A very good year

“Was 1925 Literary Modernism’s Most Important Year?” Such is the title of an essay by Ben Libman in the NYT, in which he begins with Virginia Woolf’s rather infamous opinion (The Diary of Virginia Woolf, Volume 2, August 16, 1922) of James Joyce’s Ulysses, and continues to make a case for the literary importance of 1925 over the more often championed 1922 – being the year in which Ulysses and T.S. Eliot’s The Waste Land were published. A timely article; for, of course, with the passing of 95 years, on January 1st of this year, works copyrighted in 1925 entered the public domain.

Lidman contends that both as prose and lyric, the two aforesaid works did indeed signify a radical break with literary tradition, but they were also notoriously difficult; allusive, obscure, cantankerous. Ulysses, of course, was just plain notorious, scandalous it has to be said, a matter for the courts (of justice and public opinion).

And in 1925? Four books are published, and without fanfare or legal proceedings or grand ambition, that could be read by the mainstream (or what Woolf may have thought of as her ‘common reader’); Mrs. Dalloway, F. Scott Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby, John Dos Passos’ Manhattan Transfer and Ernest Hemingway’s collection of short stories, In Our Time. Libman makes his case well, that it is these works of early modernism that have been, and will remain, the more enduring; for the stylistic innovations they initiated left a lasting legacy and profoundly influenced the literary form.

For Fitzgerald, it is the tool of Symbolism. In the person of Jay Gatsby, he creates a legendary symbol for the transmutation of the American Dream into an American greed and the shattering consequences. How ‘Great’ is it anyway to wallow in the shallow? Dos Passos lays bare a Realism that dared not be, writes as a down and dirty cinéaste might, an editor of the streets of New York; an assembler with the sharpest scissors, cutting bare – only to expose. Or overexpose. He is the town crier, the publicist of the city; a truth-teller and a dissembler, refining the cut and paste long before Word. A fast and furious operator. Then, there is the papa of the modern minimalists; Hemingway saying out loud only that which must be said. What remains after paring back the trees to lay bare the wood? Either it is there to be found, or it’s just not there – or dead. Pay attention to what I say, not what I do not.

And, then, there is Mrs. Woolf, with whom Libman actually begins his argument, and who I quote (in some length; I hope not too much! I hope the link remains live!), because it is important.

[...] As the critic J. Hillis Miller once put it, the reader most often finds that she is “plunged within an individual mind which is being understood from inside by an ubiquitous, all-knowing mind.”
This is evident to us not from the novel’s immortal opening line — “Mrs. Dalloway said she would buy the flowers herself” — but from the one immediately following, which serves as a kind of mirror to the first, tipping us off that we must reread it as something other than objective assertion: “For Lucy had her work cut out for her.” Suddenly, with the lightly colloquial “cut out for her,” we are in the mind not of an omniscient narrator but of a character — Clarissa Dalloway, as the succeeding lines make clear. The reader ceases to think that she is being told what Mrs. Dalloway said about getting the flowers, and begins to think instead that Mrs. Dalloway is just remarking on that fact, as if to herself. And that changes everything.

This narrative technique, known as free-indirect speech, was part of Woolf’s quiet revolution. [...] Woolf perfected this mode, coloring it with the anxiety of modern subjectivity. [...]

[...] we have in “Mrs. Dalloway” the innovation of an enduring, deep structure — something like geometric perspective in painting, that contributes to the development of technique, rather than driving it up a dead end. 

- "Was 1925 Literary Modernism's Most Important Year?" by Ben Libman, in the NYT, March 20, 2021

I like Libman’s analysis very much, and I should say he also mentions, and quotes from, Woolf’s 1919 essay, “Modern Fiction” (linked to in my commentary to her diaries) in which, to my mind, though still only hinted of in her own work at that time, she articulates the most succinct case for her evolving literary philosophy and lays the foundation for the direction her writing is about to veer towards.

