NYT Book Review: Sylvia again!

Not Sylvia again? What more is to be said? Daphne Merkin rhetorically asks of herself. And in her review of Heather Clark’s Red Comet: The Short Life and Blazing Art of Sylvia Plath is more than pleasantly surprised; in fact, inspired to think again, delve even more into this light that burned so brightly on the literary horizon, only to be extinguished too early and to pass into the dubious category of legend.

RED COMET The Short Life and Blazing Art of SYLVIA PLATH by HEATHER CLARK, Pub. Knopf

As one, from the generation after, who fell captive to that legend others built around Sylvia Plath’s life and death, and equally so fell for the legend that she, herself, created in her only novel The Bell Jar; a work of autofiction (and written before that term existed) some would contend, and that Plath would not live to either affirm or deny. It was because of The Bell Jar and Plath’s life (and her death) that I first read her poetry – at the time I was of the age at which she was when she was writing, and remember wondering at the intellectual and emotional depth, and to this day I gladly read her again. Perhaps some would consider her work too removed from contemporary concerns, too beholden stylistically to the old, now dead, white men who dominated twentieth century poetry, but in her last works she was shedding that influence, and I ask: was the beating heart and yearning soul of a young woman in the 1950s really so different to now?

Merkin’s review convinces me that there is more to know – of Plath’s life; of Aurelia and Otto, and always there the complications of Ted (after more recent revelations and denials, I didn’t think I wanted to go there again either!), and her art and her legacy.

Yes, Sylvia again! Or, still. Another, for my must read.

Amongst the great lives, one very great life

John Maynard Keynes

Most people take the economical way to Keynes! Not so me – rather, beyond name recognition, my introduction to one of the greatest economists of the 20th century came via the Woolfs, in whose lives and amongst the other brilliant players in “Bloomsbury”, Maynard Keynes played a significant role. Love it that the young British playwright, James Graham, should choose him as a “great life” in the BBC Radio 4 “Great Lives” series. I hope he retains his enthusiasm, for what great stuff there is in this life – for theatre or for film!

When new translations sound old

In the LRB Conversations podcast series, Emily Wilson discusses her recent piece in the London Review of Books (8 October 2020) (restricted access) on three (relatively) new translations of Aeschylus’ The Oresteia. One would have to say, mixed reviews; Wilson of the opinion that all fail to adequately reflect newer scholarship in respect to the state of democracy and justice in fifth-century Athens, and how that is reflected in the language of tragedy and specifically that of Aeschylus. She concludes the Oliver Taplin translation to be much the better of the three (though his introduction disappoints), and she recommends also that of Sarah Ruden (in The Greek Plays: Sixteen Plays by Aeschylus, Sophocles, and Euripides, 2017 Modern Library Classics).

Aeschylus’ Ghosts
Emily Wilson and Thomas Jones

Emphasised is the misunderstanding of the breadth of the feted Athenian model of state – a “democracy” that applied in fact only to a very limited constituency and only a handful removed from an oligarchy, and where a majority of the populous had absolutely nothing to say. In this regard, there are through the ages analogies aplenty – countries who adopt “Democratic” to their name and are quite obviously not is one example – but I specifically thought about the language of the Declaration of Independence and the Constitution of the United States in which that insinuated by “men” and “people” abounded with obvious exceptions – gender, race – until the last half of the 20th century, and less obviously – through disenfranchisement – still.

My thoughts flying to the young America, are echoed in the turn of conversation to the performative aspects of Greek tragedy, whereupon it is suggested that “Hamilton”, with its use of music and dance (and I would say the “state” folklore it serves) is perhaps the best modern analogue to classical Greek drama. In retrospect, I often wonder whether Athenian statecraft and European puritanism may have always been an imperfect mix upon which to build the foundations of a new nation.

More than once, the difficulty factor of Aeschylus is stipulated to be at the higher end – though in the course of the trilogy it moderates. Should one be deterred or accept the gauntlet handed down?

An interesting afterword: Emily Wilson, referring to her translation of The Odyssey, reveals a little of her criteria for (re-) translation (one of the reasons behind her criticisms of the above): first comes the request (in her case from an editor at Norton, with whom she had previously worked), but then a careful deliberation as to whether it is warranted, and what new stuff, if any, there is to brought to the fore, and her decision being further informed by her experience as a teacher of college students in the US. And, particularly she was convinced of the need for a new translation that returned to the metrical and syntactical rhythm of the ancient text, after years of versions rendered in prose form. Further, she recognised the opportunity to present a work that moved away from a purely Odysseus centred telling and gave the story in many voices, as multi-faceted, if you like, as the hero himself.

And, an after, afterword: Emily Wilson mentions at the very end of the podcast, that her Iliad translation will include Book 10 which, unbeknownst to me (well, who would have thunk it!), has been a matter of controversy over the years; the essence of the argument being that this book was a later addition and to be, therefore, discarded by the purist. The Stephen Mitchell translation, that does just that and to which Wilson refers, was reviewed at The New Yorker in 2011 by Daniel Mendelsohn.

