I am an ominous dream: Pierre-Luc Landry, Listening for Jupiter

Pierre-Luc Landry, Listening For Jupiter. QC Fiction, June 2017. Xavier’s sections translated from the French by Arielle Aaronson; Hollywood’s by Madeleine Stratford.

I enjoyed Quebec publisher QC Fiction’s The Brothers (reviewed here); Listening for Jupiter by Pierre-Luc Landry – out next month – is an engaging, highly original addition to their list. The blurb calls it ‘magical realism with a modern, existential twist’. That doesn’t do it justice: despite the elements of surrealism, it seems firmly rooted in some kinds of reality – several kinds simultaneously.

Landry, Listening for JupiterLike Patrick McGrath’s Constance (reviewed here last month)the novel consists of two main alternating first-person narratives: the first is that of a student with the unlikely name Hollywood, initially living in Montreal, where a weird meteorological phenomenon has brought ten months of unseasonable ‘everlasting summer’ weather, and ‘brutal’ sunshine (25 degrees Celsius ‘last February’ and ‘no ground frost in over a year’; forest fires rage in in Quebec). He’s not an assiduous student, and shows more interest in the beans he’s planted in the graveyard where he works part-time, and in the main passion of his life – music (there are frequent references to his favourites, Leonard Cohen and Joni Mitchell.)

The second is that of Xavier Adam, a pharmaceuticals salesman based in Toronto, but whose job – which he hates – takes him from London to Bilbao to New York. His passion is films. In his parallel universe, there’s the opposite kind of freak weather phenomenon: the western world is gripped in an ice age of ‘endless winter’ caused by ‘a depression of unheard dimensions’. A TV weather reporter says

it’s difficult to talk about this storm in rational, scientific terms.

The same could be said for this novel.

Xavier, like Hollywood, is in ‘a state of unhealthy melancholy’; he feels ‘alienated from the rest of the world’. His life lacks meaning, and takes place in anonymous hotel rooms and conference halls. His routine on entering these places is to disengage:

It’s a habit of mine, and whenever I’m in the mood for a little tragedy, I just switch off like that – somehow it seems to suit my lousy existence.

Death seems a welcome prospect; he flirts with it. ‘Nothing much gets me going other than food, booze and DVDs’, he tells his work partner. He uses bland TV shows like an anaesthetic:

to help me forget that there’s no great misfortune to blame, nothing to explain my beautifully blasé attitude.

Both men have difficulty sleeping, and rely on pills to nod off: both of them dream, and in their dreams they meet. The novel traces their separate, converging trajectories through their respective bleak, joyless worlds towards their destiny: a meeting in some zone that may or may not be located in any kind of reality.

Interspersed with their converging narrative arcs are Hollywood’s enigmatic free-verse ‘unauthorised’ poems (whatever that signifies); ‘I am an ominous dream’, one of them ends.

There are also Xavier’s anguished journal entries; typical examples:

Feeling alienated from the rest of the world. Also a need to examine the existence I keep doubting…

 

By day I skate circles. In every sense.

The only person he has to talk to about this angst is the ‘weird guy’ he meets in his dreams. They’re oneiric soulmates.

Hollywood has his own ontological doubts. These are exacerbated by his dismaying disclosure that he believes  he had his heart surgically removed and replaced with a ‘little machine’. As a consequence he suffers from frequent cramps and unsettling spasms of pain. At such times he’s inclined to ‘check [his] pulse or whatever.’ That characteristically flippant ‘whatever’ is symptomatic of Landry’s ability to make the abnormal – even downright surreal – seem quite acceptable.

During one such episode Hollywood loses his equilibrium:

It was as if nothing, in itself, truly existed: the objects around me, the things I was still doing, the music…It all looked and felt a certain way because of how my brain perceived it. If I ceased to exist, if I stopped breathing, what would become of it all?

The final narrative element consists of sections titled ‘After the sandman’, when some kind of omniscient voice reflects on their dream meetings, commenting enigmatically (if they disappear then meet again, who knows where or how, ‘what difference does it make?’) During these meetings, they question themselves whether they’re really dreaming, or are these moments reality, and the ‘real’ world is the fantasy? ‘I’ve stopped trying to understand,’ says Hollywood when their meetings culminate in Montauk, Long Island. The Montauk sections represent yet another possible dimension of reality.

Both of them mysteriously fall into comas for weeks on end. An Albanian woman goes into labour in the street, and Xavier gallantly takes her to hospital. He becomes obsessed with finding her again when she disappears. She plays an increasingly important role (a catalyst of sorts, or a chorus; it’s notable that she’s an actor/dancer) as the novel moves inexorably towards its breathtaking denouement (in which nothing is really untangled; the threads are just rearranged impeccably).

Unifying motifs are that a TV documentary about Jupiter recurs, and shooting stars are frequently falling from the sky (one of several echoes of Camus). Some shatter on entering earth’s atmosphere and smash windows (and buildings) near to our characters. Jupiter and its moons loom larger for both of them as their quests converge. They listen for the planet’s radio waves. They scan the skies.

It’s an intriguing novel about the biggest of topics – the nature of truth and existence, the conditions for real human connection – which Landry orchestrates with ingenuity and dry wit into an offbeat kind of cosmic road-movie. I was about to say ‘dystopian’, but the ending precludes such an interpretation, despite the huge death-toll caused by the savage weather.

Listening for Jupiter has the spare prose of a ‘dirty realist’ like Carver, while the two central characters exude the restless, cool existential ennui of a character from Kerouac, had that other Canadian been able in a parallel world to read Murakami – there’s the same epistemological uncertainty.

Advance reading copy supplied by the publisher.

Volvelles revisited

Volvelle of sun and moon positions

‘Volvella’ of the moon, with moveable device for calculating the position of the sun and moon in the zodiac.
By Gutun Owain – National Library of Wales, CC0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=44768586

Back in July 2014 I posted about volvelles (LINK HERE)- manuscripts, and later printed books – which incorporated designs or texts over which moving dials or pointers were fixed, enabling the user to calculate or combine pieces of information in the text, for example for computing astronomical or astrological charts. Ramon Lull is usually credited with inventing this ‘ars combinatoria’.

My post went on to consider other kinds of combinatorial text, from Swift’s Lagado machine in Gulliver’s Travels, to Borges. I also linked to related posts about, among others, Calvino, OuLiPo, Permutational Poetry, and so on.

I’ve just come across a post from the iris website – the Art and Archives blog of the J. Paul Getty Museum in Los Angeles – by Rheagan Martin: ‘Decoding the Medieval Volvelle’, dated 23 July 2015.  This post, like mine, gives historical context to the phenomenon of volvelles, and includes some lovely images, with links to the exhibition which ran that year, and to zoomable illustrations from books that were in it. I recommend you take a look at it – and, I hope, back at my original volvelles piece.

