While the stories of Virginia Woolf are not traditionally considered as works of philosophy, her literature has a lot to teach us about self-identity, transformation, and our relationship to others.

“A million candles burnt in him without his being at the trouble of lighting a single one.” – Virginia Woolf, Orlando 

Woolf was not a philosopher. She was not trained as such, nor did she assign the title to herself, and she did not produce work which follows traditional philosophical construction. However, her writing nonetheless stands as comprehensive, albeit unique, work of philosophy.   

Woolf’s books, such as Orlando, The Waves, and Mrs Dalloway, are philosophical inquiries into ideas of the limits of the self and our capacity for transformation. At some point we all may feel a bit trapped in our own lives, worrying that we are not capable of making the changes needed to break free from routine, which in time has turned mundane.

Woolf’s characters and stories suggest that our own identities are endlessly transforming, whether we will them to or not.

More classical philosophers, like David Hume, explore similar questions in a more forthright manner. Also reflecting on matters of the stability of personal identity, Hume writes in his A Treatise of Human Nature:  

“Our eyes cannot turn in their sockets without varying our perceptions. Our thought is still more variable than our sight; and all our other senses and faculties contribute to this change; nor is there any single power of the soul, which remains unalterably the same, perhaps for one moment. The mind is a kind of theatre…”  

Woolf’s books make similar arguments. Rather than stating them in these explicit forms, she presents us with characters who depict the experience that Hume describes. Woolf’s surrealist story, Orlando, follows the long life of a man who one day awakens to find themselves a woman. Throughout we are made privy to the way the world and Orlando’s own mind alters as a result:

“Vain trifles as they seem, clothes have, they say, more important offices than to merely keep us warm. They change our view of the world and the world’s view of us.” 

When Hume describes the mind as a theatre, he suggests there is no core part of ourselves that remains untouched by the inevitability of layered experience. We may be moved to change our fashion sense and, as a result, see the world treat us differently in response to this change. In turn, we are transformed, either knowingly or unknowingly, by whatever this new treatment may be.  

Hume suggests that, while just as many different acts take place on a single stage, our personal identities also ebb and flow depending on whatever performance may be put before us at any given time. After all, the world does not merely pass us by; it speaks to us, and we remain entangled in conversation.  

While Hume constructs this argument in a largely classical philosophical form, Woolf explores similar themes in her works through more experimental ways:

“A million candles burnt in him”, she writes in Orlando, “without his being at the trouble of lighting a single one.”

Using the gender transforming character of Orlando, Woolf examines identity, its multiplicity, and how, despite its being an embodied sensation, our sense of self both wavers and feels largely out of our control. In the novel, any complexities in Orlando’s change of gender are overshadowed by the multitude of other complexities in the many transformations that one embarks in life. 

Throughout the book, readers are also given the opportunity to reflect on their own conceptions of self-identity. Do they also feel this ever-changing myriad of passions and selves within them? The character of Orlando allows readers to consider whether they also feel as though the world oftentimes presents itself unbidden, with force, shuffling the contents of their hearts and minds again and again. While Hume’s Treatise aims to convince us that who we are is constantly subject to change, Orlando gives readers the chance to spend time with a character actively embroiled in these changes.  

A Room of One’s Own presents a collated series of Woolf’s essays which explore the topics of women and fiction. Though non-fictional, and evidently a work of critical theory, Woolf meditates on her own experience of acquiring a large, lifetime inheritance. She reflects on the ways in which her assured income not only materially transformed her capacities to pursue creative writing, but also how it radically transformed her perceptions of the individuals and social structures surrounding her: 

“No force in the world can take from me my [monthly] five hundred pounds. Food, house and clothing are mine for ever. Therefore not merely do effort and labour cease, but also hatred and bitterness. I need not hate any man; he cannot hurt me. I need not flatter any man; he has nothing to give me. So imperceptibly I found myself adopting a new attitude towards the other half of the human race. It was absurd to blame any class or any sex, as a whole. Great bodies of people are never responsible for what they do. They are driven by instincts which are not within their control. They too, the patriarchs, the professors, had endless difficulties, terrible drawbacks to contend with.”

