Hallelujah! Something to look forward to still! (The truth is, look hard enough, and there is more than enough!) Some time ago I blogged on the confirmation of another Gilead novel from Marilynne Robinson, and schedule-wise not much has changed in the interim – what after all is a couple of weeks in these trying times! But it does now indeed have a cover – and, it seems, an author’s name typeset to the same dimension as the title. Presumably “Marilynne Robinson” sells! And so she should!
“Jack” by Marilynne Robinson, pub. Farrar, Straus and Giroux.
In any old time I would be awaiting this book, but the circumstances and constraints, under which we are at the moment so struggling, particularly cries out for the grace and quiet and fortitude that emanate from Robinson’s prose.
A startling, comparative photographic study at The New York Times! Inspired by the solitude and deserted streets of a city under lockdown, the photographer Mauricio Lima has returned to the scenes of Eugène Atget‘s Paris of a century ago. Startling is; how ever much things change, devoid of the human factor, it is that which endures, in essence unchanged, that comes to the fore. One is invited to consider the act of habitation as a continuum, as bringing with it responsibilities – for the place in and of itself, for its history and its future, and for all the generations who have and will occupy that space.
Atget’s work is perhaps familiar to many from nostalgic postcards or illustrations, and I probably also similarly first encountered his work; one is tempted to think it a feat unto itself how Paris has been able to spin images that suggest melancholy and desolation to enhance itsimage as the city of lights, lovers …! Rather contrary sensual perceptions, but perhaps there-in lay the abiding allure of these photographs; they capture the essence of an urban landscape, and that in turn captivates the human heart.
…the incomparable significance of Atget, who, around 1900, took photographs of deserted Paris streets. It has quite justly been said of him that he photographed them like scenes of crime. The scene of a crime, too, is deserted; it is photographed for the purpose of establishing evidence. With Atget, photographs become standard evidence for historical occurrences, and acquire a hidden political significance. They demand a specific kind of approach; free-floating contemplation is not appropriate to them. They stir the viewer; he feels challenged by them in a new way.
from part VI of “The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction”, Walter Benjamin, 1936.
In my opinion a remarkably accurate analogy, for Atget has with almost forensic rigour extricated place from its human constraints, assiduously excavating the remnants, giving them every subjective advantage, and thereby humanising them.
A few years ago, an old worn paperback came to my attention at my local library’s bazaar -costing all but nothing, I was momentarily taken aback because I knew of it’s legend status amongst aficionados of the history and art of photography, but then kindly took it off their hands!
Cover of “Atget Paris”
Portrait of Atget, by Berenice Abbott, 1927
IVe Quartier Notre Dame
From my copy of “Atget Paris”, Eugène Atget, ed. Hazan
On any one of my next flânerie, be the streets deserted as they may, I’ll look again and differently, and see how rich they are in hidden humanity – and wonder at how the eye can deceive and all that exposed by a technical apparatus in the right hands.
Like many I dare say, every morning’s turn to the news in whatever medium is pretty much like the last; so dominated has our life become by the Corona spook. How I have wished in recent times for the headlines to be replaced by something else, and in some vague hope that would mean the worst was over. And now it transpires, and I think of the old adage: don’t dare wonder when you get what you wish for!
Here, I am speaking of the despicable – and racist – treatment and death of George Floyd at the hands of (quote unquote) “law enforcement” in Minneapolis last week, and the aftermath of righteous and self-righteous outrage, tributes paid and retribution called for, violence countered with …violence. Michelle Goldberg’s column at The New York Times collates the American experiences of the last months and years to describe a nation in “free fall”, as a “tinderbox” – metaphors that seem absolutely appropriate. And if one is not troubled enough, Goldberg links to a Bellingcat report on a nefarious movement that is harnessing all the digital tools out there to agitate for …what? At the very least social disquiet, or better still it seems some sort of post-modern civil war.
Then this other bizarre event in Central Park – Cooper vs. Cooper: black man vs. white woman, birdwatcher vs. dog-walker. Christian and Amy: in common, a surname, but separated by race and an assumption of white privilege. Contrary to the Floyd incident, and to any number of other such in recent times, one could say this one ended well. One could also say, that in its very strangeness – that is, not a brutal murder – it offers a potent and succinct micro-narrative of how the power dynamic of an inherent racism operates, and the long way ahead for America still.