 

A descent from Kyoto into hell

Ryunosuke Akutagawa: Rashomon and Seventeen Other Stories

I first encountered the work of Ryunosuke Akutagawa as an undergraduate at Bristol University. I used to go every week to see a subtitled foreign film, put on I think by the film studies department. This was my introduction to world cinema.

The first sequence of films I saw included some classics of Japanese cinema, mostly by the brilliant director Akira Kurosawa.

One of the first of these films – and one that impressed me so much I can still play back key scenes in my mind decades later – was ‘Rashomon’. It was much later that I learned it was based on two stories by Akugatawa. These are the first in the Penguin Classics collection: Rashomon and Seventeen Other Stories.

Akutagawa cover ‘Rashomon’, the first of these, is based on a 12th-century tale, and was first published in 1915 when Akutagawa was a 23-year-old student. It’s set in the crumbling gatehouse at the southern entrance to Kyoto and the avenue leading to the imperial palace during the dying days of the Heian period. The tale is set at the decaying end of the era, and the once-magnificent gate is in ruins. Only the scruffy servant, who has a weird encounter among the corpses that are abandoned in the roof chamber, survives in the film, which preserves the rain-soaked setting but not the dark, cynical tale itself.

‘In a Bamboo Grove’, the second story, provides the main influence on Kurosawa’s 1950 film, which is also told from multiple points of view, each of them adding a twist, and warping the reader’s perspective of ‘reality’. None of the conflicting accounts is entirely reliable, and all are cynically self-serving.

The other four in this group of early Akutagawa stories, grouped under the heading ‘A World in Decay’ by the translator, Jay Rubin, are also re-tellings of medieval Japanese folktales. The best is ‘Hell Screen’, about an artist’s Faustian obsession with creating the perfect representation of reality in his work.

The second section, ‘Under the Sword’, begins with two stories set in the early seventeenth century, when the Tokugawa government began to change its policy of tolerance towards the Portuguese Jesuit missionaries who’d begun arriving in Japan in 1549. Like Martin Scorsese’s new film, ‘Silence’, based on the 1966 novel of the same name by Shusaku Endo (which was also filmed in 1971 by Masahiro Shinoda in Japanese), ‘O-Gin’ portrays the regime’s increasingly violent persecution of Christians.

Portrait of the young Akutagawa

Portrait of the young Akutagawa via WikiMedia Commons

Akutagawa’s stories are dominated by the moral and cultural convulsions he and his country were experiencing as a result of the modernising, westernising tendencies of the early twentieth century in Japan.

The final group is called ‘Akutagawa’s Own Story’. These stories were written in the period of increasing mental instability (he feared that he would inherit his late mother’s madness) that culminated in his untimely suicide at the age of thirty-five.

Here Akutagawa changed his literary approach dramatically. It’s a series of fragmentary cathartic semi-autobiographical narratives, scrupulously depicting mundane, even trivial surroundings and a protagonist-narrator whose world and sanity, like his narrative, is fragmenting and distorting like a nightmare Expressionist montage film sequence. The technique and neurotic, introspective content are familiar to any reader of the angst-ridden works by the likes of Knut Hamsun, Dostoevsky, Strindberg (both of whom have works mentioned in the final story) and Kafka.

‘The Life of a Stupid Man’, the penultimate story, contains 51 loosely linked fragments. Section 49, “A Stuffed Swan”, ends with these chillingly reflexive words:

Once he had finished writing “The Life of a Stupid Man”, he happened to see a stuffed swan in a secondhand shop. It stood with its head held high, but its wings were yellowed and moth-eaten. As he thought about his life, he felt both tears and mockery welling up inside him. All that lay before him was madness or suicide. He walked down the darkening street alone, determined now to wait for the destiny that would come to annihilate him.

The final story, ‘Spinning Gears’, which was first published posthumously, shows this disintegrating persona finally descending into hell. It’s deeply disturbing, as the narrator struggles to write while tormented by visions of his dead mother, and terrifying hallucinations of the eponymous spinning gears. The fifth of its six sections begins, with characteristic bleakness:

Now the light of the sun became a source of agony for me. A mole indeed, I lowered the blinds and kept electric lights burning as I forged on with my story.

The narrator flees from a bar, where he’d drunk a whiskey to try to ease his malaise, and feels the desire, ‘like Raskolnikov’, to confess ‘everything [he] had done.’ His nerves are in tatters. The desolate ending leaves the reader feeling much the same.

This is an uneven collection: as Haruki Murakami says in his introduction, the best stories are outstandingly good. The less successful ones are still worth a look.

And if you’ve never seen a Kurosawa film, I’d urge you to seek one out. Then read these stories.

Grant Rintoul wrote a fine post on Akutagawa’s story ‘Hell Screen’ recently as part of his story-a-day-for-Advent project at his 1stReading’s blog: link HERE

Seduce her for me: Ana’s fate sealed in ‘La Regenta’

Alas, La Regenta – final post

Ana’s plight has often been likened to Mme Bovary’s. It’s not hard to find striking similarities; here she remembers feeling angrily frustrated by her incarceration as a child by her carers:

‘What a stupid life!’ thought Ana…she believed that she had sacrificed herself to self-imposed duties…’The monotony and dullness of this existence…this sacrifice, this struggle, is greater than any adventure in the world.’…It was as if there were thistles in her soul. [p. 71, ch. 3]

The part inside quotation marks exemplifies Alas’ technique of ‘estilo latente’ or free indirect style; not exactly Ana’s thoughts, but very close.

Immediately after these rebellious, troubled thoughts she visualises her tempter, Alvaro Mesía, ‘the President of the Gentlemen’s Club, wrapped in a high-collared scarlet cape, singing under Rosina’s balcony’. Clothes and accessories play a major symbolic role in the novel; here it’s the romantic garb of the hero as player in Rossini’s Barber of Seville, then ‘in a close-fitting white top-coat, greeting her as King Amadeus used to greet people’. Fermín, Mesía’s rival for Ana’s affections, is always described as clothed in his clerical ‘mozetta’ and ‘rochet’ or long soutane – but he longs to stride out in secular trousers like…a real man, not an asexual priest.