While Hume tells us, quite explicitly, about the fluidity of the self and of the mind’s susceptibility to its perceptual encounters, Woolf presents her readers with a personal instance of this very phenomenon. The acquisition of a stable income meant her thoughts about her world shifted. Woolf’s material security afforded her the freedom to choose how she interacts with those around her. Free from dependence, hatred and bitterness no longer preoccupied her mind, leaving space for empathy and understanding. The social world, which remained largely unchanged, began telling her a different story. With another candle lit, and the theatre of her mind changed, the perception of the world before her was also transformed, as was she. 

If a philosopher is an individual who provokes their audiences to think in new ways, who poses both questions and ways in which those questions may be responded to, we can begin to see the philosophy of Virginia Woolf. Woolf’s personal philosophical style is one that does not set itself up for a battle of agreement or disagreement. Instead, it contemplates ideas in theatrical, enlivened forms which are seemingly more preoccupied with understanding and exploration rather than mere agreement. 

We’ve witnessed some pretty shocking hostility, anger, and violence directed towards the trans community recently, from anti-transgender rights activist Kellie-Jay Keen-Minshull’s national speaking tour, to an attack on LGBTQIA+ peaceful protestors by far-right Christian men.

This hostility isn’t new. Recall the former Warringah candidate Katherine Deves derogatorily described Trans and Gender Diverse (TGD) people as “surgically mutilated and sterilised”. Or that gender dysphoria was described as a “social contagion” at a Gender Identity in Law forum at Hobart’s Town Hall, and there was lament that “women and girls would miss out on opportunities to reach elite levels” in professional sport. 

It is no secret that transgender women, in particular, are at the forefront of the public discourse around trans rights, and worldwide the slogan “trans women are women” has been catching on. But there is still resistance when certain collectives retort that “women” just are “adult human females”. 

What drives these clashes is divergence over the metaphysics of sex and gender: what is ‘sex’, really? What is ‘gender’, really? The way we answer these questions shapes our estimation of which people can belong to which group, how people can behave, and in what ways society should recognise our identities. 

Some people think the relationship from sex to gender is straightforward: male sex = man, female sex = woman. But others think that their relationship is more complicated and unpredictable. People might be assigned female at birth but develop a transmasculine gender identity. That person is transgender, and many believe it is both polite and metaphysically accurate to identify these people as men. Likewise, a person assigned male at birth could develop a transfeminine gender identity, and it is appropriate to identify her as a woman. 

If this is what you think about sex and gender, then you believe that gender does not reduce to sex. Your view of gender is ‘trans inclusive’.  

Enter ‘cisgender’

To help us better articulate the gendered positions that are available to us, in the 1990s trans activists coined the term ‘cisgender’, or ‘cis’ for short referring to people whose gender identity and expression matches the biological sex they were assigned when they were born. Although ‘cisgender’ has been around a long time, it only went ‘mainstream’ pretty recently, being added to the Oxford English Dictionary only in 2015. 

I’ve come to believe that cisgender is an ethically necessary concept. And, speaking personally, it is a concept that also allows me to better understand myself and how we can be more inclusive of others.

As B. Aultman explains, “The terms man and woman, left unmarked, tend to normalise cisness — reinforcing the unstated ‘naturalness’ of being cisgender. Using the identifications of ‘cis man’ or ‘cis woman’, alongside the usage of ‘transman’ and ‘transwoman’, resists that norm reproduction and the marginalisation of trans people that such norms effect.”  

Putting the point another way, being non-trans is a common, not normal self-expression. Simultaneously, being trans is an uncommon, but nonetheless normal expression. Introducing a positive marker of nontrans identity through the term ‘cisgender’ can have a really important social impact: it can help to destigmatise being trans.

