Author: Rohan Maitzen

Ripeness is All: Sarah Moss, Ripeness

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You must have a plum. Or three. Only they’re so ripe some of them burst when you pick them. Ripeness is all, I said. Men must endure their going hence even as their coming hither. I’d managed to get it into my Oxford entrance exam, my idea that Lear is a darker play than Hamlet. Readiness is all, Hamlet says, and readiness is voluntary, an act of will, where Lear’s ripeness happens to us as to plums and pears, regardless of agency or volition.

I had hoped to do a “proper” review of Ripeness but it didn’t work out. (Honestly, you’d think some editor might have thought of me for it, instead of my having to scout for a venue, given that I have not just read all of but also reviewed several of her books, including Ghost Wall for the TLS – which, sort of ironically, is why there was no chance I’d be reviewing Ripeness for them, as they have a policy that you can’t return to an author you’ve already reviewed, which means no more Sarah Perry or Emma Donoghue or Jo Baker for me there either, sadly.) Of course, I wanted to read it anyway, as Moss is one of my favourite contemporary writers. And I admit: alongside my peevishness about the non-review I now feel a bit of relief, because I think it would have been challenging to think through what to say about it in the kind of tight, unified way a “proper” review requires.

I don’t mean it would have been hard to express an opinion about its merits. I would not say I loved the novel, but I have never read anything by Moss that isn’t both meticulously crafted and convincingly intelligent. Every book of hers has left me appreciating the undercurrent of ideas in it, the sense throughout that something interesting is at stake. The same is true with Ripeness, on both counts, and in addition I think there is more lushness in her prose this time than in either Ghost Wall or Summerwater, both of which left me wishing she would return to the more expansive scope of her 19th-century series.

This is at least in part because half of Ripeness takes place in a villa in the Italian countryside, which for Edith, narrating her youthful experience there, offers many contrasts with her staid, bookish life back home. A sample:

Lucia set me on the path leading across her meadow. It was full of flowers I couldn’t name and grazed by small pale cows with dramatic eyelashes who watched me with mild curiosity. The day was warmer now, but still I caught the seasons turn on the air like Maman’s perfume after she had left a room. As the path rose, I looked straight over the lake to the more serious peaks on the other side, where patches of snow lay between rocks and clouds tangled around cliffs. I had never in my life been so high up, never seen water from so far away. I stopped to listen: wind, birds, faint goat bells. I could tell where there were boats on the lake from the lines their wakes and the folding of the water, traces, trails, passage.

On, up, until there was nothing behind the hill rising in front of me, until I came out on the top and could see in every direction, across a sea of summits, over the other lake into Switzerland, hill calling to hill, a new country at altitude. I turned slowly, delighted to be me, delighted to be there in that hour. I found a rock and sat on it, turned to the call of a bird and saw some great hawk, something that could have been an eagle, turning and passing below me. To see from above a bird in flight, to see the sunlight on its dappled back, to see the spread of its wings above the earth!

Is it just me, or is there a clear echo there of Hopkins, both the “dappled things” of “Pied Beauty” and the sigh of “ah, bright wings!” that so movingly concludes “God’s Grandeur”? There are several more explicit allusions to Victorian texts in Ripeness (including to Middlemarch), so this doesn’t seem like a stretch.

Edith is in Italy to help out her sister Lydia, who is in a kind of moral as well as literal exile because she is unmarried and pregnant and it’s the 1960s. Their mother has made “arrangements”: when the child is born, the nuns will spirit it away and pass it on to its new family. Lydia is fine with this: the pregnancy is not just unwanted and awkward but the result of an assault, and all she wants is to be done with it and return to her life as a ballerina. She and Edith are not close and are not drawn closer by this interlude. When it is done, she returns to her dancing; it is Edith who is haunted by the baby she cared for when Lydia would not, and who writes her account of those strange months “for Lydia’s son to find if he comes looking.”

That (though we don’t know it at first) is the premise of the chapters of the novel that are narrated in first-person by Edith, in retrospect. These chapters alternate with chapters in close third-person, following Edith decades later, divorced, retired, living in Ireland now, enjoying her lover Gunter and her friendships. One thread in this section is an uncomfortable encounter she has with her good friend Méabh, who she happens upon protesting outside a hotel that has been designated as housing for African immigrants—”it’s not right,” she explains to Edith, “there’s been no consultation,” it’s not like the Ukrainians, “we all understood that,” and though “Edith knows her lines” and says what she can to counter Méabh’s bad faith justifications for this public display of bigotry, she’s left “shaky, nauseous.” “Can she still be friends,” she wonders, “with someone who thinks the problem is refugees?”

The answer, it turns out, is yes, and other main plot element in this later timeline also turns on Méabh, who is contacted unexpectedly by a man who has discovered by way of DNA testing that he is her brother, given away by her mother for adoption long before she became Méabh’s mother. He wants to come to Ireland, to meet her and see the place he is from, to reclaim his Irish identity, though what right he has to it is the subject of some pithy comments.

If I were properly reviewing, I would reread the novel until I could explain better how the parts hang together. Big words like “belonging” or “identity” feel relevant but also too general. Lydia and Edith’s mother was herself a refugee, sent away from France just in time to save her from the fate the rest of her Jewish family met. She thought often of her own mother and sister, who were put on trains and then put to death. Whose claims to refuge are met with kindness and whose with protest? Who has the right to say that they are “from” anywhere? What does it mean to be separated from your family, by violence or by the kind of cold pragmatism that removes tiny Gabriel (named by Edith, as Lydia refuses to care, or at any rate to acknowledge her care, for him) and sends him off to strangers? But then, as Méabh’s new-found brother’s story highlights, how much does it matter where you were born, or to whom, if that has never been your home and they have never been your family?

Edith herself does not idealize or romanticize family or motherhood. If anything, what she witnesses of Lydia’s childbearing and birthing alienates her from the whole process. Looking through the book that has been her only guide to what to expect and do, she is put off by its critical tone towards women who “might take childbirth as an excuse to rest and slack off the housework”:

It was the first time I thought that I would not have children, that I would rather go to my grave without the blood-wrestling of birth and the appalling responsibility of infant care . . . [and] I’m not sure I was wrong. I have not been good at motherhood, certainly not in the Irish fashion. I was not a good wife. I did the correct things, mostly, but I did not give myself. I did not merge myself with my son, there was no abnegation.

“I remained,” she reflects, “more of a narrator than a participant. Self-centred to the end, you might be thinking. I am. I narrate.”