When the next time is now

“The Fire This Time” ed. by Jesmyn Ward (2016)

Recently, I enjoyed very much picking my way through this 2016 selection edited by Jesmyn Ward; someone I have been truly thrilled to discover in recent years. Presumptuous of me perhaps, but I think I have read enough of Ward’s work and garnered enough information about some of the known aspects of her life, to understand her concerns as a writer and how her identity as a Black Southern woman is the beating heart of her creative output.

A project that came out of Jesmyn Ward’s anger and frustration, not just at the 2012 killing of Trayvon Martin (to whom amongst many she dedicates the book) but long simmering within from the violent deaths of young black men close, very close, to her. Collected are some of the voices of a generation of Black writers, in the middle of life like herself, who articulate in their own personal and creative way their anger, their fear, their grief, but never without hope. Her introduction expands upon her motivation and intentions, and is a valuable piece in and of itself.

Ward makes a further contribution of her own in an essay called “Cracking the Code”, which is a very interesting appraisal of her personal genealogy and is, in itself, exemplary of the intricacies of race and how it manifests over generations; not just biologically but in the stories told and assumptions made. Now, given her roots in the Mississippi delta, Ward knew enough from family lore to surmise a broad mix – African, Native American, Creole, European – but the results of a 23andMe test gave her pause for thought. Strongly identifying as Black all her life, and that it surely followed that her ancestry must lay predominately on the African continent, Ward was momentarily taken aback when the analysis in fact concluded her to be of thirty odd percent sub-Saharan African ancestry and in fact forty odd percent European. The discrepancy is relatively small, but it bothered her. Who am I?

But it was only a momentary distraction, for Ward then rationalises genetic information to be that which it is, one piece only of the puzzle – just as relevant, or more so, is the familial, societal, cultural history that formed her and which she embraces (and which embraces her back). Nor does she throw the baby out with the bath water, so to speak – Heaney, Larkin, Harry Potter amongst others are more than welcome still in Jesmyn’s world. (And, Doctor Who! The Doctor? I ain’t ever met a Doctor fan that I didn’t like – even if my original Doctor is of an earlier regeneration.)

Also, and she doesn’t mention this, but any DNA databank is dependent on input, and is always expanding, and as time goes on that affects the analysis parameters. Should Jesmyn have another test now, some years on, she would almost certainly find that again she is not exactly that whom she thought she was. In some ways, the reading of the code, if not the code itself, is as fluid as the greater identity of any person through a lifetime.

The Odyssey (10): Books 17 – 18

A Beggar’s Banquet

A mask may easily enough be dropped - 
oft by design, and sometimes not.
When the former; that revealed 
just that which was intended.
And, when the latter; a face is shown,
alas that better left unknown.

- Anne Dromache, October 3rd 2020

Oh, what a thing would it be
should every Beggar's Banquet be
every bit fit enough for a king -
(or better still a queen!)
What when the art of Gastfreundshaft:
simple kindness and fine manner;
conducted in kind and manner likewise,
and no matter one's stand in life -
nor the given or guessed circumstance.

- Anne Dromache, October 3rd 2020

book 17: insults and abuse

pp. 386-407

As Telemachus sets off to the palace where his mother awaits him, Odysseus returns to his disguise as he furthers his plot against the suitors. Heading into town with Eumaeus, he soon discovers that not everyone will treat an old, impoverished beggar with the respect and kindness accorded to him by Eumaeus and in his first meeting with his son.

Firstly, the goatherd Melanthius, in cohorts now with the suitors, maligns and assaults him, and then at the palace he is ridiculed by the suitors, and most especially Antinous who will not even give him some meagre food scraps. Odysseus learns the hard way that there is hospitality for some, and only hostility for others.

Some interesting interludes. Again – a dog. But this time the reaction is different; the old stray, once Odysseus’ favourite puppy Argos, and now neglected and dying, sees behind the guise to his first master from twenty years before. What happens to a dog’s soul in those bare moments between the joy of recognition and death? And, as he stands at the portal of his house, his palace, momentarily Odysseus is so overwhelmed that, in describing so precisely the layout, he almost reveals himself to Eumaeus – who registers surprise at the old beggar’s familiarity with this place, but puts it down to gifts of observation.

In the midst of the raucous feasting, Penelope is made aware of the continued bad behaviour of all those young men seeking her favour, and their treatment of an old man who had travelled from afar and wanted only a morsel to stem his hunger. That he should have heard of Odysseus and his fate, does she wonder, and ask of Eumaeus. She must now seek counsel with this stranger.

book 18: two beggars

pp. 408-423

Even beggars have a place to defend, and as medieval knights may duel on a question of honour, so must a beggar fight for the meagre favours that may be tossed his way. And Odysseus must now contest his right to be tolerated on the fringes; and do so against the beggar Irus, and cajoled by the suitors with an appetite for blood equal only to that for dripping roasted meats. Strangely, the suitors are taken aback, but no more, at the gladiatorial muscles revealed beneath the rags of the bedraggled old man, and his victory gives Odysseus the opportunity to warn the best amongst the suitors, Amphinomus, that he should find a reason to depart, for bloody times lie ahead. Alas, the die is cast. Amphinomus never had a choice.

