Surprised by the Wikipedia “Picture of the Day” on this Christmas Day, and on my phone this morning; for the real thing, so to speak, is known to me, and to be viewed just a very few kilometres away from where I live in Germany. The picture depicts one of the panels of Hans Pleydenwurff’s “Dreikönigs” altar piece in the famous medieval St. Lorenz church in the heart of Nuremberg.
Panel from the “Dreikönigsaltar” (the Magi), Hans Pleydenwurff, mid-15th century, St. Lorenz, Nuremberg.
Reminded me also, and not gladly so, of one of my plans earlier in the year that went awry, and that was to visit Ghent to see Jan Van Eyck’s restored altar piece in St. Bavo’s Cathedral, and a greater exhibition of his works at the Museum of Fine Art. Alas. For the moment at least, here is a visual tour of the exhibition that was forced to close early. And, a lot has been written about it, and especially the “mystic lamb” – for instance, here at the NYT, and by Jonathan Jones at The Guardian.
Looking again at some of Van Eyck’s work, and other early Netherlandish painters, elements from that school can be discerned in Pleydenwurff’s work; just a generation on and in southern Germany.
And, to my mind anyway, a most finely wrought tribute to this exquisite gem. Mrs. Dalloway is modest in length and deceptively so in ambition, yet Michael Cunningham identifies its epic character and its grandeur that I too have for so long admired; how within a rigorous time frame of just one day and through the eyes of one woman, Woolf’s novel expands out into time and space and allows memory to work its magic; to magnify and enhance, and to expose the true largesse of life, right there all the time in the apparently ordinary – just waiting to be discovered.
For some time, I have been very much wanting to write something about Mrs. D., but Cunningham’s essay is so good, and says so many of the things I would like to say, and so much better, that … Enough! I refuse to be deterred! Rather, inspired to add my bit to the multitudes.
“Great Lives” on BBC Radio 4is a long favourite programme, though these days I often miss the scheduled broadcast and listen to it as a podcast. It doesn’t often disappoint, and this concerning Frank Ramsey was no exception.
“Great Lives” BBC Radio 4 – Frank Ramsey
Matthew Parris, the presenter, was momentarily taken aback with David Spiegelhalter’s nomination; admitting to not having heard of Ramsey. I wouldn’t like to be the one to raise my eyebrows, for only in recent times has this short, brilliant life come to my attention, but Parris has encountered an associated other, Ludwig Wittgenstein, in both his own academic life at Cambridge; as an insurmountable hurdle, he says, and amongst previous “great lives”. And, I would have thought, any investigation into Wittgenstein’s life would have somehow thrown up Ramsey.
Re-listening to that 2011 broadcast, Ramsey is indeed not mentioned, but I guess in thirty minutes only so much can be said. I am surprised though; for as I understand it, the young Ramsey, took some time out from a heady Viennese sojourn to act as an emissary of sorts (at the behest of Maynard Keynes amongst others), to visit Wittgenstein in the provinces of Austria in 1923; spent some time with him, gained his trust (not an easy thing!), translated the Tractatus into English, and eventually played an important role in finally enticing Wittgenstein back to Cambridge in 1929.
This is by no means meant to be derogatory of either “Great Lives” or Matthew Parris, in fact I enjoy the program very much, and along the way I have discovered an extraordinary gallery of people. Granted, some have, to my mind, been grotesque – like Mussolini (a minor scandal that selection was a few months ago!), and some trivial – confusing a life to be celebrated with that of celebrity. And, in this special edition, Parris does contemplate the very subjective nature of defining adequately what exactly a “great life” is.
But generally speaking, an enlightening interlude – whether on radio or as podcast on various platforms – that may be light on answers, but very often suggests questions.
Reading and discussion of Aeschylus’ Agamemnon (translation by Oliver Taplin)
Above, as an example, Aeschylus’ Agamemnon, which I note uses the Oliver Taplin translation that Emily Wilson spoke of here. And, Mr. Taplin is in fact a guest (approx. 22:00), and has some interesting things to say about translation and performance – in general and in respect to the Oresteia in particular.
A reading of the Odyssey is of course never over; for me, after a concentrated yearlong effort, it is at the moment in abeyance, but surely to be returned to. For many others, their journey may just be beginning, and this recent project from Harvard’s Centre for Hellenic Studies could be an interesting starting point.
24 hour reading of the 24 books of “The Odyssey” – performed December 8-9 2020
Former NYT star critic, Michiko Kakutani, makes a return to talk with Barack Obama about A Promised Land – the book and all the books that led to it, and the land, and all the promises it makes – sometimes fulfilling them and just as often not. One could say her piece (based on an extended telephone conversation) confirms what one already knows about Obama’s intellectual and literary influences, but it does also reveal a few new things. For instance, about his method of writing – not a disciplined keeper of a diary, rather a collector of fragmentary anecdotes; digitally inclined when it comes to research; very analogue – legal pad and favourite pen – when it comes to the writing.