I would say, though, that Edith’s narration does not show her as self-centred, even if she is “the main character,” even if, as she proposes, “the scratches in the mirror centre around the candle of my version” (see, Middlemarch!). Maybe the Edith who leaves her account for Gabriel (“To be opened after my death“) is a construct—all narrators are, but also, all of us are, in some sense, right?—but the tenderness she shows to her sister’s unwanted baby hums through that account, which conveys with both delicacy and poignancy the astonishing fact of a new person coming into being, having needs, having hungers, having them met or not. The older Edith of the other chapters is not particularly warm, but she’s always thinking things through. She has that in common with her author, and that makes her good fictional company.

The title is obviously a clue to how to read Ripeness, to how to make sense of it as a whole (how many times have I said that to my students, that novels teach us how to read them, an enterprise that begins with their titles?). I found Edith’s comparison between ripeness and readiness thought-provoking, but I can’t quite figure out how it organizes the novel’s different elements. Lydia was ripe but not ready, I suppose, but it’s Edith’s novel, isn’t it?  I don’t mind that I’m left with questions, with things to think about myself.

Faded, Fatalistic & Aged

Rohan Maitzen2 Comments

But this slight depression—what is it? I think I could cure it by crossing the channel, & writing nothing for a week . . . But oh the delicacy & complexity of the soul—for, haven’t I begun to tap her & listen to her breathing after all? A change of house makes me oscillate for days. And thats [sic] life; thats wholesome. Never to quiver is the lot of Mr. Allinson, Mrs. Hawkesford, & Jack Squire. In two or three days, acclimatised, started, reading & writing, no more of this will exist. And if we didn’t live venturously, plucking the wild goat by the beard, & trembling over precipices, we should never be depressed, I’ve no doubt, but already should be faded, fatalistic & aged.

You thought it was me who felt that way, right? But instead it is Woolf, feeling and thinking and, especially, thinking about feeling.

The parts I am most likely to bookmark as I am reading through the diaries are the ones about writing, the ones probably mostly already included in the Writer’s Diary Leonard compiled (I have it and have mostly read it, in the past, but am not cross-checking.)  I do find Woolf the writer endlessly fascinating, especially now that she has / I have reached a point where she knows she is finally writing as herself, in her own way. “If this book [Jacob’s Room] proves anything,” she reflects,

it proves that I can only write along those lines, & shall never desert them, but explore further & further, & shall, heaven be praised, never bore myself an instant.

Imagine that: I bore myself constantly, especially when I’m writing in my own journal! By the end of Volume II of the published diary she is well along in Mrs. Dalloway (“in this book I have almost too many ideas,” she says, but excitedly, not with anxiety), and she is feeling it, not growing into her voice but now at last (her sense of it) finally using it, with a consciousness of freedom (“I’m less coerced than I’ve yet been,” she says about the writing process).

But at the risk of creating a dichotomy where there shouldn’t be one, Woolf the person is at least as interesting, partly because she is not so sure. She is thin-skinned, sensitive, doubting. She waits on tenterhooks for reviews, especially in the “Lit Sup,” where, she complains, “I never get an enthusiastic review . . . and it will be the same for Dalloway.” She is elated by a generous commentary from “Morgan” (E. M. Forster) and irritable about how long it takes for the Common Reader to get any notice at all—although we might wonder at her expectations: “out on Thursday,” she says petulantly, “this is Monday, & so far I have not heard a word about it, private or public.” Shouldn’t a genius be above this kind of fretting? But if courage is not the absence of fear but acting in spite of the fear, perhaps genius is not the absence of self-consciousness or doubt but writing exactly what you want in spite of those feelings, living venturously, trembling over precipices, braving depression—as long as you can bear it, anyway.

“This diary writing has greatly helped my style,” she says in November 1924; “loosened the ligatures.” I wrote before about how she seemed to be seeking or practising looseness through the relative formlessness of her entries. I’m into Volume III now, already done 1925 because that’s a very short year, and while there is still a lot of meeting and visiting and housekeeping, there are also still what seem clearly like practice sessions for her fiction, little set pieces like this one which, while in a way “just” records of something that happened, somehow do more, or go further:

I am under the impression of the moment, which is the complex one of coming back home from the South of France to this wide dim peaceful privacy – London (so it seemed last night) which is shot with the accident I saw this morning & a woman crying Oh oh oh faintly, pinned against the railings with a motor car on top of her. All day I have heard that voice. I did not go to her help; but then every baker & seller did that. A great sense of the brutality & wildness of the world remains with me—there was this woman in brown walking along the pavement—suddenly a red film car turns a somersault, lands on top of her, & one hears this oh, oh oh.

And yet she still continues on “to see Ness’s new house,” which they go through “composedly enough,” as we all do, if it isn’t our particular catastrophe.

I’m looking forward to 1926, when Mrs. Dalloway is published. In her introduction to Volume III, Olivia Laing notes that it covers “perhaps the most fruitful, satisfying years” of Woolf’s life:

[it] opens as Woolf is revising her fourth novel, Mrs. Dalloway, and her first volume of criticism, The Common Reader, and closes as she is editing The Waves. In the intervening years she writes To the Lighthouse, Orlando, and A Room of One’s Own, plus a formidable battalion of essays and reviews.

Now that’s a streak. Does she shake off those worries about how her work will be received, I wonder? I suspect not, as I know from other research I’ve done that years later she was pretty fretful about both the writing and the reception of The Years. In 1925, she’s daring to imagine, though, that she “might become one of the interesting—I will not say great—but interesting novelists.” As she turns her full attention to To the Lighthouse, she’s also rethinking whether she’s a novelist at all: “I have an idea that I will invent a new name for my books to supplant ‘novel” A new——by Virginia Woolf. But what? Elegy?”

Winifred Holtby’s chapter on this period of Woolf’s life is called “The Adventure Justified”: “she was more sure now,” Holtby writes, “both of herself and of her public. She dared take greater risks with them, confident that they would not let her down.” It’s a wonderful chapter, rising almost to ecstasy about Woolf’s achievement in To the Lighthouse:

Its quality is poetic; its form and subject are perfectly fused, incandescent, disciplined into unity. It is a parable of life, of art, of experience; it is a parable of immortality. It is one of the most beautiful novels written in the English language.

But in November 1925, Woolf is feeling faded and fatalistic: “Reading & writing go on. Not my novel though. And I can only think of all my faults as a novelist & wonder why I do it.”

