The Reading of Virginia Woolf's The Death of the Moth

Think about this:

Have you ever been in that moment-- constantly, when you feel belittled by this disturbing idea that you are just a mere speck of sheer opportunities in a world that is so gigantic?

Perhaps, you have been there when it seems like you are just... too small, so little to be worth consideration. As if you are just something embossed as lightly as possible with nothing but life.

The Death of the Moth, a timeless literary composition of Virginia Woolf written in 1942, plunges into the consequential aspects of two opposing and competing forces of existence-- life and death. This is probably Woolf's attempt to somehow give semblance of order to the ever chaotic concomitance of life with death, as both are presently beyond most of our capabilities to understand.

Right in the beginning, Woolf has succinctly specified which moths in particular are used as a metaphor of human mortality.

"Moths that fly by day are not properly to be called moths..."

The present specimen which supposed to be a nocturnal bead of life in the dusky view, rather excites with its unflagging gusto the countryside ablaze in colors of autumn. It has also described as neither as gay as the butterflies nor somber as their own species. They are more likely in between two contrasting emotions, thus making them seemingly contented with life. Despite the distinguishable gap of two different creatures, both humans and the moths are of that similar vibrant energy which inspires them to go on with their respective lives. However, a perceived insignificance evokes a loose impression that a little in size comes with a little of worth. As this passage reveals:

"One was, indeed, conscious of queer feeling of pity for him. The possibilities of pleasure seemed that morning so enormous and so various that to have only a moth's part in life."

So, just as the world is so big, what are humans to begin with? What remained for us but to do similar things over and over again as if we are programmed to labor persistently during our lifetime for that sense of survival and existence. Thus making us as marvelous and pathetic as the moths. As the persona watches the little excursion of the moth, she also gets distracted upon the movements outside his compartment- the stillness of the season, the rolling in from the fields, and the mischievous soaring of the rooks around the treetop. Then, a parade of thoughts promptly dawns on her as she witnessed the sudden stiffness of the moth. She watches its little attempts to resume his spritely dance but the faltering flapping of his wings settles him into feeble helplessness. And the persona stretches out her pencil then lays it down after, flashing upon her that she stands no chance against the close proximity of the death to the piteous creature on her window. Just as life had been strange a few minutes before, so death now as strange. Then she seemed to say, 

"Death is stronger than I am." 

It is evident that the persona's sympathy goes with the side of death, not really glorifying it but acknowledging the real deal that nothing can outlive Death. But this conviction has been abolished when she said herself that,

"Again, somehow, one saw life, a pure bead." 

Reconsidering this time that putting a fight on life despite the prevalence of death, makes life itself worthy.

During our lifetime, we have been there on that certain spot not bothering to have an equal consideration to the other side since it is out of our sight. Since death seems so distant and inaccessible this evokes a sense of foreboding in us as it is unknown to our perception. But life's ultimate meaning remains obscure unless it is reflected upon in the face of death.