Monday, February 28, 2011

Journal of Katherine Mansfield for Persephone Reading Weekend

Katherine Mansfield aspired to write truly and well, to capture something genuine and to get at what is most pure. Her short stories are clean, sharp and light. They reach to the centre of our inner lives and strip away the layers that would hide our vulnerable selves. Mansfield was not afraid to stir up melancholy or bitterness, to show regret, loss or pain. But she did so in a way which was beautiful and transparent, without artifice or gimmickry. She used her immense power to draw out our emotions judiciously.

In the Journal, really an edited collection of unposted letters and notebooks never intended for publication, readers are allowed a rare glimpse into the private thoughts of one of the twentieth century’s greatest writers. The impression of Mansfield that emerges is one of a writer who positively anguished over her work and was frequently stricken with writer’s block. Even as the Journal progresses, and reaches a point in time at which Mansfield was becoming well-known, there is no trace of vanity or self-satisfaction. She was highly self-critical in the face of deteriorating health, wartime deprivations, separation from friends and loved ones and very limited financial resources. Certain passages are awful to read.

Yet there are descriptions to be found that resonate with a joyful understanding and capacity to express that which is simple and good in daily life. If Mansfield writes that the sun is music that fills the sky, we cannot disagree with her. There are days when the sun in Melbourne is brash and brassy. There are days when the light here is soft and tinkling. When Mansfield writes of her cat pausing on the edge of a sea of grass, hesitating to take the plunge into the green waves, there is something in that cat of every cat. We see grass as we have not seen it before, and we will think of her cat every time we see another cat dive into a garden.

Readers of this Journal may well have mixed feelings about its publication. Compiled after her death by her long-term partner, John Middleton Murry, some have questioned his selection and arrangement of material. It would be inappropriate to read this book without regard to the fact that Mansfield did not have the opportunity to approve its content for publication. However, for those who admire her work, and can put to one side their qualms about the way in which it came to exist, the Journal is indispensable reading.

‘It’s only now I am beginning to see again and to recognise again the beauty of the world. Take the swallows to-day, their flutter-flutter, their velvet-forked tails, their transparent wings that are like the fins of fishes. The little dark head and breast golden in the light. Then the beauty of the garden, and the beauty of raked paths….Then, the silence.’

Sunday, February 13, 2011

Mrs Dalloway

To read Virginia Woolf is to find the subtlest, most ambiguous impressions turned into prose. It is to discover that everyday feelings, which are nonetheless complex or difficult to categorise, can be made into something articulate. Mrs Dalloway presents one day in the life of Clarissa Dalloway, in an uninterrupted flow of thoughts, memories, reflection and dialogue. Novels without chapters are often challenging because they force their readers to find a suitable place to pause, and this is no exception. However, in this case, the unorthodox structure gives the story a sense of continuing both backwards and forwards in time beyond the covers of the novel.

If Mrs Dalloway simply recounted one day in the life of a 52-year-old woman, it would attract far fewer readers. (This is in spite of the fact that, refreshingly, Clarissa does not feel old and rejoices in having years and years to live.) However, just as in Midnight’s Children Salman Rushdie wrote that in order to understand one life you need to ‘swallow the world’, Woolf appreciated that in order to give the events of the day some substance, it would be necessary for the reader to swallow a decent portion of Clarissa’s past.

As its title indicates, Mrs Dalloway is deeply concerned with what it means to be married. How do we choose the person whom we should marry? What happens if the choice turns out to be a poor one? The characters therefore include the friends Clarissa knew before she was married, and who observed and influenced her choice of husband. Their significance to Clarissa is revealed through a series of vivid recollections, and the many threads of this story are ultimately brought loosely together for the party that Clarissa is planning for the evening.

This novel is full of the joys and sadnesses that run through daily life: watching a sky-writer, riding an omnibus, walking in the country, slowly becoming unable to communicate with a loved one, fearing the loss of a friend. It is highly perceptive, elegant and occasionally painful.

‘Much rather would she have been one of those people like Richard who did things for themselves, whereas, she thought, waiting to cross, half the time she did things not simply, not for themselves; but to make people think this or that; perfect idiocy she knew (and now the policeman held up his hand) for no one was ever for a second taken in.’

Thursday, February 10, 2011

The Ambassadors

The outline of The Ambassadors is promising for anyone with romantic leanings: Lewis Lambert Strether is sent to Paris by the formidable Mrs Newsome to bring home her wayward son, Chadwick, who is presumed to be under the influence of a wicked woman. Once he arrives, however, Strether begins to appreciate the charms of Paris, and discovers that Chad is really somewhat improved by his time away and even by the company he keeps.

Unfortunately, Henry James seems to have missed an opportunity to produce any particularly clear impression of Paris itself. There are few descriptions of the city and most of the action takes place in drawing rooms, hotels and private courtyards. This is disappointing given that James was certainly able to create a vivid sense of a city, as he did with Florence in Portrait of a Lady. (It is difficult to be too critical on this point since anyone who picks up this book, regardless of whether they have visited Paris or not, is likely to have an imagined Paris. This imagined Paris will possibly prove resistant to all forms of attack, such as other people’s opinions or an encounter with the real thing. Still, it is a shame that the novel does not indulge more of our collective imaginings.)