This Week (Not) In My Classes

Rohan Maitzen4 Comments

It has been very quiet here lately, for reasons that may seem counterintuitive: I have had very little going on, because (long story short) the faculty at Dalhousie has been locked out by the administration since August 20, and while I am not in the union (I’m a member of the joint King’s – Dalhousie faculty) I have been instructed to do no Dal-specific work while the labour dispute continues. You’d think that this would mean I have all kinds of time to read books and write about them here, and yet what has happened instead is that the weird limbo of this situation has prolonged my usual summer doldrums and overwhelmed me with inertia. At this point I can hardly imagine summoning up the energy to stand up in front of keen young people and sustain a lively discussion—and yet at the same time there is nothing I want more to do, especially because if we were in classes this week we would be wrapping up our work on Austen’s Persuasion, my favourite of her novels. The two sides are at the bargaining table again this evening: who knows, maybe by the time I press ‘post’ there will be news of a deal.

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I have done some reading since O, the Brave Music, but nothing that really stuck except William Maxwell’s So Long, See You Tomorrow, which is as good as everyone said it was, bleak but somehow not depressing. I have just started Frans G. Bengtsson’s The Long Ships, which I am enjoying even though it is not at all what I expected: for no good reason, I suppose, I thought it would be more like Dorothy Dunnett’s novels, or Hild, but it is not nearly so dense or expository but is rather more like a chronicle, with a faintly antique cadence as if it is being told rather than written / read. Maxell’s novel deserves its own post but is not going to get one—score one for inertia!—but when I finish The Long Ships, I resolve to write it up properly! In between I have been rereading Robert B. Parker and Dick Francis, most recently The Edge, which is one of my favourite of Francis’s novels and also helps to sustain my dream of one day taking a cross-country train trip.

I have also been continuing my read-through of Woolf’s diaries. I am into 1923 now. 1922 seemed like a slow year and then she published Jacob’s Room and read Ulysses, both of which events generated a lot of interesting material. I am fascinated by her self-doubt: we meet great writers of the past when that greatness is assured, and also when their writer’s identity is established, but Woolf is not so sure on either count, and is hypersensitive—as George Eliot was—to criticism, especially when she felt her work was misunderstood, not just unappreciated. Jacob’s Room is significant because it is the first novel that, to her, really feels like her own voice: “There’s no doubt in my mind,” she says, “that I have found out how to begin (at 40) to say something in my own voice; & that interests me so that I feel I can go ahead without praise.” I am always fascinated and inspired by accounts of artists of any kind who find their métier and know it; I still think often of Mary Delany, and when I reread that post I also reflect on the expanding confidence I felt at the time and wonder where it went and how to recover it. Well, as Molly Peacock tells us in her wonderful book, Mary Delany was 72 when she discovered and fulfilled her own artistic purpose, so I will try to think of myself as “only” 58 and take heart, again, from her story.

Another paradox around my lack of posting is that for whatever reason, this is the writing I like doing the most. All summer I have been struggling to get something, anything done on a couple of other projects, and while I did meet a couple of small reviewing deadlines and submit something to a CFP for a special issue of a journal (I won’t know for a while if anything comes of that), my larger plans keep fizzling out because I can’t shake the feeling that they are futile: even if I completed exactly what I imagine they could be, the odds that they would find a publisher or an audience seem so slim. When nobody is asking for something and there’s no extrinsic need or reward for it, you really have to believe in it to actually do it. Perhaps my lack of conviction is a sign that these are not in fact the right projects for me . . . but then what is? These have not been good years for trusting myself, partly because of the legacy of my failed promotion bid. Oh wait, that’s where that surge of optimism and confidence went! and in fact that’s exactly right: I’ve been struggling to rebuild ever since, and I was making some progress when COVID hit and then all the hard personal stuff of the last few years. At some point, of course, explanations shade into excuses—and I have in fact been getting lots of other things done, and would be getting more done if I were back in my classes now, as I should be and hope to be soon. Teaching is almost always restorative for me, and this term—when it finally starts—should be especially so as due to an administrate release I have just one class, 19th-Century Fiction from Austen to Dickens.

Cross your fingers that a fair deal is struck soon, not just so that I can get out of this dreary purposeless limbo but so that I don’t have to cut Cranford from our reading list because we don’t have enough time for it. And whatever happens with the negotiations, I will try to stop malingering.

Almost Perfect: Dorothy Evelyn Smith, ‘O, The Brave Music’

Rohan Maitzen5 Comments

Sometimes I think that was the happiest day of my life, those hours of heat and silence and colour, alone with David high up on the moor. But then I remember that I have said that of many other days, so I cannot be sure. This I know—that it was almost perfect. Not quite, for perfection is dull: it took the serpent to make Adam and Eve appreciate their garden.

I have had the nice British Library Women Writers edition of O, The Brave Music on my shelves for four or five years. I chose it as one of my samples when the series was launching because I remembered my mother saying it had been a childhood favorite of hers, but somehow I hadn’t gotten around to reading it yet; Shawn’s enthusiastic mention of it in a recent episode was just the nudge I needed. What a treat it was! I really enjoyed it.

O, The Brave Music follows young Ruan Ashley on her bumpy road towards adulthood. We first meet her when she is seven, living in the Manse with her stern preacher father, her beautiful mother, her older sister Sylvia, and her little brother Clem (“will he walk and talk soon,” she asks her father, “like other babies?”). Ruan’s story exemplifies the trend Anita Brookner so aptly describes in Hotel du Lac, by way of her romance novelist protagonist Edith:

In my books it is the mouse-like unassuming girl who gets the hero, while the scornful temptress with whom he has had a stormy affair retreats baffled from the fray, never to return. The tortoise wins every time. This is a lie, of course . . . In real life, of course, it is the hare who wins. Every time. Look around you. And in any case it is my contention that Aesop was writing for the tortoise market. Axiomatically . . . hares have no time to read. They are too busy winning the game. The propaganda goes all the other way, but only because it is the tortoise who is in need of consolation.

Ruan’s youth is full of hardship and loss, but Smith is definitely pitching her story to the “tortoise market” as it is clear from the beginning that (though Ruan herself is not always sure of this) it is better to be smart than beautiful, to love books more than boys, to be wild and free than to be (as Sylvia basically is) conventional and safe. Ruan is the direct descendent of Jane Eyre and Maggie Tulliver (though without their passion or rage) and an avatar of her most likely readers: other bookish girls who know they don’t quite fit the mould and long to be told that they will nonetheless win the game.

