Literature – Page 4 – My Own RE:public

Aftermath

Diverging to dabble in some amateur wordsmithing (is that a word?); inspired by a word pondered by Woolf; inconsequential to all intents and purposes and simply said in passing, but worthy of thought.

In her diary entry of Wednesday 7 November 1928, Virginia Woolf wonders at her poor physical and mental state in the aftermath of the publication of Orlando. And true to form, that contemplation once written sets her searching mind, unhindered by its fragile state, momentarily meandering, and she wonders about the etymology of a rather ordinary word, the word “aftermath”, and turns to, as she says, “Trench”, for some reconciliation.

Well, none was forthcoming from the said Trench. But I was curious and wondered at her reference, and a footnote explained the tome to be: A Select Glossary of English Words used formerly in senses different from their present (1859) compiled by Richard Chenevix Trench. Rather dated, even during Woolf’s time to be sure, and one may presume that it was long in her possession; from her father’s library perhaps.

To my surprise a digitized version (of the American edition) is on the hathitrust website, and this curious work of reference is certainly well worth a browse – even if it doesn’t help on the matter concerning “aftermath”!

Some further research on my part indicates that the word does in fact fit the criteria insinuated in the title, so the good Mr. Trench was indeed remiss.

aftermath (n.)

1520s, originally a second crop of grass grown on the same land after the first had been harvested, from after + -math, from Old English mæð “a mowing, cutting of grass,” from PIE root *me- (4) “to cut down grass or grain.”

Also known as aftercrop (1560s), aftergrass (1680s), lattermath, fog (n.2). Figurative sense is by 1650s. Compare French regain “aftermath,” from re- + Old French gain, gaain “grass which grows in mown meadows,” from Frankish or some other Germanic source similar to Old High German weida “grass, pasture.”
Online Etymology Dictionary

A modern definition, “figurative sense” as mentioned above or in the original might read:

aftermath | ˈɑːftəmaθ, ˈɑːftəmɑːθ | noun

1 the consequences or after-effects of a significant unpleasant event: food prices soared in the aftermath of the drought.

2 Farming new grass growing after mowing or harvest. ORIGIN late 15th century (in aftermath (sense 2)): from after (as an adjective) + dialect math ‘mowing’, of Germanic origin; related to German Mahd.
(My) Apple Dictionary

I note that the Online Etymology entry suggests the Henry Wadsworth Longfellow’s poem so named to further illustrate the meaning of the word, and it does so in a lyrical fashion. The poem (see below) appears to have been first published in 1873, and I make the observation that, in the sense that it combines the agricultural meaning with the figurative idea of change – natural and man-made – and what remains, that Longfellow may have been moved – even subconsciously – by the slaughter upon the battle fields of the Civil War – and its aftermath. (I don’t know this, of course, and probably am influenced by Siegfried Sassoon’s 1919 poem also called “Aftermath”; in which the aftermath in question is that of the First World War – no tepid “gloom” to be found in Sassoon’s poem, rather the stark, bitter reality of war.)

 Aftermath

 by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

When the summer fields are mown,
When the birds are fledged and flown,
      And the dry leaves strew the path;
With the falling of the snow,
With the cawing of the crow,
Once again the fields we mow
      And gather in the aftermath.

Not the sweet, new grass with flowers
Is this harvesting of ours;
      Not the upland clover bloom;
But the rowen mixed with weeds,
Tangled tufts from marsh and meads,
Where the poppy drops its seeds
      In the silence and the gloom. 

- Poetry Foundation

There is no need to connect Longfellow with Trench, but I can’t resist. Both were born in the same year and died only a few years apart. Trench (1807-86), for a time Dean of Westminster, is buried in the knave of the Abbey and Longfellow (1807-82) is one of the few Americans, and the first, to have a memorial dedicated in Poet’s Corner at that same venerated place. Whether the pair met during any of Longfellow’s sojourns to Europe I couldn’t say but, even had they, “aftermath” probably didn’t arise in polite conversation, for had it done so Trench would surely have recognized the special characteristic of interest to him and noted it for his scholarly volume; and many, many years later Virginia Woolf’s curiosity could well have been quickly satisfied. Was she ever the wiser? Did she inquire of Leonard or one of her many gentleman (or not so) farmer acquaintances in the home counties?

Though I can find no direct reference, Virginia Woolf’s father would surely have made the acquaintance of Trench – the man. With Longfellow, though, I can make a connection – albeit fleetingly. In Frederic William Maitland’s The Life and Letters of Leslie Stephen (for which Woolf was a source), a note made by the subject for October 7 1863 during an extended Summer in the United States records an encounter (presumably through James Russell Lowell – who would remain a life time friend) in which Stephen describes Longfellow as “a pleasant, white-bearded, benevolent-looking man of very quiet manners, who talked agreeably but not poetically (?) with a want of (the?) readiness (?) which appears to be characteristic of literary gents in these parts …” [p.118]. (Read on a little and one learns Stephen also met Seward and Lincoln – sort of – in Washington! The first did not particularly impress, and the second more than he expected.)

