from my twenty-first century viewpoint, the concept quickly became clear. Who was it that made sure our family’s laundry was done? The Angel in the House. Who was it that got dinner on our table? The Angel in the House. Who was it that stopped what she was doing to pick up our child when she missed the bus or had to attend an extracurricular event? The Angel in the House. Who clipped coupons, made grocery lists, and shopped? The Angel in the House. I could go on, but it is too depressing.
I have met the enemy and she is me. I am the Angel in my House and the Angel has to die if my creative life is going to go forward. Even more depressing than being the Angel in my House is the fact that, after a lifetime of feminism and a deep commitment to a woman’s right to choice in all aspects of her life, it took my husband to point my Angel out to me. (On the upside of this, I did at least marry a man who would notice it and tell me so at the risk of his own comfort.)
Besides introducing the need to kill the Angel, Woolf addressed two important areas where the Angel in the House particularly harms the creative woman. One is through deference to men and the other is through the avoidance of physicality in the artist’s work. Here is how Woolf begins her argument about the Angel’s interference with her writing:
Directly ... I took my pen in my hand to review that novel by a famous man, she slipped behind me and whispered, “My dear, you are a young woman. You are writing about a book that has been written by a man. Be sympathetic; be tender; flatter; deceive; use all the arts and wiles of our sex. Never let anybody guess that you have a mind of your own, Above all, be pure.
Let’s see, simper; act dumb; play up to men; use everything in your trick bag; but through it all, don’t be a “bad” girl. It seems to me this Angelic advice is very similar to the standard expectations of my generation and even, try though we did to liberate them, our daughters’ generation as well.
When I attended the Mayborn Literary Nonfiction Writers Conference of the Southwest last July, I signed up to have a 15 minute interview with a literary agent. Fortunately for me, I did not have the first appointment because the woman who did was treated by the male agent with inexcusable condescension and disparagement. Because she returned and told the rest of the women in our group about it, I was able to gird my loins, get into warrior mode, and incapacitate my Angel (even though I didn’t know about her at the time) in preparation for my own interview.
They say the best defense is a good offense and I needed a good one that day. I succeeded in taking control of the interview from the beginning and I did not allow the agent to blow me off like he did my associate. But the process of preparing myself, planning what to say and how to say it, created an afternoon of anxiety for me. Looking back, I think my Angel was whispering the same things in my ear that Virginia Woolf’s whispered to her eight decades ago.
About the physicality issue, Woolf invited her audience to imagine a girl at her writing table, absorbed on a creative trance, exploring her unconscious self like a fisherman (Woolf’s word) would explore a deep lake. The girl’s fishing line begins racing through her fingers.
Her imagination had rushed away. It had sought the pools, the depths, the dark places where the largest fish slumber. And then there was a smash. There was an explosion ... The girl was roused from her dream ... To speak without figure, she had thought of something about the body, about the passions which it was unfitting for her as a woman to say. Men, her reason told her, would be shocked.
My friends will tell you that I am not a prude. There lurks in the back of my head, though, a censor who keeps tabs on my work, a personal content-rating board that I always blamed on my childhood Catholicism. But many of my friends who have the same kind of censor did not grow up Catholic. I remember taking a writing class not so many years ago in which the students were assigned to write an explicit, one-paragraph sex scene. The instructor’s stated purpose was to help us break through the barriers that inhibited our writing.
In this class of women, including a female teacher, the results opened my eyes. I couldn’t do it: my paragraph fell far short of explicit, focusing instead on the emotional content of the scene. Another classmate confined her paragraph to the description of a dog licking his own genitals. A few people managed to write something explicit and actually read it aloud to the class, but not many. Most of the work presented was hedged and hesitant.
I think now that my constant critic is the Angel in the House and that she remains as potent in the 21st century as she was in the 19th. Perhaps she is more subtle in her approach, has adapted herself to modern attitudes enough that she doesn’t stick out like a sore thumb, as her original incarnation certainly would have, but she is there, riding our shoulders, chiding us, influencing us, pushing us away from our creative endeavors.
Woolf’s commented at length at the problems created for creative women by the Angel in the House. Her ideas were pithily summed up by this comment:
Though I flatter myself I killed her in the end, the struggle was severe; it took much time that had better have been spent upon learning Greek grammar; or in roaming the world in search of adventures. But it was a real experience; it was an experience that was found to befall all women writers at that time. Killing the Angel in the House was part of the occupation of a woman writer.
I would really like to get some dialogue started on this topic because I think it is a very significant issue for women. I cannot understand why Woolf’s essay didn’t make its way into my liberal arts education, particularly since my undergraduate degree is in English literature. My friends in the Friday Morning Writers Group (all women) had virtually the same reaction. They immediately identified with Woolf and wondered where her essay had been all their lives.
