... Not easy to explain, this seemingly obligatory "about"! A bout of what one may well ask (something nasty to be sure!) - self-deception, self-aggrandizement, self-importance...? Enough that it be about one's own self - even when it purports to be about another. Let each be entitled to their own private conceit and, here, me to my own.
The aboutness of being
Aboutness comes to mind. An unusual word (my spell check will have nothing of it!) and one which I encountered most recently in the context of defining art, and as being one attribute that has been prescribed to that definition. But, it is a word – more so, an extended notion – that also seems to arise in broader philosophical arguments; for example in the fields of linguistics and consciousness. In this respect, the following reference seems particularly pertinent to my intentions.
One way philosophers have often explained what they mean by “intentionality” is this: it is that aspect of mental states or events that consists in their being of or about things, as pertains to the questions, “What are you thinking of?” and “What are you thinking about?” Intentionality is theaboutnessor directedness or reference of mind (or states of mind) to things, objects, states of affairs, events…
Siewert, Charles, “Consciousness and Intentionality”, The Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy (Fall 2021 Edition)
So, with that said, I make my beginning. (To which the chorus replies: ’tis about time!)
January 1st 2019
In the beginning … a very good place to start – and not just in myth…. So then, to begin, a name for my project was sought, and I thought about something like a “Republic of Letters”; that intellectual movement of discourse and argument of the Enlightenment or, even worse: res publica literaria, as it was called in the original Latin. But, gladly for the sake of all, I decided that both sounded much too hifalutin’ for my modest purposes; ringing too much as they do of “the learned” and “the scholarly”, and from a time when women probably had not too much to say anyway (unless being of that society that found their calling as salonnières extraordinaire!). And, if the truth be known, I am so far from being an “expert” (that increasingly maligned post-modern forerunner of the post-post-modern “influencer”!) about anything. Rather, just one, of the sort about whom you may have heard, imbued with an inquiring mind of her own; intellectually curious enough and with this idea (naive as it may be) that, in a world that is increasingly complex and disruptive, literature in its many forms may offer continuity, some solace, and guidance in traversing paths fraught with all the complications inherent in just being alive, and is one way of exploring that which has been, what is and may well be. (But under no illusion, as sometimes suggested, that literary preoccupations somehow make one a better person – as if it were that easy!)
For now, then, my home is simply a republic of my own … and not of letters in the formal sense; for (regrettably, perhaps) as mail and post have taken on a digital aura so too have words written to the page receded as the primary means by which to communicate and inform. Rather, it is one of many things, old and new – say, literature or life – suggesting the idea of a home to be found in a place other than the physical – an “imaginary State” of one’s own, if you will, a state of mind. And gladly time spent in imaginary company; perhaps in the salons, stately homes, tea rooms and coffee houses of yore. Enlightened [sic!] by the words of Voltaire: “Being unable to make people more reasonable, I preferred to be happy away from them”, I wonder whether in these fractious times a seclusion of sorts does not offer the best promise of a space for reflection. And, alone; it is more difficult to easily offend.
As to intent…
It may be that in time my work here might find its way out into the Big, Wide World – but that is not its intent, rather more a labor of love, a trove of my own thoughts and ideas, a reason to contemplate with intent. Envisaged is a website with extended content; mostly about literature and books – their writers and their readers, and their social context – and, of course, about my own reflections, and inferences that may be made. In respect to the latter, it will also be about a personal process of discovery; of the old and new, often inspired by association; of expanding my own knowledge and evolving my own opinions and writing about them.
There will be some constants. For example: literary and contemporary fiction, biographies and histories, politics and philosophy. I enjoy looking at art and reading about art, and I am not averse to arguments relating to science and technology. Having lived in the United States for a few years, albeit many years ago, I continue to maintain my interest in American literature and society. But, the truth is, I can be tempted by fictions from a wide range of genres and a just as absurd array of topics in non-fiction. Even as I write, I do have some more recently acquired preoccupations; for instance, an interest in the classics, especially the Greeks, the French language and literature. But, please be warned: my attention may easily be diverted or captured by “the next big thing”!
Virginia Woolf has been insinuating herself upon me in recent times. Or, should I say, she has reemerged as a guiding presence; for her person and her writing have in fact for a long time found ways of inspiring me and acting as a catalyst to my own intellectual inquiries and undisciplined meanderings. But, hitherto, this has been by and large subliminal, without the necessary reflection. With the time now to do so, I look forward to returning to Virginia Woolf with a more analytical and stringent approach. Also, I must add, that only of late have I realized how very much ‘not alone’ I am with my fascination for Woolf – her appeal is much broader than I imagined and her presence in certain circles often ubiquitous! That younger generations and those from diverse backgrounds have embraced Woolf and her work, and been prepared to see beyond her personal flaws and inconsistencies, particularly pleases me – many historical figures (some, just as deserving perhaps) have not been as fortunate.