The promise of ultimate victory for Ruan is embodied in David, her playmate, companion, and beloved. I give Smith credit for dangling the possibility that he will not, in the end, be true to Ruan: that her dream will turn out not to be his. Perhaps that would have been a more interesting novel, as it would have put their long alliance into a different light, undermining Ruan’s point of view (the novel is told in her voice)—but Smith spares her, and us, that disappointment. That said, the novel’s ending is surprisingly ambiguous or ‘open,’ and while Ruan is certain that happiness will come for her, “hand in hand with David,” I was reminded of the evasive ending of Villette.

Though the plot is well enough told and I was engaged throughout finding out what happened to Ruan and her odd collection of family and friends, what I liked best about the novel was how beautifully Smith (through Ruan) describes the moor, where Ruan is always happiest:

Now it would be lying asleep, dun and sere under sullen November skies, inimical to many, but never, never to me! Soon the snow would come; here, in these sheltered dales, a mere matter of an hour’s Christmas-card prettiness, followed by days of slush and mud; but oh, how different on the moor! My heart quickened at the memory of mile upon mile of untrodden purity, white as angels’ wings on the uplands, blue-shadowed in the hollows of air like bright sharp swords that you could almost see . . . of the solemn beauty that awed you when you peeped under your blind at night; so still, so vast and pure in the light of the moon, that a lump came in your throat because so much loveliness was not to be borne.

Even in deep grief, the moor brings Ruan life:

Up there, in the pure, clean moorland air, the pattern of life showed more clearly; on a larger scale. I lifted my eyes to the hills; and I perceived how minute, how unimportant, a portion of that pattern we made, all of us, and we no longer seemed to matter greatly.

Things do matter greatly to Ruan—the tension between that uplifting, unworldly liberty and the pull of both love and responsibility marks her maturation and gives the book, which is somewhat episodic overall, some unity and and also some depth. I think today we would categorize O, The Brave Music as “YA” fiction but like other examples of ‘books for younger people’ from an earlier era, it feels more sophisticated to me than much current YA fiction (as do the Pennington books, for example, which were favorites of my childhood and which I still reread with genuine interest).

A side note: the title of Smith’s novel comes from The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam (“O, the brave music of a distant drum!” is the line). Many years ago one of my teachers gave me an illustrated edition of the Rubaiyat, inscribed “To Rohan, a ‘rara avis.'” In retrospect, it was perhaps an odd choice, as I was in elementary school at the time. I just thought it was fanciful and beautiful; I was used to reading things I didn’t completely understand and picking out what I liked about them. What mattered most to me about it was that I felt seen, that I felt that being bookish could actually make me stand out in a good way rather than a bad way. I was (and am) very much a tortoise too!

“The Beautiful Lotus Flower of Music”: Riku Onda, Honeybees and Distant Thunder

Rohan Maitzen8 Comments

Probably most of the audience here knew the piece. But knowing it only made them eagerly anticipate the high point all the more. Masaru’s heart beat faster. And as always it struck him: What a truly emotionally rousing melody!

It could be performed thousands, tens of thousands, of times, and this melody would never ever wear thin. It moved you, no matter how many times you heard it. It struck you right in the heart.

The highest form of human achievement was music. This is what he thought.

Human beings might have dirty, repulsive aspects to them, but out of the sordid swamp that was humanity—no, it was precisely because of this chaotic swamp—the beautiful lotus flower of music would bloom.

Reading Riku Onda’s Honeybees and Distant Thunder was a very odd experience: I found it both lovely and boring, not at different points but all the time, at the same time.

The novel follows four pianists through all of the rounds of a prestigious competition. They are very different characters, from different backgrounds and with different styles of interpreting and playing their pieces. I have read other novels about musicians—Lynne Sharon Schwartz’s Disturbances in the Field is a particular favorite—but I have never read one in which so much time and so many words are spent conveying, through description, metaphor, and storytelling, what pieces of music sound like: what images they convey or animate the performer, what moods or emotions or sensations they create. A sample:

The music shifted to the second piece in Estampes, ‘Evening in Granada.’

The audience was transported in a moment to a world redolent of Islam.

The word Granada conjured up all sorts of associations. It was in Andalusia, in southern Spain, a region where Christianity and Islam had intersected. The clear dark blue sky was being absorbed by the gathering twilight. The white pillars, evenly spaced down a hallway, were steeped in the glow of the setting sun, and the word infinite came to mind.

The rhythm of the habanera. Women with raven-dark hair, clutching fans, dancing.

Something here, too, raised its head from the sea of emotion lying deep within. An uneasy, cheerless late afternoon.

Twilight, where the blessings and curses of life merged.

It was completely imbued with this.

A rose madder hue lay over the audience as this evening shone down from the stage.

Kanade was riveted to her seat.

Something like a huge wall of energy was thrusting out from the stage, literally pinning her to her seat.

She felt parched and hesitated even to breathe.

Typing that passage out, it struck me even more strongly than it did as I was reading through the book that the other reaction I sometimes (maybe too often) had was that it was a bit ridiculous: overwritten, trying too hard, straining after both effect and affect. I’m wary about judgments like this with works in translation: perhaps in the original Japanese there is a cadence or a poetry that hasn’t quite come across in the English version.

A lot of the novel is this kind of fanciful description highlighting either the performer’s point of view or that of the audience in general or, as here, a particular listener. I appreciated the concept—is it even possible to convey the experience of music in words?—a lot, but I also got tired of it because it just didn’t work for me. I was not rapt or moved or ecstatic; I was never brought into a state where I shared in a different medium the delights of those involved in the performances. And yet there was something delightful about the attempt itself.

There is also something just nice about the book, because the four characters it highlights care about music more than about competing. They are rivals in the competition but become caught up in each other’s playing. It’s not as simplistic as them rooting for each other instead of for themselves; it’s that as they listen to each other, they hear possibilities that excite them, idiosyncrasies that surprise them, and beauty that inspires them. It’s sweet. Their intersecting stories provide some structure for the novel as a whole, and by the end I was curious to find out who would win and why, but the outcome seemed almost beside the point by the novel’s conclusion—which I think is the point. After all, as one of the judges reflects, “could you really score art?”

I picked up Honeybees and Distant Thunder because it is Women in  Translation month. I hadn’t heard of it before I found it at the bookstore, but it has apparently been a huge bestseller in Japan and has even been made into a movie. I’m intrigued by that: a movie would bring back the music itself, replacing the abundant (possibly over-abundant) descriptions of it. What would be left? The personalities of the players: that’s really all, along with the relationships that develop between them. Adaptations of novels always lose the language, the writing. In this case I guess I would consider that both a loss (because turning music into words is what the novel does) and a gain (because in the end I would rather listen to music than read about it).