What a rabbit hole did I just fall down!

Either/Or

Elif Batuman is another of those writers – and there are enough – known to me through various long forms of journalism but whose books I haven’t read. But, having just listened to her and been reminded, I am encouraged to remedy this omission in the near future. Batuman’s recently released novel, Either/Or, has been very well received, and I have always had a penchant for the bildungsroman (as do some whose bildung only ever got so tend to have), or as which it was so described somewhere. This new work is, in fact, a sequel to her 2017 – also highly praised – book, The Idiot, and so I may have to read that first – if only to find out what Dostoevsky and Kierkegaard have in common, and what they both have in common with Batuman and her protagonist (be they not somehow the same!). Anyway, below is a Kindle preview that entices, and there is more information on the publisher’s website.

And, here, Alex Clarke’s review at The Guardian a couple of months ago that further whets the appetite.

& another bloomin’ 16th June …

One hundred of them; if counted from the 1922 publication of James Joyce’s modernist novel, Ulysses. Or, if one will, add another eighteen to count from the 16th June of 1904; the Dublin day fictionalized by Joyce, and presumably lived by him in a first carnal – or romantic, or both – encounter with Nora Barnacle.

Some resources for Bloomsday 2022, sponsored by The James Joyce Centre in Dublin, can be found here.

Enough that I castigate myself – again! – for not having read this bloomin’ legendary book. And, swear – again! – that I will. I will, I will! Or thus do I will myself.

The other half

Somewhere in her slight, but written with almost existential urgency, 1987 memoir, Une femme, Annie Ernaux recalls how her mother, in her quest to improve the family’s standing, her striving for upward mobility in the firmly entrenched social structure of post-war France, at some stage began referring to her husband in the oh so formal language imagined (by her) to be that of the bourgeoisie. Now, having read this book in German (Eine Frau, Suhrkamp, 2019), the class difference to be discerned in the “upgrading” of (presumably in the original French) mon mari to mon époux (in German: mein (Ehe)Mann to mein Gatte), and especially in respect to the social norms of the time, is clear in the formalities of both languages, but I am not so sure how that would transpose in modern English nor how that was handled in the English translation. When did you last hear anyone casually – or seriously – referring to their “spouse”? In this respect the English formal is often confined to tax forms! And, complicated further by the social and linguistic improvements (or at least changes) of the last decade or so, I do wonder where the translation would have gone with this.

But, I divert, for it is not so much this (not uninteresting) nuance of language that concerns me, but rather how powerfully that seemingly simple but inherently complex play with words describes the life and the ambitions of Annie Ernaux’s mother, and that were so inextricable from husband and child. I read this book very much as a memorial to this life – giving it the respect and meaning in memory and reflection that it was often denied in the course of its living. And, because Ernaux’s mother is never named, it may be, more generally, read as about a woman of a certain stand and certain generation in a certain place – or any place really.

Unlike La place which I have previously written on, in which Ernaux disentangles her relationship with her father, and which is rendered with the rational distance from events and emotions that only distance in time affords, Une femme is written with immediacy and in the midst of grief and the lonely struggle against feelings of guilt and shame that that brings. But, it is also written by “a writer”, and as such Ernaux can do nothing other than write her way to some point of reconciliation; remaining attentive to her craft – assembling fragments, observations, narratives to a captivating whole. This book touched me deeply. I could write about all the “class” stuff that could be extricated from the text, but I won’t here – not now – rather I will just pay tribute to the courage of this wonderful French writer who, in confronting her own imperfect place in the world, dignifies that held by others. And gratitude, for sharing that experience that many of us have had, or will have, when faced with the realization that someone near and dear will never again exist upon this earth; one who connects us to our past, of finding ourselves for a short time or long set adrift; flaying, disoriented.

A comprehensive collection of Annie Ernaux’s work is available in English translation at Seven Stories Press.

Modern Reading

Whether over lunch, or in the midst of bedtime ritual, beginning tomorrow and for ten consecutive weekdays (Jan 24 – Feb 4), BBC Radio 4 presents a reading of Mrs. Dalloway; embedded within what the BBC calls a “celebration of the birth of Modernism a hundred years ago”. Here, the reference is to literary Modernism and the publication of James Joyce’s Ulysses in 1922 (and Eliot’s The Waste Land). Virginia Woolf’s ‘one day’ novel was published three years later, but fits very well in the modernist tradition – and may justifiably be considered (by the broadcaster) more readable (and listenable) than Joyce’s epic work; dense as it is in allusion and parody.

