Posts Tagged ‘bronte’

North and South with Mrs. Gaskell

Monday, May 23rd, 2011

I reread Mrs. Gaskell’s NORTH AND SOUTH, and oh what a delight, perfect for the forward linearity of the e-reader. Mrs. Gaskell’s work is very deliberate and clear and straightforward– no need for flipping back and forth. One of my favorite things about her is that she addresses things most of the Old Victorians never touch, or at least don’t humanize. The hard thing about her is certain limitations of imagination, in this novel an ideological commitment to the superiority of the educated liberal Christian and the danger of people in combinations such as unions. You have to lay that aside– but once you do, Mrs. G. manages to make her main character Margaret Hale strong, suffering, a little wild, yet a complete lady– and above all a woman with a complex moral conscience.

I also like NORTH AND SOUTH’s Mr. Rochester effect, which is that the powerful, passionate man clearly meant to be Margaret’s mate, must be brought down from his arrogant high horse before the match can be made. Gaskell doesn’t blind her Mr. Thornton as her friend Charlotte Brontë did to her Mr. Rochester, but Gaskell does put him in dire financial straits, and then (take that, Mr. Captain of Industry!) she allows Margaret to inherit just enough wealth to help him. Only then can they meet as equals in marriage.

There’s one wonderfully melodramatic but vivid scene when Margaret challenges Thornton to go face the crowd of angry strikers in person, and then, when the crowd gets nasty, she goes herself and stands between him and them. In fact, in her desire to protect him, she throws her arms around his neck. Thornton’s reaction (this part feels so right) is actually physical pleasure and a conviction that the young woman obviously is in love with him if she would embrace him in public. He then fantasizes about her touch for weeks– it’s pretty hot stuff for the nineteenth century and a novelist who is a pastor’s wife.

Somewhat less satisfying, but not bad, is her portrait of a “good” union man, Nicholas Higgins, who teaches Thornton a few things, but also has to learn a few. Thornton, who is in fact a former worker who really did accumulate his own capital, sits down with Higgins, and they come up with some ways of working together. It rejects the all-worker union, but at least gives the privilege to a kind of mutuality.

One note about an element of all Mrs. Gaskell’s work that 21st century readers may mistake for melodrama is how characters drop like flies– they die of consumption, of apoplexy, of heart disease and some unnamed female complaint, probably a cancer– but to Gaskell’s mind, death of people in their fifties and sixties is perfectly normal, as is consumption taking a girl of nineteen or twenty. Think, in fact, of the Brontë siblings: two dead of Tuberculosis before 30, the brother of alcoholism (probably) even earlier, and Charlotte while pregnant at the age of 38.

Libraries

Thursday, July 8th, 2010

I always loved them, as buildings, as spaces: the dark side of the single standing shelf in the one room woman’s club library in Shinnston, WV, where the grown up books were.  Where I met Dostoyevsky.

The awesome lion-guarded 42nd Street Library in New York far more like the Metropolitan Museum than the library where I first took out books.  But in some weird way libraries never became my preferred  source of books: the books I loved most were in people’s houses (my mother’s set of Charlotte and Emily Bronte with the Rockwell Kent woodcut illustrations;  a book of cartoons in my aunt’s house in Scott County Tennessee that were like a twisted version of New York to me– drunk flappers and street urchins, pigeon breasted matrons).  I liked to own books.  I bought all the Black Stallion books, $2.00 each of birthday and holiday money over several years.

Why did I never bond with libraries? It wasn’t about ownership as much as about intimacy, perhaps.  I know people who read constantly from libraries, sometimes visiting several branches in a day to get enough books to tide them over their vacation. And I DID sign out books, stacks of books, but they weren’t mine.  I had to return them.  There was a vague anxiety about getting them back in a timely fashion, unsoiled, with no dog ears.

Partly, I think  I don’t like the social aspect of running into people I know. Reading is deeply private to me.  When I read, I leave my body here, and go elsewhere.   I trade books on Paperback Swap; I buy cheap used books via Bibliofind and the other places for used books. I look through my husband’s mysteries and thrillers if I’m really at a loss.  I hope soon, finally! to have an electronic reader, access to all books, all knowledge, all entertainment, all experience.

Making a Living as a Writer and the Web

Friday, January 29th, 2010

This is a misleading title– I’m trying at least to pretend that my new blog is staying on topic.  This is actually more about an old revoution in reading and writing, as background for the new, digital revolution.

The bottom line as I see it is that with all the energy going to writing in blogs like this — let alone texting, facebooking, twittering, and all the other ways to express yourself in words that are happening on the web– there will be more and more amateur writing  and less writing for income.

Yes, J.P. Rowling got rich.  Yes, Stephen King is still churning out popular books, and what’s her name has the Twilight gold mine.  But even getting one book published  is no longer a solid step on a career path.  It may help you get a job if your desire is to be a writer in an academic setting.

I have lots to say about these topics, but here I want to say that creative writing as an amateur activity has, as I read literary history, actually been the norm, and creative writing as a means to make a living is what is unusual in history.

Just to take a couple of our Greatest White Males of the English language, you’ve got Chaucer, who was a bureaucrat and sometime diplomat, and Shakespeare, who did not make a living from writing his plays (and certainly not from his sonnets!), but from a many-faceted career in theater:  playing Polonius, investing in building theaters, and writing a few plays as well.

Moving on to Great White English language Females, you’ve got Jane Austen whose books were published late in her life, and while they were popular were not what put bread and tea on her table.  The Bronte sisters began as self-publishers– and then– finally, you have George Eliot who was part of the golden age of novels as art and entertainment, along with Dickens and Thackery and Mrs. Gaskell and that whole crew of lucky Victorians who lived at a time when there was a growing reading population with leisure and enough money to buy or rent books.  These people made a living at it, and it remained possible  (for novelists, anyhow–  not for our great American Victorian poets Emily Dickinson and Walt Whitman) well into the twentieth century.

But when the entertainment dollar began to be split among movies and television as well as books and magazines–long before the popularity of the Internet– and when literature itself began to split between popular and literary– that’s when making a living as a writer became, once again,  an amateur activity, done for the love of it,  for more and more writers.