Paris is used for contrast with Woollett Massachusetts, a town that by all reports is not especially interesting but well loved by its inhabitants. With the exception of a scene at Notre Dame, the novel could have been set almost anywhere sufficiently far from Woollett as to require the dispatch of its ambassadors in person to retrieve Chad. The lack of physical description may be necessary given that the novel is frequently cited as an example of ‘psychological’ fiction. It does draw out the consequences of choosing a life which departs from that which society or family might expect. To most modern readers, the source of the conflict in the novel is unlikely to be as psychologically interesting as it was at the time of publication. The passage of time has robbed the novel of some of its impact and relevance. By confining the narrative to Strether’s perspective, the novel also fails to explore the full richness of the psychological material offered by the story. However, it does make a clear case for avoiding prejudgment, and hearing all the facts before reaching an opinion. It also suggests that, providing we are ready to learn and to be open to life’s variety and challenges, we are susceptible to change at any age.

The Ambassadors is not easy to read, and James has a penchant for interrupting his characters mid-sentence for no apparent reason. Along with the unlikely-sounding dialogue, this has the effect of jolting us back to awareness that this is a novel, in which the author frequently makes his presence a nuisance. The plot may be enough to tempt others to read this book, especially given that it was James’ personal favourite of his novels. Perhaps their efforts will be rewarded with something more than a pervasive sense of drawing room hush and the sound of polite but irritatingly difficult conversation.

Sunday, February 6, 2011

East of Eden

‘I think the difference between a lie and a story is that a story uses the trappings and appearance of truth for the interest of the listener as well as the teller. A story has in it neither gain nor loss. But a lie is a device for profit or escape. I suppose if that definition is strictly held to, then a writer of stories is a liar — if he is financially fortunate.’

East of Eden is probably not the best known of John Steinbeck’s novels, but a book that inquires more thoroughly into the nature of human relationships or the human conscience is hard to imagine. Taking for its inspiration the Biblical story of Cain and Abel, and based in part on the maternal history of Steinbeck himself, the book follows the lives of the Trask family. In each generation a pair of brothers competes for the attention and love of their father and must live under the strain of constant suspicion and jealousy.

Steinbeck’s dialogue is one of the book’s many winning attributes: it quite simply seems real and unaffected — it has the ‘appearance of truth’. Indeed the dialogue saves the book, which is a relatively lengthy one, from becoming daunting. This need only be qualified by the observation that certain of the characters (namely Lee, the Trasks’ servant, and Samuel Hamilton, a great friend of the family) are used somewhat gratuitously as mouthpieces of what appears to be Steinbeck’s own personal philosophy.

Set mainly in the Salinas Valley of Steinbeck’s childhood, the descriptions of the natural landscape fill out the novel and satisfy every want of the reader’s imagination without descending into self-indulgence. Who could fail to be captivated by a turn of phrase such as the following, appearing on the very first page: ‘They were beckoning mountains with a brown grass love’?

The novel is not subtle about its message. Fortunately for readers, the message is a comforting one. Steinbeck is very clear about his wish to redeem the autonomy and individuality of the human soul: each person is capable of making decisions about what it is right to do, independently of background, family connections or past choices. This removes the right to make excuses for our conduct but it leaves us with the inherent capacity to do good.

We can only speculate about why Steinbeck was interested in writing this novel. If by his own definition Steinbeck was a liar, then you may depend on it that East of Eden will be one of the greatest lies you ever read.

Wednesday, February 2, 2011

Lovesong

‘Tell the truth, her grandmother had always said. Speak it, whatever it is. Do what you must do but do not lie about what it is that you do. Do not call it something else. Call it what it is.’

Alex Miller’s Lovesong is a novel that will make a weary, withered soul plump and grateful (and not only because the word ‘pastries’ appears very frequently). This is a book that uncovers the stories we tell ourselves about who we are. It shows us what may happen when our lives as we imagined they would be, and our lives as we live them, are misaligned. It is a gentle study in cognitive dissonance.

Ken is purporting to be a ‘retired’ writer, and has returned from Venice to live in Carlton with his adult daughter Clare. While trying to fill his newly empty days, Ken meets John Patterner and is fascinated by his past. On a rainy day in Paris many years earlier, John took refuge in a café, Chez Dom, which was run by Tunisian immigrants Houria and her niece Sabiha. John and Sabiha fell deeply in love, were married, and eventually took over the running of the café. Despite the closeness of their relationship, their life together failed to correspond to their individual long-held dreams. For Sabiha, it was her child who was missing. For John, it was the work he intended to do as a teacher in Australia. To what lengths would they go in pursuit of the lives they always thought they would lead?

Miller’s writing is straightforward, warm and spiced with just enough humour. Simple moments in the daily life of his characters are clearly described and have the ring of truth. While there are some implausible aspects to the story’s critical event, the sincerity of this novel as a whole makes it irresistible. The story has been allowed to take precedence over showy writing. No word is wasted. Above all, it is a novel that can be devoured with absolutely no adverse consequences for the health of your soul or otherwise.

‘It was a lovely Melbourne autumn day. Autumn is the best time of the year in Melbourne. The oppressive heat of summer is gone and the sun gives just the right amount of warmth to be comfortable without a jacket or a cardigan, no wind and maybe just one or two innocent white clouds going by. You have to be here. People are happy on days like this.’

Life isn't a novel. It's lots of novels, one after the other.