Start the Week tomorrow morning (with Kirsty Wark – the third presenter in three weeks – and I am still getting used to NOT starting the week with Andrew Marr!) starts the season with a discussion that broadens the scope of modernism beyond the literary – into the visual arts, music and the public space. One of the guests is Matthew Sweet whose ten part series 1922: The Birth of Now also begins tomorrow (through to Feb 4). [BBC is quite generous, and most of these links should remain live for some time.]

Presumably, there is more in store across the BBC but I can’t find the theme centrally organized (generally this is a problem with Sounds – and I know I’m not alone in this opinion!). I actually only became aware of an upcoming “Modernism” project through a passing reference on Feedback at the end of last year and was reminded with a programming note on Open Book last week. That episode, by the way, is all about Ulysses, and listening to the very interesting participants has motivated me to consider (and not for the first time, and as an important condition) diving in. Given this interest of mine in the modernists, and my interest in their interest in the ancients, I shouldn’t need to be pushed (one would think), and rather have been tempted to jump in long ago. Or do I have an insurmountable interest conflict?

Anyway, I have at least tracked down a very good digital version of Ulysses, and there is no shortage of study material, so I will collate what I have in a separate post for future reference. For the moment, may I just refer to Virginia Woolf’s struggle with Joyce (which she never really resolved – personally, I’m not totally convinced she read Ulysses in its entirety nor any of his other works) in particular and, more generally, Volume 2 of her diary which includes this year; one which for her was just another, and was to become for us (and maybe posterity), and unbeknownst to her, much more.

There are many Christmas stories…

this one from Vladimir Nabakov. A mail from The New York Review of Books today offers a free read (for the moment anyway), and I quote:

“In the Review’s November 16, 1995, issue, we featured a new translation, by Dmitri Nabokov, of a 1928 short story by his father, Vladimir. “The Christmas Story,” originally published on December 25, 1928, in the Berlin Russian-language journal Rul’, tells the tale of a preeminent writer in the new USSR, a once-great master now despairing of finding a new subject in a changed world and unable to shake from his mind the image of a Christmas tree. Nabokov’s story may be read for free [here].”

The New York Review of Books, December 26, 2021.

(Update: January 12th 2022 - Unfortunately, the above link now appears to go only so far, and a subscription is required to read the complete story.)

Cover of *Bezbozhnik* in 1931 against the felling of Christmas trees

Reading this, and with the Soviet now relegated to the annals of history, and Russia in the steely grip of an autocrat and an oligarchy that accommodates (and flirts with to various degrees) the Orthodox church, Nabokov’s story is ostensibly one particular to its time. But, the symbolism of a Christmas tree, with a red star atop in jest, for instance, or as a representation of the fusion of the Church with Western capitalism, retains its resonance for the contemporary reader; for a virulent and state-mandated nationalism and anti-West (if not anti-capitalist!) tenor flourishes still in post-Soviet Russia, as it did in those post-revolutionary days at its beginnings in the midst of which the Nabakov family’s fate was mired.

And, in any era, in this time, there are countless who know and as many who can imagine, the totality of the immigrant experience – what you take with you and what you leave behind. And, the baggage is most heavy with the customs and beliefs of all those formative years preceding departure; often treasured more in the chosen land than ever done in the old country. Nabakov’s short story beautifully conveys the dichotomy of experience with which many peoples of the Soviet countries had to grapple – at home and abroad – and imagined in the person of an older, eminent writer looking for literary inspiration in an increasingly uniform and sterile society while remaining true to the system of collective will. Just as the nostalgic Novodvortsev could not escape the vision of his country folk gathered about the light and riches of a Christmas tree, nor could the comrade Novodvortsev that of the poverty and injustice lurking in its shadow. Comrade N. wins out in the end – reason, as he sees it, trumping emotional flights of fancy that would herald only trouble.

With triumphal agitation, sensing that he had found the necessary, one-and-only key, that he would write something exquisite, depict as no one had before the collision of two classes, of two worlds, he commenced writing. He wrote about the opulent tree in the shamelessly illuminated window and about the hungry worker, victim of a lockout, peering at that tree with a severe and somber gaze.
1928, Translated from the Russian by Dmitri Nabokov

The Russian émigré newspaper Rul’ was founded by Nabakov’s father in 1922 by the way, and a copy of the story as originally published – under the pen-name of Vladimir Sirin (Владимир Сирин) – is accessible here at the Berlin library (page 2 and 3). Nabakov lived in Berlin from 1922 until 1937 – a long time and an eventful time in the history of the world. His father was assassinated there, he was married and his son was born there, Berlin was the setting for his early writing and novels. But Nabakov remained ambivalent, even distrustful, of the city and its people, had few German friends, spoke the language not well and remained firmly entrenched in the Russian émigré community. Presumably, he was so lacking in knowledge of German politics and the affairs of state that the events of 1933 came as a surprise for him! We are talking about the twenties in Berlin! Party or poverty and not much in-between – well, so the common narrative. But for Nabakov, seemingly, an uninspiring time. Or is something missing in this version? I am not totally convinced. As a matter of interest, this very informative piece about the Berlin of those years is on the still active website of Dieter E. Zimmer (✝2020) – and lots of other stuff about Nabakov is also there to be explored.

