Peter Walsh, as he finds himself compelled to follow a woman he does not know through the streets of Central London, considers why he is doing so, ultimately coming to the conclusion that it was “as if the random uproar of the traffic had whispered through hollowed hands his name, not Peter, but his private name which he called himself in his own thoughts. ‘You,’ he said, only ‘you,’ saying it with her white gloves and her shoulders” (53). Peter feels the need to follow this woman for a bit, to see where she goes, because of this feeling that she has seen into the most intimate parts of him and named them.
The name he imagines she has given this intimacy is the name that “he [calls] himself in his own thoughts,” and, when he himself thinks this name, the reader comes to find that it is “you.” This most intimate of names is not Peter, it is not even I, which might be understandable if it is imagined that Peter’s mind is a constant narration of his actions and motivations. No, what Peter’s mind calls itself to itself is “you.” In this way, Peter’s imagination that this woman he is following has hit upon an intimacy she could not have known about is strange because, as he is a stranger, she is more likely to call him “you” than she is to know that is name is Peter. And yet, it is this name that startles Peter out of his day for however long he walks behind this woman.
Calling somebody “you” suggests a distance, a depersonalization, that seems antithetical to the project of this novel. Woolf, in her essay “Modern Fiction” states that this new form for novels, unencumbered by the expectations of traditional form, aims to capture “an ordinary mind on an ordinary day” (160), to get at what makes people who they are without the scaffolding, the barriers, of plot. The project of the modernist novel is to move past these barriers, to burrow inside the mind of the main character and take up residence within their most intimate thoughts. Modernism posits that right inside the mind is the most intimate view of a person somebody can get, and yet Peter is imposing a distance there. His mind addresses itself as a stranger whose name it does not know, and yet somehow Peter has found an intimacy with himself in that gulf.
Peter Walsh is a character who seems unsettled with himself. Like Clarissa, he holds fast to what he loves, but he seems far more territorial over those things, like he imagines if he cannot continually go over what they are, they will fall away. He loves the love he once had for Clarissa, loves the woman he met in India, loves that Clarissa does not know this new him that loves this new woman. These things, posts upon which he hands his sense of self, are impermanent. The Clarissa he loved is no longer there, and she may one day know the woman he is going to marry. Peter himself has not gotten to know his ordinary mind on an ordinary day, and so it continues to be a sort of stranger to him, a “you,” an unnamed thing to which he speaks sometimes. Peter is a character that resists the closeness that this novel’s style of narration attempts to forge between the character and the reader with the distance he finds between himself and his own mind, and yet it is this distance, so different from Clarissa’s, that becomes one of the most telling things about him.