That’s Life: Richard Flanagan, Question 7

Rohan Maitzen7 Comments

We watched this meeting with its strange weight of human dignity and goodness. I could not ever have believed that saying sorry might mean so much. None was their government. None bore responsibility. No one spoke for anyone other than themselves. Nothing said or done had any national consequence. Yet in that strange communion lay liberation. What other answer can any of us make to the terrible question of history?

19.

Thomas Ferebee’s body was lit up like a neon tube, his body is lighting up like a neon tube, his body will always light up like a neon tube as until the end of all things the suffering of the dead illuminates the living.

That’s life.

Question 7 is an odd, powerful, poignant, frustrating, beautiful, and perhaps slightly incoherent book. I say “perhaps” because although for me it was a bit too fragmented to be wholly satisfying, it seems possible, even likely, that a rereading would unify it more. It has a lot of moving parts, pun intended: many parts of it are emotionally affecting, and it is composed of a lot of different pieces so lightly connected that at times it felt like I was drifting from one to the next, or that Flanagan’s topics were drifting and only occasionally coming into direct contact with each other.

You can probably tell that I am struggling to figure out Question 7, or how to talk about it. To be honest, something I thought often as I read it is that Flanagan is only allowed to write a book like this because he has earned readers’ trust with his other writing. I don’t mean that it is not a good book: actually, I think it is a very good book. But it is very loose: Flanagan does not do the expository work of tying everything together. Insofar as Question 7 has a unifying idea or argument it’s “that’s life,” which says at once everything and nothing. And by “that’s life” Flanagan does not mean “this is the answer” but “this is the unanswerable question,” or “these are questions we can never answer—that is what it is like being alive.”

Question 7 is a meditation on the strangeness of it all. It is about the atom bomb, and its makers, and their ambition and hubris and, in some cases, their profound regret. It is about H. G. Wells, accidental instigator of one of modernity’s great catastrophes:

without H. G. Wells’s book Leo Szilard would never have conceived of a nuclear chain reaction and without conceiving of a nuclear chain reaction he would never have grown terrified and without growing terrified Leo Szilard would never have persuaded Einstein to lobby Roosevelt and without Einstein lobbying Roosevelt there would have been no Manhattan project . . .

In this grim version of If You Give A Mouse a Cookie, Flanagan continues on to Hiroshima and the bomb that killed thousands of people but also probably saved his father’s life and thus made his own possible:

without Hiroshima there is no me and these words erase themselves and me with it.

Question 7 is, I think, Flanagan puzzling out how to live in a world (the world) where these are the conditions of his own existence.

Question 7 is part memoir, part ghost story (Flanagan himself died at 21 in a kayaking accident but then was revived). It is part tribute to his father, a POW who was enslaved in a Japanese labour camp (and whose experiences lie behind Flanagan’s harrowing novel The Narrow Road to the Deep North). It is also a memorial to his mother: his account of her dying, which he says was “one of the most beautiful things I ever saw,” is itself beautiful and sad and comforting. The book is part meditation on war and part lament for the devastations of climate change. It is about—and here I risk making it sound trite, which it is not—accepting moments of grace, such as the meeting in my epigraph, between Flanagan’s father and three Japanese women, “committed to exposing Japanese war crimes,” who visit him to apologize. If that sounds like a lot, well, it is, and yet the book is not dense or even, despite these difficult topics, heavy.

I said that Question 7 doesn’t tie everything together; that is clearly intentional. In its form as well as its spirit, Flanagan’s book is a rebuttal to the idea, too prevalent, he believes, “that life is infinitely measurable,” that everything can be reduced to metrics. His title comes from a story by Chekhov that is also a rejection of the desire to oversimplify in order to achieve certainty: “Wednesday, June 17, 1881,” the story goes,

a train had to leave station A at 3 a.m. in order to reach station B at 11 p.m.; just as the train was about to depart, however, an order came that the train had to reach station B by 7 p.m. Who loves longer, a man or a woman?

This reminds me of Sissy Jupe refusing to answer her utilitarian teacher’s questions on the terms they have set:

‘Then Mr. M’Choakumchild said he would try me again.  And he said, This schoolroom is an immense town, and in it there are a million of inhabitants, and only five-and-twenty are starved to death in the streets, in the course of a year.  What is your remark on that proportion?  And my remark was—for I couldn’t think of a better one—that I thought it must be just as hard upon those who were starved, whether the others were a million, or a million million.  And that was wrong, too.’

“Who?” asks Flanagan, picking up Chekhov’s question:

You, me, a Hiroshima resident or a slave labourer? And why do we do what we do to each other?

That’s question 7.

I will be thinking about this book and its connections and juxtapositions for a long time, and we should probably all be asking ourselves question 7 and trying to get the people in power to answer it better, or differently, then so many of them are currently doing.

Karen Powell, Fifteen Wild Decembers

Rohan Maitzen6 Comments

Cold in the earth—and fifteen wild Decembers,
From those brown hills, have melted into spring;
Faithful, indeed, is the spirit that remembers
After such years of change and suffering!
— Emily Brontë

I expect Karen Powell’s Fifteen Wild Decembers is more interesting the less you already know about the Brontës when you read it, whereas I am pretty sure Colm Toibin’s The Master is a richer experience for devoted Jamesians than it was for me—which is really saying something, because I thought it was extraordinary. Emily Brontë’s life is obviously interesting enough for a novel, but if you’re going to fictionalize a story that is already well served by biography, and if you’re going to presume to speak in a voice best known to us from Wuthering Heights, you need to reach a depth of insight and also heights of emotion that I just didn’t find in Powell’s novel. It does have some nice passages of description, but overall it felt flat, and fell flat; even the descriptive sections felt a bit paint-by-numbers to me, detailed without being vivid.

“It fell flat” is a hard complaint to back up with evidence: I can’t point to passages that are obviously badly written. I can at least try to illustrate the plodding quality of the ‘dramatic’ scenes: the dialogue always seemed stilted to my ear, manufactured, with nothing of the vivacity or intensity of the dialogue in any of the Brontë novels I know well. Here, chosen more or less at random, is a bit of the sisters’ debate about whether to try to publish their poems:

‘You live in your own little world, Emily. Always have done. You never listen to a word anyone tells you!’

‘Because I have a mind of my own, am not some puppet for you to play with.’