Another way of seeing

There are few works of contemporary fiction that have left their mark as profoundly as Colson Whitehead’s 2016 best-selling, prize-winning novel, The Underground Railroad. A magically realised narrative, a tour de force that takes the reader on an uncompromising journey amongst souls, alive and dead and and in the murky depths in-between; through their suffering and degradation; on a restless search for absolution for sins not committed and some dignified resolution, and to be granted sanctuary; a place to call their own, a place to rest without fear or sacrifice – even when it be the final.

In only three sittings I have brought to a conclusion Barry Jenkins’ brilliant adaptation of the novel. Presented as a ten part series on Amazon Prime, I would have to say that this is a format very well-suited for such an intellectually and viscerally powerful work, and I am not sure it could be easily pared down to feature film length. (I really wasn’t looking to sign up for another streaming service, but the chatter of late had become so intense and the temptation too great.)

Admittedly, some of the opening scenes are discomforting, even threaten to overwhelm with their brutality, but there is this one undeniable reality – the barbarity of slavery – that must be confronted before the layers are stripped back to lay bare the soul of the characters – in whatever world they inhabit and wherever their journeys may lead. The alert viewer will recognise early that Jenkins is operating on multiple planes of narrative filmmaking; not just that of a stark, unadulterated realism, but that which blends tangible human experience with the emotional response and psychological mechanisms without which those experiences could not possibly be endured – memories and dreams; as alive as the cotton boll, as the whip, as the next to be lynched, but holding the promise of a way to freedom.

Another outstanding aspect of the series is the haunting soundtrack from Nicholas Britell that accompanies most every frame; conjuring an extraordinary atmosphere of foreboding, of unrelenting disquietude, of an unresolved tension between the living and the dead. As a taster, a guest essay by Scott Woods – excellent read – in today’s New York Times led me to the following on Vimeo (fifty odd minutes, so give it time); Barry Jenkins visual homage to his extended cast is augmented by Britell’s musical composition. (And, here is a wonderful NYT Magazine piece on Britell, and a close up on his collaborative creative process with Jenkins. )

Starring a cast of many from Barry Jenkin’s “The Underground Railroad, and with score by Nicholas Britell

On the Vimeo site is an informal and insightful text written by Barry Jenkins; describing the circumstances under which the accompanying film evolved during the greater film-making process. An act of seeing, and with the black gaze, a tribute to his players and the histories of all their shared ancestors. A gesture of gratitude, of respect, of love.

[…]we have sought to give embodiment to the souls of our ancestors frozen in the tactful but inadequate descriptor “enslaved,” a phrase that speaks only to what was done to them, not to who they were nor what they did. My ancestors – midwives and blacksmiths, agrarians and healers; builders and spiritualists, yearn’ers and doers – seen here as embodied by this wonderful cast of principal and background actors, did so very much. […]

Barry Jenkins, Vimeo

Jenkins may well think that should he never make another film, he has left some work of substance in his stead – I read this the other day – and, of course, that is so, but after watching and thinking about The Underground Railroad, I await, and with confidence, the realisation of that which is yet to come.

The way to go!

An opportunity to write a few words on the magnificent Mary Beard will I not turn down!

As a field of study, “Classics” was an elite pursuit even before elite was a dirty word, and certainly doesn’t have it easy in the highly competitive environment of a contemporary higher education system that focuses more on career paths and professional development than on the humanistic (and less obvious) attributes and skill-sets attached to the study of ancient “systems” and “dead” languages. How I bemoan that I had not in my youth the imagination to contemplate such a dead end journey! Alas!

In this respect, as reported in The Guardian, Mary Beard’s (upcoming) retirement gift to Cambridge University, is a thoughtful and timely contribution. Acknowledging herself its relative modesty, Professor Beard does still hope that her gesture will, beyond the specific scholarships that will be offered, encourage broader interest and ethnic and socioeconomic diversity in the subject.

The way to go, Mare! – I do say. To wit, I dare say I hear the reply: Hold your horses, my dear – I’m old not dead, and ain’t goin’ nowhere! Or however that may be said in aforesaid language long said to be dead.

A timely coincidence

5th May 1821: On this day, the publication in Manchester of the first edition of The Manchester Guardian and, on Saint Helena, the death of Napoleon Bonaparte.

