David Tjeders blogg

Som forskare har jag uppfostrats att läsa kritiskt. Kanske för kritiskt. Det gör nämligen att jag ganska sällan läser något överhuvudtaget som jag tycker är riktigt bra och tänkvärt. Men det händer ibland. Och nu har det hänt.

1931 höll Virginia Woolf en föreläsning till yngre kvinnor över ämnet “Professions for women”. I denna föreläsning gör hon upp med det förkvävande kvinnoideal som var rådande under hennes egen uppväxttid, och som hon efter en dikt av Coventry Patmore kallade The Angel in the House. Detta vitt spridda borgerliga ideal betonade att kvinnan, för att verkligen vara en riktig kvinna, skulle stanna i hemmet och förneka alla egna behov till förmån för att finnas till för sin make.

Woolf skildrar självbiografiskt hur hon skulle börja skriva en recension av en roman skriven av en känd man. Just som hon skall sätta pennan till pappret känner hon en tvekan, den att överskrida den rätta kvinnlighetens gränser. Hon inser snart att hon måste döda det kvinnoideal som gör det omöjligt för henne att andas fritt, att få utvecklas som människa i sin egen rätt.

Vår tids kvinnor behöver inte känna att deras kvinnlighet försvinner spårlöst om de befinner sig mer än fem meter från spisen. Men vi lever fortfarande i kölvattnet efter borgerlighetens kvinnoideal från 1800-talet, det som säger att kvinnor finns till för män och skall ha ansvar för uppfostran av barnen och sköta disk och städning. Därför är Woolfs uppgörelse med sin tids ideal också skrämmande aktuellt sjuttio år senare. Och jävlar, vad bra hon skriver! Det är ju så att man får gåshud! Läs bara:

And while I was writing this review, I discovered that if I were going to review books I should need to battle with a certain phantom. And the phantom was a woman, and when I came to know her better I called her after the heroine of a famous poem, The Angel in the House. It was she who used to come between me and my paper when I was writing reviews. It was she who bothered me and wasted my time and tormented me that at last I killed her. You who come of a younger and happier generation may not have heard of her – you may not know what I mean by the Angel in the House. I will describe her as shortly as I can. She was intensely sympathetic. She was immensely charming. She was utterly unselfish. She excelled in the difficult arts of family life. She sacrificed herself daily. If there was a chicken, she took the leg; if there was a draugh she sat in it - in short she was so constituted that she never had a mind or a wish of her own, but preferred to sympathize always with the minds and wishes of others. Above all - I need not say it - she was pure. Her purity was supposed to be her chief beauty - her blushes, her great grace. In those days - the last of Queen Victoria - every house had its Angel. And when I came to write I encountered her with the very first words. The shadow of her wings fell on my page; I heard the rustling of her skirts in the room. Directly, that is to say, 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.” And she made as if to guide my pen. I now record the one act for which I take some credit to myself, though the credit rightly belongs to some excellect ancestors of mine who left me a certain sum of money - shall we say five hundred pounds a year? - so that it was not necessary for me to depend solely on charm for my living. I turned upon her and caught her by the throat. I did my best to kill her. My excuse, if I were to be had up in a court of law, would be that I acted in self-defense. Had I not killed her she would have killed me. She would have plucked the heart out of my writing. For, as I found, directly I put pen to paper, you cannot review even a novel without having a mind of your own, without expressing what you think to be the truth about human relations, morality, sex. And all these questions, according to the Angel of the House, cannot be dealt with freely and openly by women; they must charm, they must conciliate, they must - to put it bluntly - tell lies if they are to succeed. Thus, whenever I felt the shadow of her wing or the radiance of her halo upon my page, I took up the inkpot and flung it at her. She died hard. Her fictitious nature was of great assistance to her. It is far harder to kill a phantom than a reality. She was always creeping back when I thought I had despatched her. Though I flatter myself that I killed her in the end, the struggle was severe; it took more 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 bound to befall all women writers at that time. Killing the Angel in the House was part of the occupation of a woman writer.

Virginia Woolf, “Professions for Women” (1931), i The Death of the Moth and Other Essays, fjärde tryckningen (1942; London: The Hogarth Press, 1945), s. 150–151

Tags: Böcker, Feminism, genus, Historia, kvinnlighet, Virginia Woolf

This entry was posted on Monday, February 21st, 2005 at 11:59 am and is filed under Böcker, Feminism. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can skip to the end and leave a response. Pinging is currently not allowed.