Such erotic fantasies vie in Ana’s mind with conflicting mystical-religious images and thoughts. She’s also dreaming here of having a baby – which will not be provided by Víctor, her husband, the ex-judge, as they have no sexual relations. She’ll need someone virile like Mesía (or Fermín, the canon theologian, secretly in love with her – and whom she sees – mostly – as a spiritual father, not potential lover) to provide her with a child. But she also longs for sex in its own right: this scene is erotically charged with descriptions of her semi-naked state in bed:

…her form, of a modern Venus, provocative and voluptuous, was both revealed and exaggerated by the coloured blanket of fine-spun wool, drawn close about her. [p. 70]

 As her spirits flag, Ana feels ‘the aridity and tension which were tormenting her’ turn into ‘disconsolate grief’. She stops feeling ‘wicked’ and returns to thoughts of sacrifice and sublimity. Mesía’s alluring, romantic image fades and is replaced by that of her elderly, foolish husband, pictured in her imagination as the antithesis of the dashing, handsome Mesía, signified again by apparel and appearance:

a tartan dressing-gown, a green smoking-cap of velvet with gold braid and a tassel, a white moustache and a white goatee, two bushy grizzled eyebrows…[pp. 71-72]

 This ‘respectable and familiar figure’ was ‘the burthen of her sacrifice’; he clearly doesn’t stand a chance against Mesía’s campaign to storm Ana’s sexual defences – especially as he goes on to make Mesía his bosom buddy, encourages him to entertain his wife.

Víctor’s ill-judged patronage of his rival reaches a climax in ch. 26 when Ana, recalling a woman she’d seen in Saragossa ‘dressed as a penitent, walking barefoot’ behind the image of ‘the dead Christ’ in a Holy Week procession, emulates this act of ‘spiritual fidelity’, dressed ‘in purple’, a ‘spectacle’ which she knows will scandalise the narrow-minded Vetustans. Would it be ‘brazen’, she wonders, or the act of a ‘bluestocking George Sand’ – yet another dramatic metafictional image.

Obdulia, whose overt sensuality truly is brazen, looks on ‘pale with emotion and dying of envy.’ This was, she thinks, characteristically, ‘the perfect ideal of coquetry.’ Her appearance once again reveals her character:

Her own naked shoulders, her ivory arms acting as a background for clinging embroidered lace, her back with its vertiginous curves, her bosom, high and strong, exuberant and tempting, had never attracted in this way or in anything like this way the attention and admiration of an entire town, however much she displayed them in ballrooms, theatres, promenades – and processions. [p. 590]

Ana’s ‘two bare feet’ cause more of an erotic sensation in the town than all of Obdulia’s flaunted flesh. She knows she can’t match this ‘cachet’, possessed by ‘admiring envy’ and a kind of ‘crazy, brutal lust’ – in a charge of eroticism she felt ‘a vague desire – to – to – to be a man’. Ana’s sexual appeal transcends gender. And her naked feet ‘were the nakedness of her whole body and soul’ – a kind of sexual synecdoche.

This scene fills several astonishing pages. Mesía, when the statue of the Virgin passes him,  is afraid: that image of ‘infinite pain’ contrasts tellingly with his own thoughts, ‘all profanation and lust’: even he is frightened. He realises Ana is performing a great ‘act of madness’ for Fermín, his currently triumphant spiritual rival, dressed in his habitual ‘rochet, a mote and a cope’, but ‘was going to perform other greater ones for her lover, for Mesía.’

Fermín experiences a similar epiphany to Mesía’s: ‘what little of the clergyman he had left in his soul was disappearing…He was the shell of a priest.’

Here’s the climax of the scene:

‘She’s looking most extraordinarily beautiful!’ the ladies in the balconies of the court-house were saying.

‘Extraordinarily beautiful!’

‘It takes some courage, though.’

‘But then she’s a regular saint.’

‘I think she’s dying the death,’ said Obdulia…She looks like plaster.’

‘I think she’s dying of shame,’ said Visita…

‘Going barefoot was an atrocious thing to do. She’ll be a week in bed with her feet torn to tatters’ [said Doña Rufina].

We see the whole spectrum of town also voicing or showing their cynical, lascivious responses to Ana’s egregious display, until:

The religious masses admired the lady’s humility, without any objections or reservations. ‘That really was what you’d call imitating Christ. Walking along, just like any ordinary person…going barefoot all around the town! She was a saint!’

 The working classes of Vetusta bewilder and appal the bourgeoisie and aristocracy of the city, and serve, as here, with their vulgar but honest vitality and comparative integrity, to show up the hypocrisy of their social betters.

Víctor, Ana’s husband, is horrified by her gesture, and says to Mesía, not knowing about his supposed friend’s intended treachery:

‘Sooner than this, I would prefer to see her in the arms of a lover! Yes, a thousand times yes,’ he continued, ‘find me a lover for her, seduce her for me, anything rather than seeing her in the arms of fanaticism!’…’You can count upon my firm friendship, Don Víctor – a friend in need…[says Mesía, p. 597]

This is one of the most remarkable set pieces in the novel. From this point Ana’s fate is sealed, Víctor’s cuckolding unwittingly given his own blessing, and Mesía can’t believe his luck. By prostrating herself symbolically before the town in an act of fanatical religiosity, Ana has inadvertently confirmed the gossip and opinion, as far as the upper classes are cynically concerned, that she is just as sexually available as the rest of their scheming womenfolk.

Her attempt to find religion and resist venality, as Tom has shown in his posts at Wuthering Expectations blog, is doomed in this toxic city.

 

 

 

A cold and calculating egotism: La Regenta, by Leopoldo Alas

Leopoldo Alas, La Regenta

La Regenta cover

The cover painting on my Penguin edition is an early Picasso: rather striking

 In his first posts on this huge novel, first published in Spain in 1885, and which I read in the John Rutherford translation in Penguin Classics, Tom at Wuthering Heights summarised the plot and began some thoughts about its structure, theme and merits (it was his ‘readalong’ for July). In the second of his posts he linked to a highly perceptive piece by Scott Bailey, which suggests that the adultery theme, influenced by Flaubert’s Madame Bovary, is not, as most commentators suggest, the primary one. It’s Dostoevsky’s The Idiot, he argues, that’s the important plot template, as seen in Ana’s struggle with her conflicting impulses towards mystical saintliness and spirituality, on the one hand, and venality and sexuality on the other.