Penelope, as an instrument to Athena’s scheme, makes herself impossibly glam, and with seductive gestures enters the banquet fray. With promises of a forthcoming decision on whom she will favour with her self, Penelope coerces an abundance of gifts and treasure. Something which impresses the attentive Odysseus no end! Not so the behaviour of the slave girls, earning only his displeasure – and one fears they too will pay a price.

Tempers are frayed amongst all gathered, but Telemachus displays an acumen of which his father would be proud, and after final drinks are drunk each of those doomed suitors is called by the promise of warm bed and sleep.

Out of the closet, from under the bed …

…and into the light of day. Gifted now to Charleston, an extraordinary collection of erotic works by Duncan Grant; and as explained in this BBC News video clip:

Produced during the 1940s and 50s, the more than four hundred works were given by Grant to his close friend and fellow artist Edward Le Bas (here some biographical details at Charleston, and here some of his work at the Tate) in 1959, and after Le Bas’ death in 1966 presumed to be lost. We now know, they just moved on; changing hands, ending up about eleven years ago with the theatre designer Norman Coates, and it is he whom is to be thanked for providing for this interesting addition to the complicated artistic legacy surrounding the Bloomsbury Group.

It also says something, and one tends to forget, about just how very recently it is that society (and not just British) has changed such that homoerotic works, like Grant’s drawings, may be openly shared without fear of legal repercussions or gasps of outrage.

How political can Black be?

Identity, very real yet permanently theorised upon; the reflection in the mirror or thoughts in the head, the heated arguments, the terminology, and beyond – who is what and who says, variance in usage and acceptability over time and from nation to nation; all this and more is almost impossible to escape these days, and just when one is convinced to be almost on top of it, or given up in despair, there it is again demanding to be considered again. For me, at least, that state arises again this time in reading an opinion article in The New York Times by Kwame Anthony Appiah; throwing a spanner in the works again.

Springing from an ongoing debate, some of it fair, and some provocative purely for the sake of provocation (this ranging from the mischievous to the malevolent) about the correct nomenclature when in comes to US Vice-Presidential candidate, Kamala Harris, born in California to an Indian mother and a Jamaican father, Appiah’s thoughtful piece returns half-way home (for him) to the United Kingdom, where ethnicity has been historically approached differently and the matter much more black and white (my pun is intended), to construe his argument.

Appiah describes the “political Blackness” ideology, rooted in the early nineteen seventies and finding legitimacy at the latest in the eighties, and in the wake of recommendations from the Commission for Racial Equality; whereby Asians were officially categorised as Black. (In terms of Britain, important is that here we are talking predominately about South Asians – i.e. Indians, Pakistanis, etc. dispersed in the wake of Partition and the aftermath – whereas in America one would understand “Asian” to refer to those of East Asian, e.g. Chinese, Japanese, Korean or Southeast Asian, for instance, Vietnamese, descent.) While historically and unofficially, Black people were always seen to be anyone who was not absolutely white, that categorisation was then embraced by many in minority communities that were not sub-Saharan or from the African diaspora.

Under the “umbrella” of their Blackness, it is easy enough to understand that its proponents envisaged power, not only in numbers, but shared experiences and just grievances, mostly extending from the remnants of Empire and colonisation. It is also clear: there are disadvantages inherent in claiming too “big a church” for too “diverse a congregation” (my unoriginal metaphors). Appiah also agues on the point of the immense range of internal diversity; cultural and religious (e.g. consider alone India: Hindu, Muslim, Sikh, etc., languages and dialects ad infinitum, socio-economic status and caste) that further complicate sympathies and allegiances.

Today the project still remains highly contentious – for every example of mutuality sought there is at least another of repudiation and offence. But, as an “idea” of inclusivity, it is not dead and that is something.

Sympathy for … “Jack”

Did I not say I wasn’t going to read any more reviews on Jack? But, when it is from Hermione Lee in the New York Review of Books and is titled: “Sympathy for the Devil”, what can I say? Must be read. Lee, wonderfully I think, fixes this new novel in the midst of the greater oeuvre of Marilynne Robinson’s work, foremostly the other “Gilead” books (which she revisits) but not only, and encapsulates, what for me is the essence of Robinson’s writing: her singular way of grasping the ephemeral in the every day, loading them with grace and kindness, then giving them permanence in the greater human narrative.

Elaine Showalter’s review in The New York Times (as pleaded for, I did get another, a better, review from NYT!) is not as extensive nor does it assiduously reference Robinson’s past works or comments, but obviously she read the same book as Hermione Lee; right down to Prince of Darkness metaphors.

Finally, a couple of general points: Lee and Showalter do seem to agree that this new novel would be difficult to appreciate outside of the context of the previous three in the series, and both remain unconvinced as to why Della is prepared to forsake so much for Jack’s sake. In respect to the latter, Showalter makes a plea for the another instalment – and for it to be called “Della”!