Silenced no longer

Next week sees the publication of The Women of Troy, Pat Barker’s sequel to her critically and popularly well-received retelling of Homer’s Iliad, The Silence of the Girls; told with a woman’s gaze and one firmly focused on Briseis. (Reviewed in 2018 here in The Guardian by Emily Wilson.)

Achilles’ surrender of **Briseis** to Agamemnon, Pompeii fresco, 1st century CE, now in the National Archaeological Museum, Naples

Barker has whetted the appetite for a timely read in this short piece she has written for The Guardian; she returns to her motivations in writing the first book, and it seems a classic ‘what came next’ is to be expected of her follow-up.

More generally, it was interesting to read Barker’s comments relating to the richness of opportunities at an author’s disposal to explore mythological characters, as opposed to the constraints imposed on fictions with historical figures and situations in their midst; burdened as they are with facts and evidence. It is any wonder, then, that the mythical narratives are returned to again and again by new generations of artists and writers seeking creative freedom; re-worked and re-imagined, made fit for contemporary reception.

Here’s to a girls night out with Briseis and friends (again) – grown up and grown old – or not – our fates shared through the ages (of man!).

le 14 juillet

That is today. La fête nationale française. The 14^th of July, or Bastille Day as I have always called it.

Coming just after the 15o^th anniversary of the birth of Marcel Proust , on 10^th July, 1871, I use this proximity and this day to rekindle a too long dormant fascination with the great French writer. See it as my own personal gesture of admiration for La Grande Nation (as the Germans call it – and not always with affection!).

In the arts pages of a German newspaper last week (FAZ); a collection of snippets from those who have, at some time or other, turned to Proust – and, with various degrees of success. One, Louis Begley, succeeded as a young man where others failed, and later was enriched not only in a literary sense but also in that Proust led him to the love of his life. Begley took the opportunity to do a little promotion in this regard for his wife, Anka Muhlstein. In celebration of Proust’s anniversary, Penguin Random House have released a special paperback edition of her 2012 book Monsieur Proust’s Library which explores the literary influences of one who was to on and so profoundly influence other writers, and up to this day. The synopsis on the publisher’s website insinuates this to be a light – and encouraging – read, for those who persist in their struggle.

My copy of the Penguin Classics six volume edition of “In Search of Lost Time”

And I am in need of some encouragement, for as you may have guessed, as Begley succeeded so have I failed. It is to be clearly discerned from the condition of the spines of the paperback volumes of In Search of Lost Time (or perhaps I should use the French title À la Recherche du temps perdu; as I remember even the translation of the title is forever a matter of heated debate) standing on my bookshelf that, generously speaking, I made it half way through – though I am relatively sure I didn’t make it to the end of The Guermantes Way. When? Twenty years ago? Is that possible? What precisely happened I don’t know; distracted, presumably put to one side, then packed away – as life, and my place in it, moved on.

Also, a few days ago I caught a very nice discussion on the Times Literary Supplement’s weekly podcast (always informative listening) with Professor of French and Comparative Literature at the University of Exeter and Proust expert, Adam Watt. Embedded below, and to be found about 4 minutes in or, in Spotify reckoning, at approximately -48:00.

The TLS Podcast – July 7th, 2021.

Watt’s essay for the TLS July 9, 2021, issue, can be found here. Take note, though; access is only granted to a very limited amount of articles in any one month, so good luck!

Now, then, Monsieur Proust, you have my attention! At least, I have taken you again to hand or, to be precise, the first volume of your monumental work, which, in this translation by Lydia Davis, is titled The Way by Swann’s as opposed to Swann’s Way; also a matter of contention. (Whilst all under the aegis of Christopher Prendergast, each volume has a different translator.) On Lydia Davis. I must say, after reading some terrific flash fiction stuff by the so named a few years ago, I had to check whether this was in fact the same person whose name I remembered from the Proust translation. And indeed it was. A New Yorker profile in 2014 explained the French connection and much more (including an American literary first marriage of the highest order – of which I was probably one of the few to be ignorant of).

As an aside, some words of encouragement: a way once lost remains to be found!

Let the search begin, one may be tempted to say; if it wasn’t for that complicated pas de deux of Being and Time – that illusive intangible that constrains and dictates; that essence which he and his accomplice – that other with the name Marcel just as he, and much more than a reflection of each self – sought with word to tame; to make palpable; just like the most famous little cake of all time – soaked in tea, not once but three times, melting into involuntary memory.