I find this a compelling argument, and will not try to add to it here – except to make a case for parallels with another great 19C novel of spiritually stifling and hypocritically amoral provincial life: George Eliot’s Middlemarch. I haven’t thought this through yet, but Scott’s discussion of the significance of St Teresa in La Regenta stirred up memories of the portrayal of Dorothea Brooke as a Midland St Teresa. There are congruent themes, too, of the hypocrisy and corruption of business and of scabrous bourgeois society (and, to a lesser extent, the Church – more critically exposed in the character of the spiritually arid but outrageously vain, pedantic clergyman, Casaubon. Ana’s elderly husband Víctor is less obnoxious, but equally asexual, foolish in his own way, but less forbiddingly unpleasant than Casaubon). I wouldn’t want to push the analogies too far, but my memory of this novel raises several other similarities with the Alas: struggles of faith with Mammon in particular, of the (usually doomed) quest for personal fulfilment in a ‘toxic’, vulgar, secular world that’s ostensibly religious (though Dorothea’s fate is less gruesome than Ana’s).

I don’t know if Alas had read Eliot…

So I’ll leave that thought for now. Instead I’ll look at some representative passages from the text to explore Alas’ style and manner of conveying character, themes and subject matter.

Let’s start with character. Here’s one of the first of many (MANY!) set-piece portraits of one of the huge cast, in this case one of the three major players: Don Fermín De Pas, vicar-general and canon theologian of the cathedral church of Vetusta (an archaic Spanish word for ‘antiquated’ – an unsubtle sign for the conservative, backward-looking provinciality of the city), which is clearly based on the Oviedo in Asturias in which Alas spent much of his adult life (as an academic lawyer and journalist-critic; La Regenta was his first novel, written at the age of 37).

A pair of bell-ringer street urchins had observed him in the street below from their church tower vantage-point. As the man passes by, they admire his legs:

This was real class! Not one stain! The feet were like a lady’s; the hose was purple, like a bishop’s; and each shoe was a work of painstaking craftsmanship in the finest leather, displaying a simple yet elegant silver buckle which looked very splendid against the colour of the stocking. (ch. 1, p. 26)

 Here, in this first character portrait of the novel, the narrative technique is apparent. The opening words, without quotation marks, are clearly the thoughts of the working-class boy – it’s what Rutherford in his introduction calls estilo latente, better known now as free indirect style, and usually associated with Flaubert. Elsewhere in the novel Alas has longer, more nuanced ‘sympathetic projection’ passages in which he does flag up the device with quotation marks. This makes for a disconcerting layer of complexity as the viewpoints shift back and forth frequently between characters and the ironical narrator, often many times within a short space (Rutherford gives examples and explores them). It serves to dramatise the layers of motive in these flawed, hypocritical characters.

There’s humour in this extract, too. The urchin is most impressed by the cleanness of the canon’s appearance; he would of course be mud-spattered or dusty and unwashed himself, and his naivety enables Alas to switch to a more knowing voice in the rest of the paragraph.

Although the comparison with a lady’s feet focalises largely on the boy’s viewpoint, the detail now starts to veer away from his to a voice more akin to that of the worldly, satirical-ironic narrator (more deeply cynical, I suspect, than Alas himself). That long third sentence has a more sophisticated vocabulary than the boy’s, and it introduces us to the more darkly critical, overtly critical portrait of de Pas that follows:

The post-boy was right, De Pas did not use cosmetics.

The denial is a comically transparent indication of the canon’s excessive attention to his appearance, his barely-concealed sensuality that we later learn culminates in his falling passionately in love with the eponymous judge’s wife, Ana. His hypocrisy is drawn, perhaps not always very subtly, but with great gusto, to our attention from the outset. It’s a fundamental factor in the two parallel plots mentioned above. De Pas fails Ana as a spiritual father and mentor, and precipitates her fall into the arms of the handsome Mesía – to whom I hope to turn in a later post.

Let’s complete this exploration of De Pas in this extract.

The most striking thing about the canon theologian’s eyes, which were green with speckles that looked like grains of snuff, was that they seemed as soft, smooth and clammy as lichen; but sometimes a piercing gleam would shoot out from them – an unpleasant surprise, like finding a needle in a feather pillow. Few people could bear that look.

This is fine character sketching, and the comparisons to snuff and lichen are suitably repellent. That De Pas has such a formidable gaze is intended to show how secular and unexpectedly masculine he is for a senior cleric: qualities that conflict with his desire to appear a loving spiritual pastor to his (largely female, adoring) flock.

My problem with Alas is that he doesn’t stop there; the narrative camera pans down his head to his nose, lips then chin, in a mammoth paragraph that almost fills the page of (tiny) print. In case we’ve missed the point – obvious enough, surely – the narrator concludes:

[he had] an expression of prudence verging on cowardly hypocrisy and revealing a cold and calculating egotism. It could be avowed with confidence that those lips guarded like a treasure the supreme word, that word which is never spoken. [We then get more description! His jowl, head, powerful neck…]

Rutherford’s introduction quite aptly compares the indirect style favoured by Alas with Jane Austen’s. But she would rarely ‘tell’ us (rather than show) a character’s nature with such prolix descriptive detail and narrative comment.

That mysterious bit about the ‘supreme word’, though, is terrific and sinister, summing up brilliantly the duplicitous, manipulative ambition of this muscular priest, oozing barely repressed sexuality and male energy.

The paragraph ends by saying that he is physically (and unclerically) ‘robust’ (he’s only 35, and later demonstrates his strength is superior to his rival for Ana’s affection in a way that humiliates Mesía and confirms him as a bitter enemy), comparable with ‘the sprucest gadabout in town’.

He has been set up for us, then, perhaps at too great length, but with flashes of fine writing, as a hypocritical representative of a corrupt church, who’s had sexual dalliances with married ladies in the past, and lusts after Ana in a most unspiritual way (which he disguises with decreasing efficacy as the novel progresses). De Pas is thus a fitting rival to the equally egotistical sexual predator, Mesía, who represents the secular world in his role as serially cynical ‘middle class seducer’ of the ladies of Vetusta.

They’re as odious as each other in their pursuit of sexual and social dominance.

More extracts for discussion next time, with perhaps a glance at another influential text (possibly): Dangerous Liaisons. Meanwhile I’d recommend you take a look at Tom’s three posts so far on La Regenta, and Scott Bailey’s. Links at the start of this post.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Pessoa, Tabucchi and Swift

I recently spent a few days in Lisbon, and felt completely at home in this charming city, with its steep hills accessed via picturesque, antiquated funiculars and creaky yellow trams.

Pessoa PMC cover When back in Cornwall I thought I’d read some Lisbon-set literature, so turned to my two copies (duplicated by mistake some time ago) of Fernando Pessoa’s The Book of Disquiet: the PMC paperback, with its striking monochrome cover photo, edited and translated by Richard Zenith, and one from Serpent’s Tail, translated by Margaret Jull Costa.