For this reason, ‘cis’ is not just a label for me; it’s meaningful. It allows me to make sense of myself, my experiences, and my social surrounds in a deeply existential way.

Embodied identity 

I was raised on a diet of feminist materialism, or ‘difference feminism’, so how I see my self — my own being — is thoroughly embodied; the self is, first and foremost, fundamentally corporeal. But there is no simple line from embodied experience to social identity. All identities are socially constructed to an extent; we don’t decide who we are on our own but do so in response to how other people perceive and interact with us within a rich and layered social environment. And all subjectivity has its basis in the flesh, by virtue of us being embodied creatures.  

I believe it is perfectly plausible to acknowledge that different women have different bodies (whether assigned female at birth or not), and so will have qualitatively distinct experiences of being women.

Let me offer some examples, I have always been acutely aware that, because I look the way that I do, because I (appear to) have a certain body, I am treated differently to cisgender men. When I was growing up, people would sexually objectify me. This is something that I share with some, but not all cisgender women, and some, but not all transgender women. I have been harassed because I am a cisgender woman, and a trans woman is harassed because she is a trans woman. Our stories may have similarities, but they will also have distinctiveness. 

Today, I spend most of my time dealing with sex-specific chronic pain and the associated medical sexism that goes with the territory. Since this type of pain (endometriosis and adenomyosis) is registered as “women’s pain” in our collective consciousness, the recognition that I am a cisgender woman is significant. It’s easy to comprehend that a transgender man would have a qualitatively distinct experience when he seeks healthcare for his endometriosis.  

It is imperative to acknowledge that there are certainly some structural privileges shared by both cis men and women. Acknowledging that we are cis is the first step in owning that privilege. However, the fact remains that cis women stand in a relation of oppression and privilege in relation to cis men, which is to say that, like trans women, cis women are oppressed because of their sex-gender configuration too, whereas cis men are not. 

Talking about myself as a ‘cis woman’, thinking of myself as a ‘cis woman’, keeps this rich complexity front and centre as I navigate my day-to-day life.

Owning our gender

So what are the implications of this? Must we always use a prefix (‘cis’ or ‘trans’)?  Do we need to make structural or institutional changes? And should all non-trans people recognise themselves as ‘cisgender’?  

We don’t always need a prefix. Say you want to compare the average earnings of women to the average earnings of men. In this instance, there is no need to distinguish between trans women and men, and cis women and men. Or, say you want to tally the members of a political party by gender; again, there is no reason to distinguish the trans members from the cis members. Whether we need a prefix is context-dependent. 

Let’s say you’re filling out an admission form for an in-patient stay in hospital. Hospitals are the sorts of places where both your sex and gender identity need to be foregrounded. That form could say, “What is your gender: Man; Woman; Other” and “What was your sex-assignment at birth: Male; Female; Other”. But that form could also say: “What is your gender identity: cisgender man; cisgender woman; trans man; trans woman; other”. It doesn’t really matter, so long as the hospital can obtain the information it needs. 

But do you have to identify as cis? In my experience, taking up the label in a self-recognitive way helps to decentre the view that trans people are somehow abnormal. I think that’s a good reason, especially in light of the stigma and violence confronting trans people today. I have found value in it – it helps me to understand my own struggles and reminds me not to universalise my experiences.

This article is part of our Why identity matters series.

A cornerstone of ethics is our fundamental human need to be recognised for who we are and who we want to be.

When I was on the cusp of my teenage years, I discovered who I was. At least, I thought I did. For a middle-class white kid growing up on the north shore of Sydney in the late 1980s, I was surrounded by a homogeneous sameness to which I only belonged by default.  

I didn’t feel any strong connection to the dominant Anglo-Australian culture: I didn’t go to church; I didn’t participate in that other religion, sport; and I only begrudgingly watched Hey Hey It’s Saturday. There was nothing there that spoke to my desire to have some grounding that could tell me who I was, what made me different. 