Do you, dear reader, agree with Woolf that there is an Angel in the House interfering with women writers (and artists, etc.)? If so, how have you been affected by your Angel? If not, how do you explain choosing the laundry over your writing, painting, dancing, and so on? (You can’t fool me, there is not an artistic woman out there who is not, at sometime in her normal creative life, picking housework over her creative work.) Have you been able to kill – or even maim – your Angel? How? What works, what doesn’t?
Great piece, and I must agree, I read that poem last night and I couldn't stop laughing- and then I felt quite sick. The Angel,It is the invisible parasite deposited by countless women into the hearts of their daughters, a certain 'you-are-not-worthy-but-you-
could-be-better". The angel is the need to please, the idea that we will be loved and treasured if we could just hold the line. Inhale, exhale and think of England as we clean when we would rather be pirates. I too have a husband who is not interested in the angel. He sees the real me the one who wants to do everything and nothing all in the same breath.
I want to wash dishes through a headache, he wonders aloud why I don't just sleep.........
Men refuse to be angels- they are what we were as children, pure and free. I write but my angel is not housework, it is mother work. It begs the question "should you write this Dionne, what would your children think?" "Shouldn't you be reading to the baby, or grading those papers from yesterday?" WEll?!
The angel is destructive in that we allow these silent and pointless suggestions to eviscerate the truths of our womanhood. We want perfection so much that we decide to trade certain over ripe portions of our truths to have them.
The cure I have found are the words 'so what' It's certainly not a mature response to an angel, but it is what Dionne at eight years old would whisper whenever an adult would offer a pointless and helpless opinion. 'So WHAT'!!!!
So the dishes are piling up, so your writings may embarrass someone-anyone. We kill her by ignoring her demands we kill her by allowing our daughters their space and their own valuable opinions, even when we disagree. We kill her with selfishness and long and deep salt soaks and we ignore her when she speaks.
I will not read the poem as I don't want to feel sick! I was grinning as I read your blog, nodding my head, as I chuckled under my breath. I can't wait to read more. Your gifts are rich and I am proud to have collaborated with you - Roberta
Thank you, Lane, for your comments on Virginia's conference.
I discovered "Killing The Angel" a few weeks ago while I was doing researches for a feminist event. I am French, and guess what... actually I am not so sure the text has ever been published in French (I found it in English, thanks to Amazon.uk). One French specialist of Virginia's work and life considers it as a part of A room for oneself (Viviane Forrester, Virginia Woolf, Albin Michel, 2009) p. 85). I reread (quickly) A room but could not find the dead Angel in it. Anyway, I'll do some more research in the National Library and hope I will find it has been translated in French ; if not I will do it.
Because I do think you are right : this texte unfortunately is not at all outdated. Culpability usually takes the relay when we dare forget "our" tasks because we are writing, thinking, painting...
My son (he is 17) observes that in high school girls still hesitate to give their point of view and I have to confirm that in seminars, in symposiums, there are still more men than women who make comments.
Yes it is depressing, but what depresses me more is that in France, in Paris, a few days ago some female scholars did not want to be associated to a feminist meeting...
Sylvie, I wish I could engage in a dialogue with you, but the comment feature of this blog host doesn't allow me to email you back directly.
If you happen to read my comment and would like to talk further, please email me at firstname.lastname@example.org. Your comment started me thinking about this topic all over again. Thank you.
Doing some research myself on Virginia Woolf and came across The Angel In the House. I immediately was taken back to a favorite song by a duo (including the wonderful Jonatha Brooks) called The Story. They did a song called The Angel In The House. If you ever get the chance to hear it, do so. The first lines are: "My mother moved the furniture when she no longer moved the man. We thought nothing of it at the time."
So, now after learning about the original poem (I was unable to struggle through the whole thing - gasp!), and reading up on VW's "Professions" speech, it all makes sense.
My mother was the ultimate Angel... as she strove to live up to her own mother - the Queen of Angels. I have to say, in rebellion, I have fallen short - way short - but I still have my own Angel and fight everyday to not pass it on to my daughter. Is it inevitable? "Be polite. Did you send that thank you card? Would you please change your clothes to something a bit more appropriate?" Where is the line between nurturing mother and suffocating Angel? Is it the difference between raising free-thinkers vs. those who are acceptable to society (and therefore more easily successful)? The Taming of the Shrew comes to mind, as I try to raise my teenage daughter into someone acceptable, yet creative.
And how is my Angel inhibiting me? Am I so used to the cage that I no longer see the bars?
My husband likes the Angel, but admires the rebel, as long as it's not directed at him. He also is oblivious to the struggle. I think few men are. Men were raised with a "if you want it, get it" attitude, vs. a women's "if you want it, make sure everyone else has had their share first, and if there's any left, you may have some" dictum. He wonders why I fight with myself about such things, when in reality, I'm fighting against generations upon generations of Angels in all their female forms.
So, here's to killing the Angle in the House... one day at a time.
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