Unfortunately I started to flag after a few dozen pages, and gave up less than halfway through. It’s interesting, but an unremittingly bleak accumulation of short, fragmentary passages, rather like a depressive diary, about the sad, lonely life of a clerk in Lisbon in the period 1910 to the 1930s (the narrator is one of Pessoa’s ‘heteronyms’: Bernardo Soares, also a menial clerk in the Baixa commercial district of Lisbon). The MS was found in the form of hundreds of sheets of paper in a trunk in Pessoa’s apartment after his death at the age of 47; most of it was unpublished in his disappointed lifetime. The two versions I dipped into differed considerably in length and content; any edition represents the best guesses of the editor as to how to sequence and present the randomly stashed fragments in the trunk. The PMC edition was double the length of the other, including excellent notes and appendixes – and hence contains twice the quantity of unhappy Soares’s musings on the futility of (his) existence. Not an uplifting read, though there are moments of lyric grace. Here are some samples from early in the Serpent’s Tail edition:

The Serpent's Tail edition

The Serpent’s Tail edition

I reject life because it is a prison sentence, I reject dreams as being a vulgar form of escape. [entry 17]

 

By day I am nothing, by night I am myself. [23]

 

Through these deliberately unconnected impressions I am the indifferent narrator of my autobiography without events, of my history without a life. These are my Confessions and if I say nothing in them it’s because I have nothing to say. [25]

 

Both objectively and subjectively speaking, I’m sick of myself. I’m sick of everything, and of everything about everything. [33]

So I turned to two other novels: Graham Swift’s Mothering Sunday (which has nothing to do with Lisbon) and Antonio Tabucchi’s Pereira Maintains.

Cover of my Scribner's hardback copy of Mothering Sunday

Cover of my Scribner’s hardback copy of Mothering Sunday

 I bought the Swift after reading several positive reviews: it didn’t disappoint. The first half of this short novel – it’s only 132 pages long — is one of the most erotic passages I’ve read in a work of fiction, but it’s beautiful, not pornographic; the scene in which Jane watches her lover dress while she lies naked on his bed is breathtaking. Like William Boyd in some of his recent novels, Swift has a female narrator, and really convinces with the voice he constructs, and the experiences she relates.

From the outset we know that the young housemaid, a foundling given the name Jane Fairchild by the orphanage in which she grew up, in service in a 1920s country estate, will have to learn to survive her passionate affair with this young heir of a neighbouring estate: he’s about to marry an heiress, so this passionate liaison with Jane is doomed. But all is narrated from the perspective of the Jane’s recalling these events from the end of her very long life years later, after she’s become a best-selling novelist.

The second part of the novel I found less satisfying. Maybe fiction is better when dealing with adversity.

Caspar ignores Tabucchi, considering it perhaps a little highbrow

Caspar ignores Tabucchi, considering it perhaps a little highbrow

Tabucchi was an Italian academic who taught Portuguese studies; Pereira Maintains is the story (again a long novella or short novel) of an overweight Lisbon journalist who writes the culture pages for a second-rate Lisbon paper in 1938 under the fascist regime of Salazar. He’s still grieving for his wife, who died some time earlier – he talks to her photograph more than he does any living person, spending his time alone in his flat or eating endless omelettes and drinking sugary lemonade in his favourite restaurant. In temperament he resembles Pessoa’s existentially anguished Soares.

Into his life comes a radical leftist who writes obituaries of notable radical-artistic figures, which Pereira pays for but consigns to the bin: he’s too timorous to risk printing them in this era of oppression and state censorship. Gradually he comes to learn the importance of commitment and action; being a passive critic of a corrupt and brutal system isn’t enough.

It’s a slow-burning narrative written in a curiously deadpan, detached style. In effect it’s a transcript or testimonial, presumably conveyed by a court reporter who relates dispassionately what Pereira ‘maintains’. The refrain of the title, repeated at the end of every chapter, and frequently within each one, became intrusive and even tiresome, for me.

Pereira Maintains is perhaps more of a curiosity than a modern classic, but the final few chapters build to an intriguing and exciting climax, as we are left unsure which course of action (or inaction) Pereira will choose as the vicious political system, in which he has lived with placid submissiveness for so long, breaks violently into his complacent world.

I can’t quote from the text because the copy I read was borrowed from a work colleague who’d bought it in a Lisbon bookshop while visiting the city, coincidentally, at the same time as me. I hadn’t known she was going there. I read the book in a few days and returned it to its owner. My picture shows a visiting friend’s natty little schnauzer, Caspar, snoozing on my bed as I took a break from reading.

 

 

‘The evil in the air was corrupting everybody’: Gamel Woolsey, ‘Death’s Other Kingdom’

When I was studying Spanish at school back in the late 60s, my teacher, who then seemed to me an old man, but who was probably younger than I am now, used to beguile us all with his misty-eyed reminiscences of his youthful days in 30s Spain, which seemed to be spent bathing in icy mountain pools and eating delicious peasant food in country inns. Gamel Woolsey’s autobiographical account of her experiences of the outbreak of Civil War in Andalucía in 1936, and in particular the beginning of the attacks on Malaga, belongs to that same era, when the pastoral tranquillity of the country was shattered irrevocably.

My copy is in the Virago Travellers series

My copy is in the Virago Travellers series

Published in 1939, Death’s Other Kingdom is a lyrical and deeply personal record of her feelings and perceptions as the rugged but idyllic village life she shared in Churriana, just outside Malaga (now absorbed into its post-tourist-resort urban sprawl) with her husband, the Hispanist author Gerald Brenan, turned into a nightmare the morning she woke to the news of Malaga burning ‘under a pall of smoke’.

The opening chapter beautifully evokes that pre-war idyll:

It was the most beautiful day of the summer…The sky at dawn was cloudless and the ‘pink band’ of the tropics, the band of rosy light which ascends the sky from the horizon at twilight, rose to the zenith and faded into the growing light. Then the sun rose suddenly with a leap into the air: the long hot southern day had begun.

 It’s a world of placid serenity, when the Brenans did little more, in the summer heat, than ‘bask in the day like lizards, in the shade of the high white garden wall’ which surrounded their big old house with its walls ‘four feet thick’, and its huge garden, ‘gay with bright flowers, immaculate and cool in any weather.’

She describes the place with sensual, poetic fervor:

I always loved waking in Spain. The sun fell in stripes from the slatted shutters on the red and white diamonded tiles of the floor. Noises from the street below floated up; the pattering feet of the milk goats sounded like rain drops…

 More sounds rise up: the ‘melancholy call’ of the fish sellers ‘their hampers full of fresh fish just coming up from the sea on their lean donkeys’ — Sardinas and boqueronis – ‘the food of the poor, the cheapest of fishes.’ Then come the cries of the vendors of ‘grapes fresh and plump’, tomatoes and ‘pimientos gordos’, ‘melons, lettuces and plums, squashes, peaches and pumpkins were passing, a perfect harvest festival going by on donkeys.’

