First name Last name
Instructor Molly Tenenbaum
English 101
7 June 2015
Introduction to Imitation of “The Death of the Moth”
My decision to imitate Virginia Woolf’s essay, “The Death of a Moth,” was
inspired by reading her masterful writing and brevity of description. She
illuminates a simple story of observing the life and death of a moth with both morals
and deep insight. The stream-of-consciousness style was fascinating, as was the
precise, romantic language Woolf used to describe her observations. The
atmosphere in her essay is steeped with both wisdom and melancholy, and I settled
on writing about a late night bus ride to depict deep loneliness in quiet, everyday
moments. My topic of loneliness could possibly be a prelude to Woolf’s symbolic
work about death and significance. I most wished to imitate her style of writing
about a reverie, the omnipresent narrator, the struggle between reality and an
invisible force or feeling that inevitably influences our destiny. After reading
through Woolf’s work many times, I was keen to find an interpretation of a topic
which would satisfy the emotional intelligence, and indecisive behavior, of the
observer. Woolf often represents herself as a fragmented person, either writing
from an “I” point-of-view, or an interior monologue style; I tried to capture the
mystique of blurring yet separating the narrator, and chose to write about watching
one’s own reflection while wondering where your life is headed. Woolf daydreams
of appreciating a life of potential possibilities; I also tried to daydream, on the
possible warmth of human interaction. Both our essays are 5 paragraphs; they
include long and involved sentences needing commas and semicolons joining the
ideas.
I tried to include certain metaphors of Woolf’s in my imitation, such as her
statement, “That was all he could do, in spite of the size of the downs, the width of
the sky, the far-off smoke of houses, and the romantic voice, now and then, of a
steamer out at sea.” Thus, I wrote of the fellow passengers’ silence on that late night
bus ride, “That was all they could do, in spite of the length of the journey, the
breadth of conversation, the hopes that pulsated in each heart, and the flash—rare
and fleeting—of a beautiful smile from an unknown friend.” I often began
paragraphs with Woolf’s style and tried to remain faithful to the original essay’s
grammar and syntax, which were both well-developed.
I believe I was most successful in imitating the above points, as well as echoing
Woolf’s distinctive voice and sense of drama writing of a moment a reader would
not ordinarily consider. I was least successful with choosing a main subject (such as
the moth), which changes throughout the essay and finally comes to a dramatic
expiration. Instead, I alternatively wrote of my reflection in the bus window as a
subject, and the falling sunset which was visible through it. As the one influenced
the other (by the darkness of night, the “unreal” reflection became entirely visible;
previously, tones of the sunset had colored it), I hope to have contrasted and given
equal weight to both subjects.
In writing this imitation essay, I learned a great deal about changing one’s tone
color, connecting thoughts with a stream-of-consciousness style, writing as densely
as possible, and re-imagining a story, so that your own imitation essay is reflective
of its best qualities and you find a new truth by closely examining someone else’s
work. Many ideas for what the moth could represent and seven drafts later, I am
happy to have contemplated Woolf’s style, my own writing, and done this excellent
exercise in copying and composing. Woolf’s beautifully detailed, rich vocabulary,
and musing will remain with me and guide my writing style. Pruning, analyzing, and
dramatizing has become more natural as writer. When I read other literature, I will
be on the lookout for multiple meanings in a metaphor or subject being discussed,
and I will consider how authors can touch the heart or move the mind through a
topic as simple as a moth, when their writing is meaningfully presented in a
cohesive way. Studying Woolf’s word, sentence, and thesis choices have actually
given me the freedom to choose. Is an insignificant subject, like a moth, able to be a
metaphor in a serious reflective essay? Certainly; Woolf shows that such a choice
can be logical, moving, and even inspiring.
The End of a Reflection
Reflections that appear elsewhere than in a mirror are not properly to be
called reflections; they do not awaken that enjoyable sense of expectation which
accompanies our briefest glance in a full-length silver surface. They are strange
beings, neither welcome like compliments nor reassuring like their own mirror-
dwelling species. Nonetheless, the present image, with its bright eyes and faded
rose cheeks, betokened hopeful possibilities. It was a pleasant twilight, mid-May,
mild, warm, romantic, yet with a more ambitious drive than that of the earlier
spring. The faint moon was already materializing in the western twilight, and where
it had been, a veil of solitary blue shadowed the sky. Such changing of the
atmosphere and warmth from the sunset beyond came floating in that it was
arduous to keep the eyes attentively upon the book. The people too were happily
walking the pavement outside the bus windows; chattering and laughing as they
wound across the wrought bridge which stood above so much emerald water; while
meanwhile, those who were couples gazed only at each other. Then, suddenly, a
distant laugh would echo, and more would follow, as if all presumed it the most
thrilling thing in the world, to walk companionably in the glorious sunset.