Today The Guardian celebrates its 200 year anniversary – no mean feat when one considers the fragile nature of media enterprises, not just in our own time, but the struggles for survival of newspapers and periodicals from their very beginnings.

The Manchester Guardian No. 1, May 5, 1821.

The Manchester Guardian (as it was called until 1959) was founded by John Edward Taylor in the aftermath of the closure of the Manchester Observer. This more radical publication had been charged with sedition for their role in agitating for parliamentary reform and promotion of meetings on St. Peter’s Field in Manchester, that culminated in a mass gathering on 16th August 1819 during which the cavalry charged into the crowd of thousands of mostly ordinary folk protesting against economic hardship and demanding the rights of greater suffrage and representation.

A coloured print of the Peterloo Massacre published by Richard Carlile

The massacre would become known as Peterloo, a portmanteau created from the location, St. Peter’s Field, and the Battle of Waterloo that had taken place four years earlier. That battle, which marked the end of the Napoleonic Wars, was also the beginning of trade restrictions and the infamous Corn Laws in Britain that benefitted the gentry and land owners but, by raising the price of food staples, brought hardship to the working classes. Some in attendance in Manchester that day would very well have been there on those Belgian fields and participated in one of Britains greatest military victories. Just is that not.

That on the very same day as the publication of the first edition of The Manchester Guardian, that same French emperor who had been defeated at Waterloo should die (and with his boots on) on a remote island in the middle of the South Atlantic, could hardly have been expected to be reported upon – long as it was before even rudimentary undersea telegraph cable – but the coincidence would surely have later been noticed and remarked upon. [And indeed it was, following a July 14 (just had to be didn’t it!) report from Paris, on July 28, and here it is from the The Guardian archives]

Napoleon on Saint Helena, watercolor by Franz Josef Sandmann, c. 1820

And so it is, two hundred years after his death, Napoleon’s shadow still looms large in the annals of history; he continues to fascinate, for better or worse, and France still struggles to come to terms with a legacy full of contradictions. And The Guardian is still around to tell us about it.

Continue reading

A classic black out

An op-ed piece …oh! excuse me – a “guest essay”… in today’s NYT alerted me to the demise of the classics department at the renowned Howard University. Two senior academics from the university defend the decision to scrap the department against criticism from without and within; the crux of their argument falling along financial grounds but also with the assurance of Howard’s continued commitment to the humanistic tradition through other departments – English, philosophy and history – and interdisciplinary paths. And, pointedly, that a H.B.C.U. does not have the luxury of NOT having to constantly review their academic programs and their viability (read: Endowment!) This, a jab in direction of what they believe to be unreflected criticism from elite sectors and the “ivory tower”.

Founders Library, Howard University.

As Howard is the only H.B.C.U. to have a classics department, its pending loss is more than unfortunate; my flitting around (digitally speaking) in the last year or so led me to believe there to be a growing interest and presence amongst minorities and women. I recall thinking that the success of some of the books being published and movies being made, suggested a renewed attraction amongst young people to mythologies and the ancient world and the stories they had to tell, and how they may be interpreted for the contemporary world. (I guess, if not zealous college recruitment, then the spectre of student loan repayments might in the end convince that computer science or bio-tech subjects are more prudent options!) On the other hand, after four years of Trump and more than a year of Covid, it is clear that the humanities have suffered the most in attracting funding, and at Howard it may be classics that loses out but elsewhere I dare say some other program.

Related, I think, are the rising tensions and the potential for conflict in classics institutes and in academic scholarship; a lot of which has to do with politics (hijacking by the right), gender (feminist or non-gendered renderings) and race.

On the latter, this is a particularly enlightening piece by Rachel Poser in The New York Times Magazine earlier this year; ostensibly about the young Princeton academic, Dan-el Padilla Peralta, and his experience as a Black student and scholar in classics. (In this respect, his opinion on the Howard decision and the future of university classics departments in general would not be uninteresting.) But Poser’s piece, beyond the personal Padilla narrative, explores the place of classics at the foundation of Western Civilisation, and what that means for the institutionalisation of ideas of race and the supremacy of Western thought in universities. Padilla says that means inherent racism and a myopic world view. I hope that is not true. Regrettably, Howard could have had an interesting role to play in a process of renewal – in making the Classics fit not just for this century but also the next.