This is the dominant tone of the book: Woolsey’s profound sympathy for village life and the desperately poor rural inhabitants of these remote mountain and coastal pueblos. There are affectionately vivid portraits throughout the book of the Brenans’ domestic staff: Enrique, ‘a gentle, charming young man’, their passionate gardener, and his mother María the ‘severe’ and crotchety but ‘devoted’ cook-housekeeper and her daughter, a ‘melancholy widow’ called Pilar, whose brief experience of romance is cruelly and violently ended, leaving her in sad solitude again.

Woolsey evokes a now largely vanished rural Andalucia:

For a village in Spain is a unity; its inhabitants are like members of a clan, they have a close and indissoluble bond. ‘My village’ is constantly in the mouth of a Spanish countryman. It is more than ‘my country’.

 The villagers view with deep suspicion anyone from a different village, no matter how close; as for the nearby town of Malaga – it’s seen as the abode of evil people.

But when Malaga is set on fire and the air-raids begin, the peace is shattered. Lorries thunder by constantly:

The young men wave their pistols and throw up their clenched fists in a gesture of triumph.

 All is confusion. The ‘Revolution from the Right’ is countered by a ‘Revolution of the Left’. Rumours fly rapidly. Everyone is fearful, most especially of ‘El Tercio’ – the seasoned Foreign Legion ‘worthy of Lucifer’, and its most feared contingent, the Moors, the expectation of whose arrival ‘ran like a cold wave of horror through the countryside’. Patrols enter the house and the countryside looking for enemies. Arrests and imprisonments are commonplace, and summary executions and brutal reprisals from both sides terrify the people. Former friends become mistrustful enemies. Irreparable fissions form in the village’s life. The Brenans are protected from the worst atrocities by their foreignness – Gerald flies a Union Jack over the house and this acts like a lucky charm. But many of their neighbours and friends are less fortunate.

There are vivid descriptions of their visits to Malaga to see for themselves the terrible destruction wrought by the newly erupted Civil War. There are rueful touches of humour: they meet an Englishman in Malaga who regales them with tales of the night the houses around him were torched:

But I suppose it seems worse for British subjects to lose their luggage than lesser races their lives.

 

Most of the narrative relates with grim impartiality the catastrophic impact of the war on the people. A kind of madness grips the civilians, who indulge their ‘uglier instincts’ and take malicious pleasure in spreading stories of atrocities. It’s the ‘pornography of violence’ as she memorably puts it. ‘Hate is the other side of fear’, she suggests, ‘and it was horrible to see and feel this hate-fear rising around us like a menacing sea.’ The people are gripped by the ‘suspicion and bitterness’ that ‘thrive on fear’; ‘the distrust of Spaniards for other Spaniards is bottomless’.

The strangest section of the book is devoted to the Brenans’ providing refuge in their house to the aristocratic family from whom they’d bought it. Well-known supporters of the Falangists, they were in mortal danger if they stayed on in their own estate near the airport, so they accept the offer of a hiding place for their entire family and retinue. It’s an extraordinarily dangerous gesture of generosity, and would have cost the Brenans their lives, foreigners or not, if their guests had been found by the vengeful workers who searched for them and any other Franco supporters. Our sympathies are hardly engaged when Don Carlos, the head of the family, dances with glee on the Brenans’ rooftop as he watches Malaga burn in a fascist air-raid.

Gamel Woolsey (1895-1968) was an interesting character. Born Elizabeth Gammell (her mother’s maiden name; she later shortened it to Gamel and dropped her first name) Woolsey to a wealthy South Carolina plantation owning family, she was brought up with a sense of morality and virtue that are so apparent in this memoir. Her aunt was the author of the Katy books, Susan Coolidge, whose real name was Sarah Chauncey Woolsey.

She had an affair with a member of the literary Powys family, Llewelyn, whom she followed  to England in 1929, settling in Dorset to be near him. There she met Brenan (1894-1987), and left for Spain with him where they settled as man and wife. He had been a member of the Bloomsbury group, and had been romantically involved with Dora Carrington; Gamel was pursued by the philosopher Bertrand Russell. Leftist in politics, Brenan had served as one of the youngest British officers in WWI. His terrible experiences there explain some of his responses to the brutal behaviour of some of their Spanish neighbours when the Civil War broke out, and his determination to help the oppressed, whatever their politics or religion.

In Spain they were visited by a stream of eminent artists, including Virginia Woolf, the Partridges (Frances wrote the Introduction to my Virago edition of DOK), Hemingway and V.S. Pritchett.

The book’s title is taken from T.S. Eliot’s Dante-influenced poem ‘The Hollow Men’ (1925):

Those who have crossed

With direct eyes, to death’s other kingdom

Remember us – if at all – not as lost

Violent souls, but only

As the hollow men

The stuffed men…

 ‘Death’s other kingdom’ is one of three of death’s kingdoms in the poem, and it relates to that heavenly zone entered by those who have left behind a state of spiritual nothingness (in hell or purgatory) and entered into an enlightened state of knowledge where they are capable of seeing the inner truth. The hollow men are those who fail to reach such heights. Eliot was one of Gamel’s favourite poets (she was primarily a poet herself, though she published very little verse or prose in her lifetime), and the line’s significance for her memoir is apt: it could signify the higher truth to which she felt those who experienced war should aspire, rather than the hypocrisy, lies and deception that so many around her (the hollow men) wallowed in when hostilities broke out, who lost sight of their morals and values.

 

Alfred Hayes, Salinger and Bananafish

Work has been all-consuming so far this term, so although I’ve found time to do some reading – most recently and notably Alfred Hayes’ taut, harsh little novel of 1958, My Face for the World to See, published in their usual handsome covers by those splendid folk at NYRB (I can’t write about it here because I impulsively lent it to someone, and would want to quote from Hayes’ style: he can write). I’ve just started Kate Atkinson’s sequel to Life After Life (2013), A God in Ruins, but doubt I’ll write about it here as I didn’t much care for the first one, interesting as it was in parts; I found it what I think film buffs call too ‘high concept’ in structure and content. Why read it? It was lent to me, so would be churlish not to. The sequel is more of the same thing, if the first 70 pages that I’ve read are anything to go by. Entertaining enough, though.