It is, then, not a coincidence that I have a special interest in the last years of the 19th century and the decades of the twentieth that follow; a period broadly approximating the span of Virginia Woolf’s life. This, an era in which she and her milieu lived and created with legendary abandon: one of extraordinary societal upheavals and breaking of norms, of war and peace and war again, an epoch in the midst of which fermented an explosion of ideas and experimentation – in science, in technology, in governance and bureaucracy, in the public space and in private – and that fostered in a new modernism in art and literature. And all of this under the creeping shadows of totalitarianism and fascism. A time I will return to often these pages.
I should say, too, that my recent dalliance (for it is still at that novice stage) that I mentioned above with “the Greeks” – as Virginia Woolf would say – I owe by no small measure to that particular life-long preoccupation of hers; one that I had previously not much attended to, but that I now recognize as an essential ingredient in her intellectual and stylistic development as a writer. (For instance, rereading To the Lighthouse not long ago, I recognized something of the Greek tyrant lurking behind Mr. Ramsay’s petty conceits for the first time. Though, to be fair to the said Mr. Ramsay, my sentiments remain prejudiced, to the point of being enraged, by the prowling, predatory antics of a very real contemporary presence upon the world stage; envisaging the tyrant looming larger than life at every turn, when perhaps it is only a man I see – the everyman – striving to be what he thinks he should be.) As an autodidact and late-comer to the ancient world, it is reassuring to know that Woolf (granted, encouraged by her most eminent circle of intimates), acquired her knowledge of the classics outside the ivory tower (many forget, or have never known, that VW didn’t ever see the inside of an educational institution!) and through her own endeavors, and was clever and imaginative enough to mine the essence of mythological and ancient narratives for her own literary inspiration.
Belatedly only does it occur to me, that this here Republic of mine could be recognized as a quiet (or not so) nod to Virginia Woolf’s “A Room of One’s Own” – and while I disown the intention, the outcome gladly I do!
Should this be sounding too Anglo- or Eurocentric (or more broadly speaking, Western), I hope not to confine myself to the cultural space of which I am indeed a product and can’t deny; for I am only too aware of how, in the grand scheme of things, that is too narrow a place from which to view the world. In this respect, I have become increasingly interested in discussions (and controversies) involving colonialism and its impact, which has led me to new writing and scholarship that explores the complicated, and often tragic, legacy of successive forms of imperialism throughout world history.
I should say I am also a product of what was once the Empire’s most far-flung colony, and though Australia does not immediately lend itself to many of the post-colonial debates, increasingly the historical and cultural narratives surrounding the indigenous populations and diverse migratory experiences are being recognized as much more complex and, I would contend, whilst the founding ‘Australia’ experience (penal colony, decimated indigenous people, white European migration) is singular, many contemporary ‘Australians’ have biographies that share much with the post-colonial traumas of people of other nations – in Asia, Africa, for instance. What I do not accept are some of the simple arguments (phrased with extraordinary feats of linguistic and rhetorical acrobatics!) that pour forth from ivory towers.
So, then, though hardly complicit, I do think my heritage extends upon me some responsibility to be curious and informed beyond the conventional narratives, and be willing to confront harsh truths – previously denied or newly exposed – and their consequences that challenge those narratives; and, in so doing, chipping away at, if not the geographical and physical barriers, then at least those that exist in the conditioned mind. One topic, for instance, that has particularly come to my attention, and which arises as a direct consequence of imperial adventurism, is that concerning the restitution of African art to the countries of their origin. (This applies of course not just to African art and the African continent, I could also mention that of indigenous Australians.) And, the historical background is one thing, but then there are the political and institutional (museums, academia, etc.) interests and pressures that consistently complicate paths towards successful resolution.
It is with a reluctant acceptance that the years before me are considerably less than those I have lived, and with my prospects of savoring much more of the Big Wide World diminishing accordingly, that I have made a commitment unto myself to extend the borders of my everyday life (and my mind) by continuing to learn about other places and cultures – their rich histories and traditions – and how they are interconnected with our own. Certainly, modern technology, the world wide web, and new modes of information transfer allow for this. I do believe, that well-selected flights of the imagination, inspired by books and literature and ideas, could well be a better option than the impossibly pythonesque choice between an all-exclusive package or an adventure holiday. And, humourful I hope very often to be. And as honest as I am allowed (or allow myself) to be.
