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 .  .  Stream  of  Consciousness  and  Interior  Monologue  .  .  .  

 
In  psychology,  Stream  of  Consciousness  is  the  total  range  of  awareness  and  emotive-­‐mental  
response  of  an  individual,  a  mixture  of  lowest  pre-­‐speech  level  to  the  highest  fully  articulated  level  
of  rational  thought.    Stream  of  consciousness  can  provide  a  mixture  of  all  the  levels  of  awareness,  
described  at  any  moment.    Varied,  disjointed,  and  illogical  elements  find  expression  in  a  flow  of  
words,  images,  and  ideas  similar  to  the  unorganized  flow  of  the  mind.    Think  “neural  shimmer.”  
In  literature,  Stream  of  Consciousness  is  a  narrative  mode  reproducing  this  internal  psychological  
world,  presenting  an  individual’s  subjective,  ongoing,  and  often  jumbled  or  contradictory  mental  
observations  and  commentary.    Often  images  and  the  connotations  they  evoke  supplant  the  literal  
denotative  meaning  of  words.      
The  term  Stream  of  Consciousness  is  attributed  first  to  Scottish  philosopher  Alexander  Bain  (1855)  
and  then  more  famously  to  psychologist  William  James  (1892),  brother  of  the  novelist  Henry  James,  
who  was  a  friend  and  occasional  houseguest  of  Virginia  Woolf’s  family.    Although  Virginia  Woolf  
and  James  Joyce  are  the  most  well-­‐known  20th-­‐century  proponents  of  this  form,  French  novelist  
Edouard  Dujardin  is  usually  credited  with  the  first  sustained  use  of  the  technique  in  his  1888  novel  
Les  lauriers  sont  coupes  (We’ll  to  the  Woods  No  More).  
While  interior  monologue  and  Stream  of  Consciousness  are  often  use  interchangeably,  Stream  of  
Consciousness  is  more  general,  encompassing  a  variety  of  techniques  including  interior  monologue,  
which  may  be  direct  or  indirect.  
• Direct  interior  monologue  entails  presentation  of  consciousness  in  a  seemingly  
transparent,  uninterrupted  way,  from  the  first-­‐person  point  of  view  of  a  character,  without  
guidance  or  commentary  from  a  third-­‐person  narrator.      James  Joyce  employs  direct  interior  
monologue  in  the  final  chapter  of  his  revolutionary  novel  Ulysses  (1920).    The  narrative  of  
this  chapter  forms  one  long  sentence  fragment  spanning  several  pages  presenting  Molly  
Bloom’s  observations  and  commentary.  
• Indirect  interior  monologue  entails  presentation  of  a  character’s  thoughts  by  a  third-­‐
person  omniscient  narrator  who  serves  as  selector,  presenter,  guide,  and  commentator.    
Woolf  uses  indirect  interior  monologue  in  her  novels  Mrs.  Dalloway  (1925)  and  To  the  
Lighthouse  (1927).    Indirect  interior  monologue—also  known  as  narrated  monologue  or  
psycho-­‐narration—presents  shifts  from  third-­‐person  omniscient  narration  to  interior  
monologue  by  using  verbs  of  perception  such  as  “he  thought”  to  enter  the  character’s  mind,  
thus  providing  some  context  for  the  character’s  mental  flow  of  description  and  commentary.    
 
Direct  Interior  Monologue   Indirect  Interior  Monologue  
   
William  Faulkner’s  As  I  Lay  Dying  (1930)  is  comprised   The  opening  lines  of  Virginia  Woolf’s  Mrs.  Dalloway  (1925)  
or  a  series  of  direct  interior  monologues  by  fifteen   combine  Stream  of  Consciousness  techniques,  beginning  
different  characters  including  Jerel,  the  illegitimate  son   with  third-­‐person  omniscient  psycho-­‐narration,  then  
of  the  Bundren  family’s  dying  matriarch  Addie.    As  the   shifting  to  indirect  interior  monologue:  
family  prepares  for  Addie’s  death,  Jewel  thinks:    
  Mrs.   Dalloway   said   she   would   buy   the   flowers  
And   now   them   others   sitting   there,   like   herself.  
buzzards.    Waiting,  fanning  themselves.    Because  
For   Lucy   had   her   work   cut   out   for   her.     The  
I  said  If  you  wouldn’t  keep  on  sawing  and  nailing  
doors   would   be   taken   off   their   hinges;  
at  it  [the  coffin]  until  a  man  cant  sleep  even  and  
Rumpelmayer’s   men   were   coming.   And   then,  
her   hands   laying   on   the   quilt   like   two   of   them  
thought   Clarissa   Dalloway,   what   a   morning—fresh  
roots  dug  up  and  tried  to  wash  and  you  couldn’t  
as  if  issued  to  children  on  a  beach.  
get   them   clean.     I   can   see   the   fan   and   Dewey  
Dell’s   arm.     I   said   if   you’d   just   let   her   alone.      What   a   lark!   What   a   plunge!   For   so   it   had  
Sawing   and   knocking,   and   keeping   the   air   always   seemed   to   her,   when,   with   a   little   squeak   of  
always   moving   so   fast   on   her   face   that   when   the  hinges,  which  she  could  hear  now,  she  had  burst  
you’re   tired   you   cant   breathe   it,   and   that   open   the   French   windows   and   plunged   at   Bourton  
goddam  adze  going  One  lick  less.    One  lick  less…   into  the  open  air….