I just listened to the BBC Radio 4 programme ‘A Good Read’ – which I included in Pt 3 of my list of recommended podcast-programmes back in the summer and enjoyed the discussion by Julia Blackburn, whose choice this book was (good taste), and David Morrissey, of JD Salinger’s short story collection For Esmé — With Love and Squalor. (Link to the programme HERE.) I posted about this book in the early days of my blog, so thought it wouldn’t be amiss if I recycled part of it here now, in the hope that, if you missed it first time round, you might feel inspired to give this early Salinger a try. It’s sublime. Here’s an extract:

Most of the stories in this collection concern war and its effects on individuals, and the traumatised memories of post-war Americans.  Even when its presence isn’t directly felt, the war has created in the characters in the stories a damaged, questing quality; as we saw in Franny and Zooey, most of them seek solace in oriental mysticism.

Some (usually children) find enlightenment; others are thwarted.  The opening epigraph to the book is the famous Zen koan – what is the sound of one hand clapping?  This serves as the theme of the collection: how to transcend or deal with mundane reality when in contact with the dulling, deadening effect of what Holden Caulfield in The Catcher in the Rye and members of the Glass family in other stories call ‘phoniness’.

The opening story, ‘A Perfect Day for Bananafish’ sets the tone with the story of Seymour Glass’s suicide in 1948 while on holiday at a Florida beach hotel with his shallow bourgeoise wife Muriel.  In the opening section there’s Salinger’s usual technique on show: Muriel chats distractedly on the phone with her mother – there’s minimal authorial intrusion or commentary.  This is typical of Salinger’s fiction: characters talking.  In this way he shows us their foibles, weaknesses and strengths without having to tell us what’s going on.

In the story’s second section we see Seymour, about whose mental health Muriel’s mother had been expressing (not very sympathetically) concern to her daughter, chatting on the beach with a small girl called Sybil.  Unlike the women’s selfish talk, Seymour shows himself as sensitive and charmed by Sybil’s innocent prattle.  He teases her gently about the fictitious titular fish, telling her they eat so much they get too bloated to escape from the holes they enter on the seabed, causing their own deaths.  The shocking denouement echoes this jolly, innocent narrative, told to amuse and entertain the girl, in a chilling, existentially tortured way.

The whole post can be read by clicking HERE, and there are links there to the other Salinger titles I’ve posted about. Do read him if you haven’t already.

 

Giacomo Leopardi, ‘Zibaldone’, Kerouac and Jackson Pollock

 

Giacomo Leopardi, Zibaldone

My copy

My copy

One of the 19C’s most radical and challenging thinkers and poets (his Canti and moral works influenced Walter Benjamin and Beckett), Giacomo Leopardi (1798-1837) for most of his writing career kept adding entries to an immense notebook, whose Italian title translates as ‘hodgepodge’, miscellany or commonplace book – in previous posts I’ve considered similar ‘Florilegia’ and Chrestomathies (by the likes of Chamfort). Here he recorded his thoughts, impressions, philosophical musings and aphoristic responses to his reading (not just in Italian, but Latin, Greek, Hebrew and other European languages) initially in his isolated house in a village in the Marche, and subsequently elsewhere in Italy. There’s an excellent Introduction by the editors, which provides an illuminating account of his life and work, and the social-political-cultural world in which he operated. It’s also placed in the context of the ars excerpendi: the 16-17C techniques of ‘filing and rationally organising knowledge in catalogues and indexes.’ The Arcades Project by Walter Benjamin, with its ‘convolutes’, is a similar enterprise.

Giacomo Leopardi, Zibaldone: The Notebooks of Leopardi, edited by Michael Caesar and Franco D’Intino. Translated by Kathleen Baldwin, Richard Dixon et al.  Penguin Books, hardback (2013)

1900 Florence edition

In this Introduction there’s a fascinating account of how the MS, hidden away until the turn of the 19-20C, came to light and began to appear in Italian editions, but failed to make much of an impression, so extraordinary and original was its content, so wide-ranging in subject-matter – which tended towards a rejection of high-Romantic idealism and optimism in favour of a more nihilistic world view.

Filling more than 4,500 pp in MS, and 2,502 in this handsome Penguin edition (it’s printed on ultra-thin paper), its focus is the 16-year period 1817-1832, although much of it was completed by 1823, when Leopardi was just 25. It’s the product of his egregious erudition and polymath mind, which was enabled to develop in his aristocratic father’s extensive library, and later in the literary-philosophical Italy of his day.

It would be virtually impossible to ‘review’ this enormous repository of random allusions and dialogues with other texts. Here I shall mention just one entry that recently took my fancy. It’s a book to be dipped into, rather than read in a linear way. One could imagine it lending itself to bibliomancy. I may well revisit it in this way another time (and perhaps the Benjamin text, too, another favourite of mine).

The section that caught my attention appears on p. 88 of this edition, numbered 94-95 by the editors. Here Leopardi is discussing the advantages of being polyglot: it ‘affords some greater facility and clarity on the way we formulate our thoughts, for it is through language that we think’:

Now, perhaps no language has enough words and phrases to correspond to and express all the infinite subtleties of thought. The knowledge of several languages and the ability, therefore, to express in one language what cannot be said in another…makes it easier for us to articulate our thoughts and to understand ourselves, and to apply the word to the idea, which, without that application, would remain confused in our mind.

This is a sentiment of profound good sense, though many would disagree. He goes on to say he has experienced this phenomenon frequently:

…and it can be seen in these same thoughts, written with the flow of the pen, where I have fixed my ideas with Greek, French, Latin words, according to how for me they responded more precisely to the thing, and came most quickly to mind.

Leopardi,_Giacomo_(1798-1837)_-_ritr._A_Ferrazzi,_Recanati,_casa_LeopardiThe editors’ note to this section (the emphasis is mine) points out that Leopardi makes clear here that he writes his diary a penna corrente – ‘with the flow of the pen’, or senza studio. I find these expressions particularly felicitous – and perfect examples of what he said earlier about the ability of one language to fix an idea more concisely and expressively than another: ‘a penne corrente’ is so much more satisfying a concept than the prosaic English translation ‘quickly’; ‘senza studio’ more mellifluous than ‘unreflectingly’.

It is in this spirit that I’ve written some of my blog posts, including this one (and the previous post on Fred Titmus and Liz Taylor), whereas I usually draft them – though it probably doesn’t seem that way to readers – with great care.

I recently attended an academic conference at Birkbeck College, University of London, on the subject of ‘action writing’: the improvised free-form style favoured by Jack Kerouac and others of his generation, pioneered in music by the jazz musicians of the preceding years, and by Jackson Pollock’s ‘action painting’. How intriguing to find in the Zibaldone an advocate of this Zen attitude to artistic creation…

Giacomo Leopardi, Zibaldone: The Notebooks of Leopardi, edited by Michael Caesar and Franco D’Intino. Translated by Kathleen Baldwin, Richard Dixon et al.