‘This has nothing to do with our poems,’ said Anne quietly. ‘I see no reason why we shouldn’t send them out to see if people think we have something worth saying. As Charlotte says, Aunt’s money will only last so long. And we can still advertise for your school, either here or elsewhere.’

‘It’s a ridiculous idea, Anne. You must know that. I don’t see how—look, Branwell has a poem in the paper every five minutes and has never once been paid for them.’

‘But a proper publisher,’ said Charlotte, blinking rapidly. Any moment now she would start crying and blame the onions. ‘I still think Branwell will do something remarkable one day.’

‘We won’t make a penny.’

‘How will we know unless we try?’

‘We’re perfectly happy as we are.’

Maybe that seems fine to you and if so you might enjoy Fifteen Wild Decembers just fine too.

The novel is clearly building towards Wuthering Heights and includes some elements designed to get it, and Emily, and us, there, especially a boy (later a man) Emily sees on the moors who fascinates her with his elusive wildness. (There are hints of Cathy cutting her ghostly wrists on the windows too, among other allusions.) How the narrator of Fifteen Wild Decembers could plausibly generate the emotional frenzy of Wuthering Heights is not convincingly portrayed or explained, though. When Powell’s Emily eventually declares her aspirations for her fiction, they seemed to me unearned, not prepared for by what had come previously:

‘I want characters who’ve grown out of the land; have been formed from heath and rock and icy water.’

‘A love story, though?’ Anne had already decided that her fictional governess would be rewarded by a happy marriage to a curate.

I nodded. The outline of the story had come to me on the walk home and, in flashes, during the night, but the detail was forming only now, as I paced around the room. ‘But so passionate that it destroys the lovers and everyone close to them. A jealous, selfish, unthinking love, wicked even. But it will endure beyond death, like bedrock beneath the flimsiness of existence . . . I want to show what lies beneath the veneer of civility.’

Is it just me, or is that overwritten? At any rate, this is not how the narrating voice has talked, or how Powell’s Emily has thought, up until this point. I just wasn’t buying it.

I could go on but I won’t. I don’t think I’m being unfair to the novel, and I’m also not sure why I expected better. The ‘homage to a great writer’ genre is a hard one: it inevitably invites comparisons that are almost certain not to flatter the follower. I’ve written plenty over the years about my dislike of pretty much every such book I’ve read about George Eliot (see, for example, here). I didn’t hate Lesley Krueger’s Mad Richard, which features Charlotte Brontë as a character. When these attempts falter, though, I’m reminded of Dorothy Mermin’s comment when someone asked her in my hearing about A. S. Byatt’s Possession, which was (paraphrasing, as it was a long time ago!) “Why would I want to read that, when I can read the real thing?” She was speaking particularly about Byatt’s brave efforts to write original “Victorian” poetry, but I think she also meant something more general about neo-Victorian fiction, which I too generally dislike, preferring “the real thing.” I don’t like Wuthering Heights—a recent reread confirmed that I will retire without ever assigning it—but it is completely gripping and also utterly convincing in its grim view of human nature. Probably Fifteen Wild Decembers suffered from my reading it too soon after rereading Wuthering Heights, and also so soon after my rereading of Gaskell’s Life of Charlotte Brontë, which I worked through with my Victorian Women Writers seminar last term. Nothing in Powell’s novel comes close to the power of Gaskell’s writing about this cast of characters. Powell’s rendition of Emily’s death (I wondered how she would deal with that, with Emily as her first-person narrator) to me was tedious and affected, straining towards effects more than delivering them:

All cold. Icy angels edged towards me, lips of blue. Branwell came, hair so red against the whiteness. Ice and fire. I felt a cold hand reaching for me. I could not catch my breath. My lips were moving now. Forgive me, Papa, but I cannot—

Lead us not into temptation

Breath won’t come. Lead on my chest. They must not shut me in a coffin, Anne. Who will bake the bread? Lay me in the peaty earth. A terrible light coming now, a tidal drag pulling me under, quicksand; thunder of wings; reaching hands, pulling, pushing, I do not—eyelids burned to the rim, scourged to the bone. Turn away, resist with every last strength in my—

And so on for another page and a half. For contrast, this is Gaskell’s account:

In fact, Emily never went out of doors after the Sunday succeeding Branwell’s death. She made no complaint; she would not endure questioning; she rejected sympathy and help. Many a time did Charlotte and Anne drop their sewing, or cease from their writing, to listen with wrung hearts to the failing step, the laboured breathing, the frequent pauses, with which their sister climbed the short staircase; yet they dared not notice what they observed, with pangs of suffering even deeper than hers. They dared not notice it in words, far less by the caressing assistance of a helping arm or hand. They sat, still and silent . . .

Emily was growing rapidly worse. I remember Miss Brontë’s shiver at recalling the pang she felt when, after having searched in the little hollows and sheltered crevices of the moors for a lingering spray of heather—just one spray, however withered—to take in to Emily, she saw that the flower was not recognised by the dim and indifferent eyes. Yet, to the last, Emily adhered tenaciously to her habits of independence. She would suffer no one to assist her. Any effort to do so roused the old stern spirit. One Tuesday morning, in December, she arose and dressed herself as usual, making many a pause, but doing everything for herself, and even endeavouring to take up her employment of sewing: the servants looked on, and knew what the catching, rattling breath, and the glazing of the eye too surely foretold; but she kept at her work; and Charlotte and Anne, though full of unspeakable dread, had still the faintest spark of hope.

On that morning Charlotte wrote thus—probably in the very presence of her dying sister:—

“Tuesday. “I should have written to you before, if I had had one word of hope to say; but I have not. She grows daily weaker. The physician’s opinion was expressed too obscurely to be of use. He sent some medicine, which she would not take. Moments so dark as these I have never known. I pray for God’s support to us all. Hitherto He has granted it.”

The morning drew on to noon. Emily was worse: she could only whisper in gasps. Now, when it was too late, she said to Charlotte, “If you will send for a doctor, I will see him now.” About two o’clock she died.

Which would you rather read?

July Reading: Quantity vs Quality!

Rohan Maitzen12 Comments

I thought I had done very little reading in July, and I was prepared to defend myself: “Fred! Very distracting! Too hot! Can’t concentrate!” Both of these things are true: having Fred in my life has been a significant adjustment, more than I expected, and we did have a pretty warm July. Both factors contributed to a pretty poor month for sleeping, so I was going to point to that too as a reason I read so little.