In her opening paragraph, Kakutani refers to A Promised Land as being, beyond the expected historical record, also “an introspective self-portrait”. Perhaps, not exactly the same thing, but Chimamanda Ngozie Adichie, in fact missed “true self-revelation” and bemoaned Obama’s (too) cool detachment. Nor does Kakutani insinuate any discomfort with his handling of race issues, unlike Adichie who is frustrated by what she identifies as his tendency towards misplaced evenhandedness. But, then, Kakutani is not writing a critique. What they both do agree on, though, is the fineness of the prose and the pleasure of the reading experience, and the service done in giving an enthralling account of an extraordinary (too) few years.
Any hesitancy I may initially have had about diving into such a meaty tome – fearing somewhat the insider policy-speak that comes with most political memoirs – was quickly assuaged. Obama talks to us! Every other passage, every turn of phrase, one may well imagine coming from his lips – just without the ums and ahs! The complexities of politics are so well packaged in familiar real world scenarios, and without a preponderance of technical jargon, that they should be understandable to most, and, more importantly perhaps, are embedded in the common warmth of a life being lived.
Asked about what he is reading now, I am absolutely unsurprised that Obama has turned, amongst other things, to Jack for some respite. It would not need me to bring to his attention the significance of his return to Marilynne Robinson’s “Gilead” opus just now; the first story of which had accompanied him as he traipsed around Iowa in 2007, at the beginning of an odyssey that could have led nowhere, but instead to the highest echelons of power. Did he ever imagine that the (once) “bright radical star” of the Union would play such an important role in his life?
Granted, I must confess, I am only a couple of hundred pages in – chronologically speaking, the first weeks of his presidency – and as one unable to confine myself to just one Lektüre at a time, I do have some reading ahead of me, but I look forward every day to a bit more. And, I will most definitely have more to say.
Child or man or woman; all, at journey's end - be it of just one day, or many, or of a lifetime - a well-worn bed awaits; of warm feather or of cold board. Shared with those loved, out of fealty, or some casual convenience, or necessity - or alone like the dead.
- Anne Dromache, December 10th 2020
Book 23: The olive tree bed
pp. 494-506
Penelope is no man’s fool – this she wants us to know. Sheltered from the carnage of the previous hours, and confronted now with the news of her husband’s return, whatever sympathies she may have towards this stranger, she tempers with caution, even suspicion. The years of estrangement have taught many lessons, and wariness of the motivations of others amongst them. And patience she has learnt. Long has she waited, she can wait some more – and be this truly Odysseus, he can too!
Embedded in the midst
of hallowed chamber,
Entwined the branches
of olive or of oak.
Sturdy, immutable.
A sign - of knowledge
and Nature's fidelity.
Anne Dromache, December 15th 2020
Penelope looks for a sign of truth from this man, who, scrubbed up by Athena, now even looks like Odysseus; some sign that only he and she share. And, it occurs to her, that it is there to be found in their marriage bed; for it is embedded in the very centre of their bed-chamber, a living reminder and an immutable sign of their union. Only Odysseus could know its secret. The recognition is complete. Together they weep and they sleep, and Penelope hears all; of the odyssey that will define her husband until the end of days.
book 24: restless spirits
pp. 507-525
It’s never over until it’s over – or until the end of song. And our singer can not resist an encore in the House of Hades – even the suitors deserve choral accompaniment as they exit life’s stage. And, should one listen carefully, one may well hear Agamemnon and Achilles in earnest exchange: each having found the end they deserved. And, for Agamemnon, the wife he deserved; unlike the bold Odysseus who, in the fair Penelope, one loyal and true.
As with his son, it remains now for Odysseus to be reunited with his father, Laertes. Remaining true to himself – how could it be otherwise – this too must he make complicated. There is no joyous greeting – no, not from Odysseus! – rather, another devised twist in the plot. Gladly, brief this diversion, for faced with a grieving father’s tears, the legendary gift of deceit deserts him and a son is revealed; and bitter tears turn sweet.
…Oh, and Zeus and Athena make arrangements, as they so often do, such that the strife on Ithaca finds, too, its end. With a minimum (!) of collateral damage as three generations stand side by side in a last bloody hurrah, a truce of sorts is parleyed; vengeful thoughts and deeds are put on hold. Forever? Or, until some fateful day, when the gods come out again to play?