Penguin Books, hardback (2013)

 

Vision animates: John Harvey, ‘The Poetics of Sight’

John Harvey, The Poetics of Sight. Peter Lang, Bern, 2015. Paperback, 309pp. (Cultural Interactions: Studies in the Relationship between the Arts, 25)

I have recently written here about the excellent literary-cultural studies by John Harvey of the colour black and here about clothes. Last year I included several pieces on his novel about Ruskin, Millais and Effie Gray, The Subject of a Portrait.

Harvey Poetics bk cover Lang siteThe Poetics of Sight is ‘an intermittent history of culture’s “visual turn” through the last four hundred years’, during which time the subject of sight itself has become, until quite recent years, of primary literary and artistic concern. This book is mostly about the visual life of poetry and prose fiction and ‘about the poetic life of pictures’. Writing within the tradition of comparing pictures with poetry – ‘Ut pictura poesis’ – that stretches ‘from Horace to Hagstrum’, Dr Harvey focuses on the hitherto relatively neglected ‘human sense of sight’ in this debate, and in particular on the concept of the ‘visual metaphor’.

 

In his Introduction he mentions how memories (like dream images) are often ‘momentary and fragmentary’ – the Proustian epiphanies of memory evoked initially by that novelist’s famous childhood madeleines, but then more revealingly by paintings and visual representations in the sequence of novels.

Neuroscientists point out, Dr Harvey explains, how our way of seeing isn’t static but ‘saccadic’: our eyes dart here and there over what we perceive in order to create and maintain an understanding of what it is: this enables us to identify what we see. This is a consequence of evolution – it’s of great advantage to a predator (or predator’s target) to be able to distinguish quickly and accurately what’s dangerous from what’s edible.

In a short review I can’t possibly do justice to the detailed and scrupulous consideration Harvey gives to a wide range of visual and literary artefacts; his analysis, to give just one example, of Titian’s paintings of Venus – two of the nine colour plates in the book; there are 36 monochrome illustrations — is inspiring – though I’d recommend accessing the images online: it’s helpful to be able to zoom in on the details he assesses.

He begins with a chapter on Shakespeare’s ‘visual imaginings’ and the pictures by artists inspired by the plays. Then he turns to the uneven art of Blake, with its ‘element of wilful deprivation’ which is ‘a challenge to taste at any time’ as he strove to ‘keep his vision pure and Eternal’– but which is, at its best, sublime, like Blake’s best poetry.

Here we encounter one of the most interesting recurring themes in the book: the role of the metaphor in art. It is part of Blake’s extraordinary and eccentric genius that he ‘makes the poetic part of visual art stronger and easier to see.’

In his next chapter Harvey carefully examines the ‘migrations of satire’s scurrilous muse [wonderful phrase!] back and forth between visual and verbal art’, with attention to such figures as Gillray and Cruikshank, Pope and Dryden. Here too the ‘slow historic change’ involved the ‘visual or the pictorial “turn”’ that satire took over the centuries, in line with the growing fashion for the ‘picturesque’. When the fashion for satiric verse died out, it re-emerged in the novel, and subsequently in film.

For me the most interesting sections of the book are those which deal with the novel (and there’s a superbly perceptive chapter on ‘metaphor and modernism’, and the ‘double metaphor’ of visual representation in the flat two-dimensional plane of a painting or photo).

The early novelists ‘saw no reason to tarry over a sight unless it was remarkable, and in reading them one’s auditory imagination is at least as busy as one’s visual imagination.’

It’s only in the early nineteenth century that the novel ‘opens its eyes and aspires to a continuous visualization.’ Harvey shows how Austen pays little attention to the visual compared with Dickens, Thackeray and the high Victorian novelists, about whom he writes with subtlety, authority and insight: he moves from fictional landscapes in words to the importance of portraits on the walls of fictional characters’ houses – initially those of the aristocracy, then increasingly in those of the bourgeoisie. The wealthy figure in the portrait intimidated its viewer with its complacently land-owning gaze.

Dr Harvey has published extensively on the illustrations in Victorian literary works, and it is not surprising that he is particularly strong on this topic here – Dickens’s illustrators’ achievements, for example, are explored for their symbiotic relationship with the narrative. But it’s not an academic study for its own sake: he is able to show how they reflect the growing interest of novelists in the concept of watching and seeing, and of related themes like clairvoyance and blindness, light and dark (literal and metaphorical):

Because Dickens’s feeling is more laden his visual details work as emotional metaphors.

George Eliot, we see, is acutely sensitive to the ‘the physique’ and the body of her characters, a visual awareness he calls ‘the classic optics of the novel.’

The modernists became uneasy with this highly realist visual approach, both in painting and its sister art, literature. The move from impressionism through to abstract expressionism is traced alongside the novel’s development, which began to show more affinities with the metonymy of photography and film than with painting (‘I am a camera’), with movement, a ‘visual dynamic’ found, for example, in Harvey’s analysis of Virginia Woolf’s work, where the ‘point of view’

dances from consciousness to consciousness in an almost cinematic way, swooping and zooming, tracking one person till they pass another when all the individuals are themselves in motion, while also slipping rapidly between outward sight and inner picturings.

As I did with his other non-fiction works, I particularly liked Harvey’s ability to argue his case in lucid, elegant prose, as I hope the extracts I have briefly quoted so far indicate. Notice his wittily revealing (nuanced, not ostentatious) use of visual metaphors in his exposition (the novel ‘opens its eyes’; POV ‘dances’; Dickens’s ‘laden’ feeling), for example. And there’s his usual mastery of prose rhythm and the well-turned sentence to express his argument with considered authority.  His scholarship is judiciously deployed.

He’s especially good at showing how writers ‘examine the nature of memory and time’; this resulted in the most recent generations of writers favouring the present tense. Given our tendency in real life to look with ‘fugitive, almost subliminal glimpses’ at the world around us, in literature this results in ‘durable, examinable’ public forms. The Poetics of Sight doesn’t explore the short stories of Raymond Carver, but I find this American writer is a master of the narrative of glimpses, the sideways look or oblique point of view, what in this book is called ‘fiction’s long tradition of indirect visualization.’

I’d be interested to see a lengthier account by Dr Harvey of Henry James’s place in this discussion of art and literature: there are a few tantalising glimpses that whet the appetite for more.

For now, I commend this book to you: it’ll change the way you read.

 

Mine was a review copy sent by the publishers, from whose website the image of the book’s cover is taken.