And yet it turns out I read 11.5 books in July, which is more than many other months. So why did it seem like such a slump? I think it’s because most of them were not very deep, or not very good—plus two of them were re-reads, which I feel is sort of cheating.

The unexpected highlight was a very last minute choice: an interesting conversation with my lovely mom about A. S. Byatt convinced me I should reread the ‘Frederica quartet,’ but I felt too lackadaisical that night to jump right in so I plucked Byatt’s The Matisse Stories off the shelf on July 30 and finished it July 31. I’ve owned it for ages (I think it was a book sale find) but hadn’t gotten around to it. It turns out to be a really fascinating trio of stories all related (surprise! 🙂 ) in some way to paintings by Matisse, though in  unpredictable ways. In the first one, a middle-aged woman reaches a breaking point at the salon and ends up absolutely trashing the place: I would never do such a thing to my nice stylist or the pleasant salon she co-owns, but there was something profoundly understandable about this woman’s rage. In the second, a self-absorbed, pretentious artist endlessly catered to (if silently criticized) by his deferential wife gets an unexpected come-uppance when it turns out their cleaning lady is the one whose wild artistic creations get noticed. The third turns on an accusation against a professor by a student who is clearly unwell; there’s a lot of thought-provoking discussion in it about art and standards, but what will stay with me is a stark moment of acknowledgment between two people who, it becomes clear, have both considered ending their lives:

‘Of course, when one is at that point, imagining others becomes unimaginable. Everything seems clear, and simple, and single; there is only one possible thing to be done—’

Perry Diss says,

‘That is true. You look around you and everything is bleached, and clear, as you say. You are in a white box, a white room, with no doors or windows. You are looking through clear water with no movement—perhaps it is more like being inside ice, inside the white room. There is only one thing possible. It is all perfectly clear and simple and plain. As you say.’

I don’t know if they are right, but when I read this what I thought to myself was “How did Byatt know this?” It feels as if it must be true. Byatt is such a consistently smart writer; I do absolutely look forward to starting in on The Virgin in the Garden.

Nothing else I read made me think or feel as much as this little volume. I quite liked Ian Rankin’s Midnight and Blue; it has been especially fun watching Rankin push Rebus along through the years rather than preserving him in eternal crime-fighting youth. I also liked Kate Atkinson’s Death at the Sign of the Rook. I read Peter Hoeg’s Smilla’s Sense of Snow for my book club (I’m not considering this a re-read as it had been more than 30 years since my first go at it!). It starts out so strong! It goes so awry! It ends . . . with a parasitic worm? Really? Katerina Bivald’s The Murders in Great Diddling was mildly entertaining. Martha Wells’s All Systems Red—which I listened to as an audio book—was very entertaining and very short. Felix Francis’s The Syndicate was not very good: he took over his dad’s franchise and some of the results have been fine, but this one read like someone ticking off boxes.

I reread David Nicholls’s You are Here and enjoyed it about as much as the first time. That’s probably enough times, though: I can’t see it becoming one of my go-to comfort reads. Katherine Center’s How to Walk Away and Abby Jimenez’s Life’s Too Short were pretty trauma-riddled for romances (maybe that’s not the right category for them?); Center’s The Rom-Commers was another re-read and I think I actually liked it better the second time.

The 0.5 is Ali Smith’s Gliff. I lost traction on it about half way through. Smith is a hit-or-miss author for me: I think she’s brilliant and absolutely love listening to her talk about her fiction, but the Seasonal Quartet are the only novels of hers that I have gotten along with well at all.

I am not, by training or inclination, a reading snob but it is interesting to recognize that my sense that I wasn’t “really” reading much is due in part to so many of these books being non-literary (in the genre sense). If they’d been better examples of their kind, though, I don’t think I would have felt the same.

“The Shadow of Some Kind of Form”: Woolf on her Diary

Rohan Maitzen1 Comment

In my previous post I wondered whether we knew what Woolf’s wishes were for her diary: whether she imagined it as something others would someday read, or thought of it as—and hoped it would remain—a private space. How might these different ideas about what she was writing, or who she was writing for, have affected what she wrote? With these questions still lingering as I read on yesterday, I reached an entry that explicitly addresses what keeping a diary meant to her and what her aspirations were for it, particularly for herself as a writer. It’s a longish passage but I’m going to copy the whole of it here, because I find every bit of it so interesting. It’s part of her entry for Sunday 20 April, 1919.

In the idleness which succeeds any long article, & Defoe is the 2nd leader this month, I got out this diary, & read as one always does read one’s own writing, with a kind of guilty intensity. I confess that the rough & random style of it, often so ungrammatical, & crying for a word altered, afflicted me somewhat. I am trying to tell whichever self it is that reads this hereafter that I can write very much better; & take no time over this; & forbid her to let the eye of man behold it. And now I may add my little compliment to the effect that it has a slapdash & vigour, & sometimes hits an unexpected bulls eye. But what is more to the point is my belief that the habit of writing thus for my own eye only is good practise. It loosens the ligaments. Never mind the misses & the stumbles. Going at such a pace as I do I must make the most direct & instant shots at my object, & thus have to lay hands on words, choose them, & shoot them with no more pause than is needed to put my pen in the ink. I believe that during the past year I can trace some increase of ease in my professional writing which I attribute to my casual half hours after tea. Moreover there looms ahead of me the shadow of some kind of form which a diary might attain to. I might in the course of time learn what it is that one can make of this loose, drifting material of life; finding another use for it than the use I put it to, so much more consciously & scrupulously, in fiction. What sort of diary should I like mine to be? Something loose knit, & yet not slovenly, so elastic that it will embrace any thing, solemn, slight or beautiful that comes into my mind. I should like it to resemble some deep old desk, or capacious hold-all, in which one flings a mass of odds & ends without looking them through. I should like to come back, after a year or two, & find that the collection had sorted itself & refined itself & coalesced, as such deposits so mysteriously do, into a mould transparent enough to reflect the light of our live, & yet steady, tranquil composed with the aloofness of a work of art. The main requisite, I think on re-reading my old volumes, is not to play the part of censor, but to write as the mood comes or of anything whatever; since I was curious to find how I went for things put in haphazard, & found the significance to lie where I never saw it at the time. But looseness quickly becomes slovenly. A little effort is needed to face a character or an incident which needs to be recorded. Nor can one let the pen write without guidance; for fear of becoming slack & untidy like Vernon Lee. Her ligaments are too loose for my taste.

“But to return to live,” she then says, “albeit with something of an effort,” and back she goes to writing the diary instead of reflecting on it.