The same warmth which moved the people, the sunset, and even, it seemed,
the picturesque moon waiting to claim its time, roused the reflection from
invisibility as it stared from among the quiet passengers inside the fluorescent-lit
bus. One could not help watching it. One was, undeniably, conscious of a strange
sentiment of sympathy for it. The possibilities of companionship seemed that
twilight to be so captivating and so accessible, that to have only a passenger’s part in
life, and the reflection of one at that, seemed unfortunate, and its persistence in
appearing through the picture of the glorious twilight, curious. It was silent, as the
bus passengers were; what remained for them but to gaze and wordlessly ask
themselves if happiness in life was seeing a sunset, alone, yet surrounded by people;
journeying, but not enjoying the journey? That was all they could do, in spite of the
length of the journey, the breadth of conversation, the hopes that pulsated in each
heart, and the flash—rare and fleeting—of a beautiful smile from an unknown
friend. Unlike them, what the sunset could achieve, it did. Watching it smolder, it
seemed as if a feather, very immense but bright, of the hope of the world had been
burnt into its rays. As often as they shone through the pane, I could imagine that a
hummingbird of companionship brushed my heart. It was little or nothing but hope.
Yet, because the sunset was so grand, and so peaceful a form of the warmth
that was at the window and influencing inspiration and many impulses and hopes in
my own heart and those of other human beings, there was something pathetic as
well as majestic about it. It seemed someone had taken a tiny spark of pure
motivation and coloring it with the blush of youth, had arranged it to float across the
horizon to show us the true nature of happiness. Thus presented, one could not
ignore the beautiful possibility of it. One is swift to bury disappointment and shroud
it in loneliness, only acknowledging it in quiet moments when the reflection refuses
to be ignored. Again, the thought of the possibility of love and friendship, that
potential feeling that flows between everyone and everything, and all that it could
be, caused one to view the sunset wistfully.
After a while, lost in reverie, I forgot to watch and began turning the pages
again. Then, suddenly, my eye was caught by final rays of sunset, attempting to
continue burning; but evening encompassed everything without regrets. Being
absorbed in a tangled paragraph, I observed without understanding, unconsciously
waiting for the light to come back, as one always waits for romance or
companionship to cross the familiar, duty-worn path and raise it to above the
mundane of watching a reflection alone in a window. After perhaps another block,
the sunset had faded into a pallid streak of hope. The drama of it stirred me.
Artificial light illuminated the inside of the bus and its quiet people; it brought the
reflection into a ghostly sphere barely outside the window. It rushed upon me that
the face was anxious, pained, alone; its solitary gaze was beseeching. But, as I
moved closer, meaning to smile and reassure the reflection that all is well, it
occurred to me that melancholy and wistfulness were the end. I settled down again.
The overwhelming blue emptiness swept visages of light from the road. I
questioned the meaning of it. I questioned the reflection. Had anything happened,
that it would not respond? Presumably the loneliness of life, of expectation and
waiting and dreaming, had brought silence upon the pale face. The buildings stood
still, the road was darkening. Yet the warmth was there all the same, building,
indifferent, impersonal, not attending to anything in particular. Strangely, it had
chased the sunset down and deserted the reflection. The reflection’s rosy dreams,
its only companions, were swept away by the oncoming night. One could only watch
the fascinating rays that still raced across the orange horizon against the allencompassing night that would darken half the earth; nothing, I knew, was excepted
from night’s stillness. Nonetheless after a rest, the sunset burnt again. It was
wonderful this last protest, and so picturesque that the buildings were illuminated a
final color of gold. One’s inclination, of course, was to feel hopeful. Also, when there
was no observer to criticize or comment, this fiery sunset struggling to light the city,
against a mighty strength, to warm those whose hearts were cold, moved one
strangely. Again, somehow, one felt love, a hummingbird that fluttered in the heart.
I lifted my eyes again, waiting to see home at last in cordial golden rose twilight. But
even as I looked, the undeniable signs of dusk exposed themselves. They who
continued in the darkness now knew loneliness. As I watched the passengers
disappear without a word, this quiet victory of isolation, over so many humans,
emptied me with surprise. Just as companionship had been extraordinary a few
minutes before, so was loneliness suddenly as extraordinary. The sunset having
descended now smoldered at the edge of a vast and impenetrable night. The
reflection quietly revealed a melancholy smile. O yes, it seemed to imply, great
loneliness is the end.