Important to me, then, is just how other times and other histories, may be related to our societies in the here and now, to all our presents in those places we call home and away – and I emphasize and insist on all the plurals of. Wary of sentimentality and the temptation to be led by nostalgia – to dwell on the triumphant or damned past – I imagine myself rather to be as an archaeologist (granted, a hobby one!) who delights in digging around amongst the artifacts of previous generations and the archives of their endeavors, discovering perhaps things neglected or forgotten or just never having reached the light of day; and looking at them in a new light and in terms of our contemporary times, whilst never losing sight of the differences. Here, I am especially thinking about contemporary “hot button” issues like, for instance, identity, inter-sectionality, including the dreaded and often misunderstood critical race theory and woke wars; topics that sound so very “now” but in fact call out loud to us from just about every past and every place we may explore.
Clichéd by now for sure, but I remain captivated by the metaphorical idea of weaving as applied to story-telling (perhaps channeling that Penelope – she pictured in the header above going about her business – wannabe inside of me!), with all its myriad of extensions: web, spin, yarn or thread, tapestry, fabric or material, texture, design, pattern (there are more I am sure!) that, it seems to me, lends itself so well to the acquirement of knowledge and its propagation. That is, describing the creative processes through which facts and information are enhanced and communicated; either through an appreciation of fictional narrative as a means of giving an original voice to the past without disavowing history, or through the perversion and manipulation of those same facts in the sole interest of fabricating a narrative that is designed to deceive.
That, then, just about sums up my (im-) modest aspirations; as just one solitary weaver, herself enmeshed in the web of life. But, it could be, as one hardly in the position of having to ward off unwanted attention from pesky suitors, that I should seek inspiration beyond that mythical Penelope who invested so much time and industry in waiting and undoing, and doing so again, and waiting … Perhaps I should look more to one like she portrayed here in this Japanese Ukiyo-e wood-cut print (l.). A multi-tasker before her time I warrant! Content and able enough it seems, amidst her modest tools of craft and the work at hand, that time may be spent in some moments of reverie and inner contemplation; of the mythical and of the real, and all those blurred spaces in-between.
That’s the thing with intentions, they often get lost in the passing of time – but that at least implies the possibility of being found. So, in time – and this can not help but be about time; not enough of, too much of, and in the end always lost, seceding to the greater power of memory – this space may also become a depository of sorts for some of my own fragmentary pieces of work and creative exercises. Only time will tell how far, and to what ends, my own tale can be spun …
To this end, in respect to stuff of my own that may be strewn throughout these pages, I ask only that any material be reused with integrity (that is, not abused!) and appropriated (which is not a dirty word!) in accordance with Creative Commons guidelines. And if you don't...well, then, you don't.
As to Person…
And, who is this Anne Dromache? The reflection long lost in the cut and paste – or never there; remaining alone the searching glance, captured fleetingly in blurred profile, vainly seeking some meaning in herself – before she too fades away.
Not much need be known – but perhaps more than ubiquitous anonymous! Of that, the first syllable is convenient. So I shall abide by the Anne (once loathed and now embraced in all persuasions except the diminutive); a good, sensible name, common enough – though becoming old-fashioned somewhat like myself I fear. I answer to it still. But, it may be that my name is not Anne Dromache. Irrespective, I do have sympathy for the Andromache of the Iliad and of myth and, though spared her ultimate fate, I share in the very broadest sense some of her traits and circumstances. Certainly not a terribly original nom de plume, and it is probably not exactly cool to hide behind one anyway, but at least it is not Anon – which said, returns one again to Woolf!
and as to Place…
At the time of writing, I live in a city in southern Germany; moderate in size I would say, but one which the Germans very grandly describe as a Großstadt, and with the self-explanatory sub-text of Universitätsstadt. My native language is English; imbued now as it may be by various international and cultural influences, not to mention an erratic array of colloquialism and jargon courtesy of an education and socialization in three disparate regions of the Anglo-speaking world – and over more years than I would gladly admit. (And the somewhat inconsistent spelling – and spell-check settings!-that may, or may not, ensue from that!). Then, there is, of course, this forever evolving internet-speak of our digital world, that is colorful and pervasive, and has come to inform our conversation and mode of communication – and from this, even the very analog person that I am at heart, is not immune.
All this, a very roundabout way, of saying not very much at all! Enough, then, I say - for now I have said, just about all there is to say!