What a lot of “significance” there is in these ruminations! Of course I noticed the comments about writing just for her own eye, nobody else’s, which seem crucially linked to the insight that for the process to work, she must not censor herself. Probably all writers know she is right that writing often, however seemingly loosely, does lead to an “increase in ease” for the writing we have to do: I have not personally gotten into ‘morning pages,’ but they seem a good example of this theory put into practice—for me, this blog loosens my ligaments, without, I hope, seeming “slovenly”! Her desire to express the “loose, drifting material of life,” to find a kind of transparency in prose that allows form and meaning to emerge unexpectedly, anticipates the ways her fiction would develop over the next twenty years; “steady, tranquil composed with the aloofness of a work of art” is a beautiful description of the somewhat abstract aesthetic of To the Lighthouse, say. It’s clear that she sees the diary form as permissive in a way that even then she would not accept for her fiction, but that the freedom she wanted in writing less “consciously & scrupulously” feels to her like essential preparation for the work to come. As we ourselves read her diaries, invading the privacy she did seem to want, perhaps we can also think of ourselves as opening that “capacious hold-all” and proving through our own fascination that, as she had hoped, the “mass of odds & ends” she threw into it have coalesced and refined into something new and wonderful.

As I keep reading, I will be thinking especially about the challenge she set for herself of being loose and elastic without becoming “slack & untidy,” and also watching for more such self-conscious reflections on the process of keeping the diary. Does the “shadow of some kind of form” become more fixed in her mind or her practice? Or does the looseness she values depend on that form always being somehow elusive, so that the result never becomes routine or formulaic?

“I cant fill up the lost days”: 1918

Rohan Maitzen4 Comments

Woolf misses just five days in her diaries, skipping from 4 July 1918 to 9 July, and feels bad enough about it to mention them apologetically as “lost”: here I am catching up after weeks of not reporting on my reading of her diaries, and not only have a couple of months gone by in my world but I’ve read right through a whole year’s worth of entries and more, into March 1919.

It’s not that she writes up nothing of interest in her 1918 entries. There are the moments that remind you that there’s a whole history unfolding, making dents over and over in the surface of her life: “Rain for the first time for weeks today, & a funeral next door; dead of influenza,” she writes on July 10.  There are the offhand comments that remind us (as if we needed it!) that she was a book lover as well as a book writer: “I spent 7/ on books this afternoon,” she notes on March  11, and follows it with an account of her finds along Charing Cross Road. “I was amused to find that the lust after books revives with the least encouragement,” she wryly observes, but “after all, nothing gives back more for one’s money than a beautiful book.”

In August she is losing track of her days, as who doesn’t, in the languor of high summer in the countryside: “I had to look carefully before I wrote Saturday.” Her idleness does not affect her ability to capture what she sees with a few deft phrase, even as she denies her ability to “get it right”:

 If I weren’t too lazy I think I should try to describe the country; but then I shouldn’t get it right. I shouldn’t bring back to my own eyes the look of all those old beautiful worn carpets which are spread over the lower slopes of the hills; nor should I convey the look of clouded emerald which the downs wear, the semi-transparent look, as the sun & shadows change, & the green becomes now vivid now opaque.

I love that.

Even more, I love her comments on her reading, which during this period includes Christina Rossetti:

Christina has the great distinction of being a born poet, as she seems to have known very well herself. But if I were bringing a case against God she is one of the first witnesses I should call. It is melancholy reading. First she starved herself of love, which meant also life; then of poetry in deference to what she thought her religion demanded.

Rossetti’s Christianity, Woolf suggests, led her to “starve into austere emaciation, a very fine original gift . . . She has the natural singing power. She thinks too. She has fancy.” Like her more polished criticism, these glancing remarks provoke rather than pronounce. She’s also reading and loving Byron, in spite of the “extreme badness” of his his poetry. In September she is reading Paradise Lost, with great admiration and excitement (“how smooth, strong & elaborate it all is! What poetry!”) but not without reservations (“Has any great poem ever let in so little light upon ones own joys & sorrows?”). She has some harsh things to say about Katherine Mansfield: after reading “Bliss,” she comments,

I dont see how much faith in her as woman or writer can survive that sort of story. I shall have to affect the fact, I’m afraid, that her mind is a very thin soil, laid an inch or two deep upon very barren rock. For Bliss is long enough to give her a chance of going deeper. Instead she is content with superficial smartness; & the whole conception is poor, cheap, not the vision, however imperfect, of an interesting mind.

And then the coup de grâce: “She writes badly too.”

I always find it fascinating when one great writer faces off against another—Charlotte Brontë on how dull she found Austen’s too-confined world, for example, or George Eliot critiquing Dickens’s idealization of the poor, or Henry James declaring Middlemarch “a treasure-house of details, but an indifferent whole.” Obviously they are all wrong, as is Woolf, and yet they are right too, in ways that matter, and one of those ways is that they are themselves striving for something different in their own fiction. It has always seemed to me to take both courage and arrogance to do pretty much anything creative, and to be truly original, or just truly yourself as an artist, surely there’s a way in which you have to reject other options, to find them inadequate to what you believe art is for or can do or should be.

Yet Woolf is also a really receptive and perceptive reader of a lot of writers who are not like her at all (as in her centenary essay on George Eliot), so maybe it really was personal with Mansfield—but she wrote this in her diary, for her own eyes only, which is something I’ve been thinking a bit uncomfortably about, not just in this context but in general. I don’t know whether Woolf herself left any wishes or instructions about her diaries: did she expect them to be read, at all or this widely? Does that matter? (The first published version was, I think, the highly selective ‘Writer’s Diary’ that Leonard oversaw.) Is this whole project—not specifically my reading of them but their whole presence as complete texts—an invasion of her privacy? Obviously I recognize the intrinsic interest of getting so close to such a remarkable mind, and of course we take for granted a lot of access to ‘public figures.’ If anyone knows of any discussion of the ethics of publishing diaries in general, or of Woolf’s own expectations or wishes for her diaries in particular, I’d be glad for a suggestion for further reading! Anne Olivier Bell’s introduction does not, as far as I noticed, explicitly address whether Woolf wanted the diaries published.

In the meantime, thinking about this has led me to think about my own (much less erudite, witty, and interesting!) journals. There would never be any reason to publish them, but it is a bit discomfiting to think of anyone else, even close family, reading them. I value them too much as records and references to preemptively destroy them . . . yet. Perhaps I can at least check them for “Mansfield moments” and expurgate them. 😉