Alice Staveley

Bio

Alice Staveley is Senior Lecturer in English at Stanford University where she directs the Honors Program, the Digital Humanities Minor, and the Writing Intensive Seminars in English. She is coauthor of Scholarly Adventures in Digital Humanities (Palgrave 2017) and coeditor of The Edinburgh Companion to Women in Publishing 1900-2020 (Edinburgh UP 2024).  Her articles on Woolf and publishing have appeared in book collections such as The Oxford Handbook of Virginia Woolf (Oxford UP 2021), and journals, including Book History, Cultural Analytics, and Modernism/modernity Print Plus.

Contributions

Peer Reviewed
Virginia Woolf’s To the Lighthouse famously opens with six-year old James Ramsay, “sitting on the floor cutting out pictures from the illustrated catalogue of the Army & Navy Stores.” With the awkward dexterity of a young child, James carefully guides his scissors around “a picture of a refrigerator,” endowing the image “with heavenly bliss” under the loving but watchful gaze of his mother. The scene has long captured critical attention, but less so the consumerist allusion to a popular shop on the book’s first page. The Army & Navy Stores was a well-known London department store, over a quarter-century old by the time James shreds its marquee catalogue. Founded in 1871 as an officer’s cooperative, the shop supplied domestic commodities at reduced rates, including books priced at a twenty-five percent discount. By February 1872, it added a grocery wing and moved into stationery, drapery, and tailoring, with a chemist’s shop and a gun department. Catalogues propelled its products far and wide, not just to the fictional Hebrides but also to outlets in Paris, Leipzig, Plymouth, and Mumbai, until its global brand receded after 1945. Today, it is no longer possible to shop at the Army & Navy Stores at 103 Victoria Street, London. For modernist scholars and book historians, however, its unexpected role—not just as an obscure historical allusion in Woolf’s fiction, but also as a contemporary bookseller of Woolf’s own publications—is becoming newly visible, appearing as one shop name, nested amongst hundreds of others, in the holographic sales ledgers of Woolf’s private press, The Hogarth Press, founded in 1917 (fig. 1).
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Virginia Woolf records in her diary, September 22, 1925, clarion testimony to the transformational power of the Hogarth Press on her writing life. The avowed feminism of that final sentence has the force of proleptic aphorism; one woman’s victory over a male-dominated publishing industry might well become the rallying cry for later women printers and press owners. [2] But the future-making turn of the last sentence also eclipses the quiet force of the first: Woolf’s lament that she has sacrificed, willingly, her handwriting to the Hogarth Press.