Listening to BBC Radio 4 this morning, as I mostly do, and with various degrees of attention, I caught up with, for the first time in quite a while, Melvyn Bragg’s long running cultural programme “In Our Time” – the topic: Fernando Pessoa. This, a name, ringing somehow familiar, but hard to place. May I be forgiven my ignorance, for he is a man of many names – just check out this impressive list of heteronyms! Now somewhat enlightened, I will surely dedicate some attention to him (or them!). On the programme website are a number of references, that may offer a good start.
As is often the case with me, one thing often leads to another. In the process of googling Pessoa, a link was returned to a NYT Q & A interview with the academic André Aciman from last year; in which (amongst other things) he names Pessoa’s The Book of Disquiet as “the last great book” that he had read.
Skimming through the piece further, I was immediately distracted – irritated would be a better description – by Aciman’s assertion that Mrs. Dalloway is overrated – neither “gripping” nor “interesting”, he states – and badly written! Each to his own, I could say; reading after all is a very subjective activity. That Mrs. Dalloway doesn’t interest him, well so be it; though one is tempted to presume that he doesn’t know terribly much about her person nor her writing life and how they intersected to produce her fiction, for should he do so, Mrs. Dalloway could not help but enthral. But that a literary scholar would fail to recognise the consistent quality of Virginia Woolf’s prose surprises me. I mean to say, Woolf’s hastily scribbled asides to herself (diary) or others (letters) are mostly always druckreif – whether fragmentary gems of observation or gossipy meanderings. And her fiction, absolutely so, even when structurally imperfect or not to her satisfaction.
What is interesting, and probably unbeknownst to Aciman, is that some of the names he drops (we won’t count Proust – of whom he is an expert and Woolf a devotee) were likewise people of interest also to Virginia Woolf a long time ago.
Firstly, Dorothy Strachey. Yes, one of the Stracheys! But I couldn’t think which, and then realised that Woolf always referred to her by her married name of Dorothy Bussy.
Sons and daughters of Sir Richard and Lady Strachey. Left to right: Marjorie, Dorothy, Lytton, Joan Pernel, Oliver, Dick, Ralph, Philippa, Elinor, James.
Woolf’s first reference to Dorothy appears to be in a diary entry on Saturday 14 June 1919; made upon visiting with her (and her sister-in-law Ray Strachey) in Hampstead and, as all the Strachey family, she will turn up again over the years in Woolf’s diary and correspondence. Bussy’s only novel, Olivia (1949), cited by Aciman – a lesbian schoolgirl narrative; an experience it is presumed she is not unfamiliar with – was in fact published by Hogarth Press, albeit eight years after Woolf’s death, and was dedicated (or so says Wikipedia) “to the very dear memory of Virginia W.” I should say, Aciman says “nothing happens” in the novel he recommends, but unlike the dull Mrs. Dalloway that seems enough. Further, a new Penguin Classics edition was published in June, in which he writes an introduction, and one wonders whether he approached Penguin or vice versa, and whether a little bit of marketing wasn’t going on here. Just a suggestion. Irrespective, any Strachey interests me, so I certainly intend to read Olivia; now credited to Dorothy Strachey. Thanks for the tip, Mr. Aciman! (My tip: the Vintage UK edition is a bit cheaper, at least on Amazon outside the US.)
And in the same segment, Mr. Aciman announces the virtues of another great “unread” – La Princess de Clèves by Madame de La Fayette – Woolf loved this, though she only wrote about it in passing – in her “On Rereading” essay for instance. In my reading notes of Volume 2 of Woolf’s diary I make reference to her February 18 1922 entry, and include an excerpt which clearly illustrates her enthusiasm for La Princess. Though, I am not that sure, it is is as so “unread” as Aciman suggests – certainly not in France, and I thought it to be also well known in wider feminist literature studies. Fortunately, for the interested, La Princess de Clèvesis easily found on the internet.
Finally, Aciman’s favourite book to assign students. Here, he nominates Laurence Sterne’s A Sentimental Journey, for which Virginia Woolf wrote an introduction for the 1928 Oxford World’s Classics edition (also included in The Common Reader Second Series), and which begins with her observation that maturity grants a writer certain privileges – with language and composition. I make the observation that at the time this essay was written, being just a couple of years after Mrs. Dalloway was published, Woolf was of an age such that she too had granted herself permission to be messy – to write what was in head; messy, as I said. It is a riddle to me how Sterne can be so admired and not Woolf. Maybe it is only Mrs. Dalloway that Aciman dislikes; but why do I think otherwise? He didn’t qualify his verdict, but Woolf certainly possessed some prejudicial traits that are not easy to disregard by everyone.