And then I saw it, a documentary series produced by the BBC on the Celtic peoples. Despite my rather trivial genealogical association with the Celts – my ancestors originated from across the British Isles – I entirely lacked any cultural connection. Yet I had an overwhelming sense that these were ‘my people,’ and that I could connect myself to their history and culture, and share in their pride and tragedy.  

I hastily bought a Celtic cross pendant. I read folk tales of Lugh of the Long Arm and the Tuatha Dé Danann. And, most pretentiously, I started correcting people about my ethnicity, identifying not as Australian or Anglo, but as a proud Celt. I was insufferable. 

But this connection to a people and a culture stirred something within me. It satisfied a deep need to belong to something larger than myself, yet it was also something that set me apart from those around me. It gave me an identity. 

A few years later, when I was on the cusp of adulthood, I lost that Celtic cross in a field somewhere in Byron Bay, and the cringe that I felt about replacing it forced me to revisit my appropriated identity and ask whether this was really me. It prompted me to reflect on who I was and who I wanted to be, and sparked a journey to build a new identity – a journey that is ongoing. 

Identity crisis

Herein lies one of the great challenges of the modern world. Unlike our ancestors, who knew exactly who they were by virtue of the communities they were born (and died) in, the postmodern condition is that our identity is not handed to us: it’s left for us to discover – or to create. 

This is both liberating and a curse. It’s liberating because our ancestors had little power to challenge their identity, especially if it ran against the current of their cultural norms. Their free ticket to belong came with no refunds.  

The postmodern condition is a curse because we’re effectively dropped into the most diverse, fragmented and generally anxiety-inducing cultural morass in the long history of our species, and left to figure out how to piece together an identity without even a pamphlet to instruct us on how to do so.  

Adding to the challenge is the existence of countless religions, corporations, sub-cultures, grifters, conspiracy theorists and self-help book authors who are only too eager to recruit you into their ranks, whether it’s to your benefit or not. 

Yet build an identity we must. We are perhaps unique among the animals for having a reflective sense of who we are. We tell ourselves stories about ourselves, and these stories recursively influence who we are. Despite thinkers from the Buddha to David Hume arguing – quite persuasively, in my opinion – that there is no stable ‘self’ at the core of our identity, it’s almost impossible to live without some narrative that explains who we are and directs us towards who we want to be. 

The ethics of recognition

Our identity doesn’t just play a descriptive role, explaining who we are, it plays a normative role too. It’s the seat of our dignity, the home of our values and defines what, and who, we stand for.

This is why identity is of central importance to ethics. Indeed, some thinkers, such as Georg Hegel, and Francis Fukuyama after him, have argued that a key feature of ethics is a fundamental desire for recognition. Both draw on the Ancient Greek concept of thymos, a term borrowed from Plato, which represents the spirited part of human nature that seeks recognition of its dignity.  

They argue that our desire to be recognised as authentic human beings, with desires, values, rights and an inherent sense of pride based on the identity we choose for ourselves, is one of the driving forces of history, not least politics. Fukuyama famously argued that the arc of history bent towards liberal democracy, rather than any other political ideology, because it best satisfies our desire for recognition.  

Yet our desire for recognition is not limited to our personal identity; it also applies to our group identities. This is behind the rise of so-called ‘identity politics,’ where individuals vote on behalf of the groups to which they belong rather than purely for their own self-interest. After all, you can’t truly understand who someone is without also understanding all the groups to which they belong. 

Identity is powerful, which is why The Ethics Centre is exploring its ethical dimensions in this special series of articles. We’ve invited philosophers and commentators to tease out how identity influences our ethical views, looking at how the search for recognition is shaping the modern world and how it’s proving to be a liberating force but also a stifling one. We’ll be examining issues across politics race, culture, gender, sexual identity, and more.  

We don’t assume we’ll be able to solve these issues here, but what we can do is help reveal how so many of the seemingly disparate ethical challenges of our time are grounded in one driving force: our desire to know ourselves. 

This article is part of our Why identity matters series.