Woolf and Music

Following on from a previous post, and beyond The Waves, some (probably many!) others have been thinking and writing about the role played by music in Virginia Woolf’s work. And creating their own musical response.

In 2015, one of the guests on the Radio 3 program celebrating The Waves, the pianist Lana Bode, founded a collaborative concert project, Virginia Woolf & Music, with Dr Emma Sutton  from the University of St Andrews. A project that happily appears to continue. Video clips and notes from previous concerts are available on the website; for instance, embedded below a 2016 concert at the Clothworkers’ Centenary Hall at the University of Leeds.

In this post at The Conversation, the aforesaid Emma Sutton gives an interesting, plainly written appraisal of classical music being an essential element in both Woolf’s creative thought processes and the literary form of her composition. Such a worthy read, and The Conversation being so fair, that I have republished Sutton’s piece to a page on my site.

Words never fail

Sadly, many things failed Virginia Woolf, but what very rarely did, were words.

Reminded by hearing Gillian Anderson’s recitation of Virginia Woolf’s suicide note, and remembering that from Juliet Stevenson, I want to record here the only surviving recording of Woolf’s voice. Recorded on this day in 1937 for a BBC program entitled “Words Fail Me”, listening to the surviving segment through all the noise and crackle of years gone by, one can still discern the so-admired and oft commented upon sonorous quality of her voice.

Virginia Woolf, segment from Words Fail Me, BBC, April 29, 1937

The radio essay was adapted to the written form as “Craftsmanship”; collected by Leonard in the posthumous volume The Death of the Moth and other Essays (1942). There, I notice that her essay is dated as 20th April, 1937, so perhaps she wrote it up cleanly the week before, or her dating (or Leonard’s) went awry. One can presume the BBC is correct.

This and other anomalies surrounding this and other recordings and transcripts are written about here by S.N. Clarke from the Virginia Woolf Society of Great Britain.

Riding the Waves

Much has been said and written about Virginia Woolf’s 1931 novel The Waves, and as the 90th anniversary of its publication approaches, BBC Radio 3 featured on Sunday (& perhaps only available for a limited time) a programme focusing on the musical, lyrical attributes of this, perhaps her moodiest, most experimental work.

To begin with, I was intrigued by Woolf’s novel having been the inspiration behind Steve Harley’s “Riding the Waves” from 1978. That was a long time ago, and listening to it now there is a familiarity; whether because of a recognisable turn of phrase or the rhythms of Cockney Rebel I am not sure – a definite Woolf connection I remember absolutely not.

Riding the Waves, Steve Harley and Cockney Rebel

As Harley readily admits, he takes the words out of Woolf’s mouth, or rather from the pages of her novel, but it is a warm tribute to a long dead female writer who quite obviously touched the soul of a young vagabond minstrel in the wayward 70s.

Different is Max Richter’s composition XVI. The Waves: Tuesday (from Three Worlds: Music from Woolf Works, Deutsche Grammophon, 2015) that brought to an end Wayne McGregor’s 2015 ballet “Woolf Works” for The Royal Ballet. A beautiful contemporary piece that fuses elements from the classical with electronic acoustics to capture the essence of the novel – and Virginia Woolf’s life. Listen well; imagine the ebb and flow of tides, the waters lapping and seeping through sand and upon rocks, clouds scuttling across the sky above. Just like the characters in her novel as they traverse time, waves are forever in motion – rising and falling, drawing near and receding into the distance. Becoming but a memory of their former self … only to reassemble and reemerge again. A haunting reminder of time past and the promise of rebirth. Richter’s musical meditation re-imagines the rhythm of nature and life.

XVI. The Waves: Tuesday

And the prologue? Tuesday. Written in her famous hand on the upper right hand corner of that final note; known to touch even the most hardened amongst us. Beautifully spoken by Gillian Anderson, perhaps capturing the sonorous quality of Woolf’s voice that also has its place in legend.