On moths “the” and “a”

It’d be difficult to fancy it coincidence when two perfectly competent writers choose to pen in-depth analyses of the death throes of two equally meaningless insects. Dillard’s intention to pay homage to, or at least to allude to, Woolf’s older piece casts an interesting new light on her story, raising questions of what her particular moth was meant to represent in relation to Woolf’s, Woolf’s biography, and her body of work. Could each of their bugs, Moths “The” and “A,” represent something much greater than themselves, each carrying the burdens of weighty symbolism thrust upon them? Why would both authors choose something so trivial as these nocturnal insects to stand for the ideas they aimed to convey? Not only did Dillard intend to pay tribute to Virginia Woolf’s “The Death of The Moth” with her similarly titled piece, but she also used the moth in her story as a symbol of the late author’s tortured life and literary work.

But what interest had Dillard in a piece like Woolf’s, an overblown and dramatic retelling of an ill-fated bug? The latter’s work should be treated as a profound examination of the human condition, wherein Virginia shares her views on the futility of humanity and our insignificance to the outside world. She even draws the comparison between her moth and humans herself saying, “One could only watch the extraordinary efforts made by those tiny legs against an oncoming doom which could… have submerged… masses of human beings” (2).¹ The struggle against death—or, perhaps more aptly in Woolf’s estimation, against life—was one shared among all creatures, man and moth alike. Here she’s offering readers a glimpse at her meaning and making clear the import of her work in human lives. Otherwise, one might think empathetic moths her target audience.

To Woolf, life was an overbearing and cumbersome condition, an opinion which, while made evident by her treatment of the moth’s struggle, is reflected best in her own biography. Her depression and eventual suicide lend valuable context for her piece, published posthumously. It’s no stretch to assume that Annie Dillard had knowledge of these famous aspects of Virginia’s life and chose to incorporate those into her homage to her. She hints numerous times—“Virginia” as a setting (183)², employing the word “pool” twice (184)² as a reminder that Woolf took her own life by drowning³—that the thematic target of and inspiration for her piece was indeed our friend Virginia, and without this knowledge of a connection Dillard’s essay would seem damn near absurd, and at the very least valueless. What value, then, does the connection give her piece?

An analogy is drawn between “burning” one’s self and literary production in “Death of A Moth” when Dillard tells us of “Rimbaud in Paris [who] burnt out his brain in a thousand poems” (184)². It would seem that Dillard wants to retell Woolf’s self-destructive biography in Woolf’s own terms, casting an unlucky moth as her double to illustrate the violence and brilliance of her storied demise. By sacrificing itself in the flame, the moth was able to illuminate Dillard’s world for a short while, enabling her to broaden her mind with the literature at hand. It is indeed morbid to relate authorship with incendiary suicide, especially to those interested in becoming writers themselves, but in a way the process of an explosive and spectacular death of “a” singular “female moth” (184)² serves as a perfect tribute to the troubled life, celebrated work and tragic death of one of the great writers.