The birds that flit around the garden in the interludes between the chapters describing the characters’ lives represent the phases of human life. As the light of dawn strikes the garden, the birds start to sing one by one, as if they are being born in that moment. During the school days of Bernard, Neville, Louis, Susan, Jinny, and Rhoda, the birds sing wildly in a joyful manner. By the time the protagonists are in college and settling into the paths of their lives, the birds have likewise begun to sing in a harmonious chorus. At the middle point of day, when the birds begin pairing off and building their nests, the protagonists begin their adult lives—Neville begins a string of serially monogamous relationships, Louis and Rhoda become lovers, and Bernard and Susan each marry. In the afternoon of life—the protagonists’ peak adulthood—the birds become silent and content, as if they’ve gorged themselves on song. Then the birds in the garden become more isolated—and fly farther into the empty sky—as the protagonists reach middle age. By the final chapter, which casts Bernard as the sole survivor of the group, the interlude features the cry of a single bird in a lonely tree.
Birds Quotes in The Waves
“I see a ring,” said Bernard, “hanging above me. It quivers and hangs in a loop of light.”
“I see a slab of pale yellow,” said Susan, “spreading away until it meets a purple stripe.”
“I hear a sound,” said Rhoda, “cheep, chirp; cheep, chirp; going up and down.”
“I see a globe,” said Neville “hanging down in a drop against the enormous flanks of some hill.”
“I see a crimson tassel,” said Jinny, “twisted with gold threads.”
“I hear something stamping,” said Louis, “A great beast’s foot is chained. It stamps, and stamps, and stamps.”
“Look at the spider’s web on the corner of the balcony,” said Bernard. “It has beads of water on it, drops of white light.”
“The leaves are gathered around the window like pointed ears,” said Susan.
[…]
“Islands of light are swimming on the grass,” said Rhoda. “They have fallen through the trees.”
Again I see before me the usual street. The canopy of civilisation is burnt out. […] But there is a kindling in the sky whether of lamplight or of dawn. There is a stir of some sort—sparrows on plane trees somewhere chirping. There is a sense of the break of day. I will not call it dawn. What is dawn in the city to an elderly man standing in the street looking up rather dizzily at the sky? Dawn is some sort of whitening in the sky; some sort of renewal. […] The stars draw back and are extinguished. The bars deepen themselves between the waves. The film of mist thickens on the fields. A redness gathers on the roses, even on the pale rose that hangs by the bedroom window. A bird chirps. Cottagers light their early candles. Yes, this the eternal renewal, the incessant rise and fall and rise again.