Having caused its damage – physically, psychologically, economically … have I forgotten something?… – a virus will retreat or even disappear, and my trust in good science and good politics is such that I expect reasonable interventions in a reasonable time to mitigate the situation. But this other stuff? In my opinion, that which is simmering in our societies, and not just in America, and not since yesterday, and often under the guise of “freedom” or “liberty”, is more toxic than any naturally evolving infection could ever be. To further the metaphor, I worry that the boiling point will creep upon us and bring the pot to overflowing. I like hot chocolate and know too well the mess a few inattentive moments may lead to.
For a virus have I zero angst, only the wish to maintain a respectful distance; for the widening gap and intractability between societal groups – a.k.a. racism, but not only – and the growing fragility of institutional structures I am not so sure.
It is only now, urged by Alcinous, that Odysseus reveals his identity and to tell of the trials and tribulations that befell him and his men upon leaving Troy to find their way back home – of the complicated journey befitting a complicated man – and as willed by Zeus. With Book 9 begins the Apologoi – the story within a story.
Book 9: A pirate in a Shepherd’s Cave
pp. 240-258
So Odysseus tells his Phaeacian hosts, and still not without some pride, of his deeds of piracy, of the brutal sacking of the land of the Circones and the men he lost (through his own recklessness), of storms at sea and a land of seductive lotus fruit tempting his men from their mission of “getting home”.
And then the land of the Cyclops! And Polyphemus – a radical shepherd if ever there was one; a man-eater who tends his flock with care. The cunning Odysseus out tricks this giant, one-eyed son of Poseidon, but only after Polyphemus has feasted on some of his crew, and with the help of wine and sheep and a play with words. Not satisfied with the clever escape he manoeuvres, Odysseus can not leave well enough alone, and taunts the vanquished Polyphemus. Does he know not that he risks the further ire of Poseidon? A little bit too clever for his own good is our hero.
Book 10: The Winds and the witch
pp. 259-278
Odysseus continues his tale of woe upon the high seas – next stop the island of Aeolus and his incestuous familial troupe! But they treat the visiting humans well for one month, and send them on their way with a gift of winds – to be used wisely. Odysseus though neglects to share the secret with his crew who, after the affair with the Cyclops, are becoming more and more suspicious of their leader, and prying open the bag they let free all the winds; hurtling again their ships off course and then back to whence they had begun. Aeolus is impressed not at all and drove them away from the island, leaving them to their fate. For now that fate is Laestrygonia – a land of cannibalistic giants who slaughter then feast upon many, and only Odysseus’ ship can escape.
And the winds blew, and they came to rest in Aeaea, the home of the goddess Circe. With potions and wand she weaves her dark magic and one half of the crew become “pigs in a pen”! But Hermes to the rescue! His intervention save Odysseus and his men, and they spend a year in an uneasy truce with the goddess and her promise to help them find their way home. But, as ever on this odyssey, nothing is ever as easy as it seems and the book ends with Odysseus’ telling of Circe’s instruction that they first must go down to Hades to consult with the spirit of Tiresias; but their descent is preceded by that of the youngest of them, Elpenor; falling as he does to a most untimely (and prophetic) death.
Reading and writing a little in my continuous Virginia Woolf project (s), this 1920 diary entry had me looking about for more information on the classicist Janet Case, and led me to an academic journal article from 1982 which I liked so much that I include the JSTOR link here. (Alley, Henry M. “A Rediscovered Eulogy: Virginia Woolf’s ‘Miss Janet Case: Classical Scholar and Teacher.’” Twentieth Century Literature, vol. 28, no. 3, 1982, pp. 290–301. JSTOR, www.jstor.org/stable/441180. Accessed 23 May 2020.) Henry M. Alley’s piece written following the discovery of Woolf’s 1937 eulogy, says multitudes about both women; the conflicts between generations, the choices made, the hurdles surmounted and sometimes not.
An anomaly, by virtue of her sex, at Cambridge at the end of the 19th century, the extraordinary young classics scholar, found her way into The Cambridge Greek Play (mentioned by Woolf in her eulogy), and that I can’t help but notice was first presented in 1882, the year of Virginia Woolf’s birth. And, one doesn’t have to go back to the Antique or Renaissance for evidence of the possessive hand men still held upon theatre and the classics, for her appearance seems to have been an exception – or at least a misunderstanding!
…in the Eumenides of 1885, the part of Athena was played by a woman, Miss J.E. Case, who had made her mark as Electra in an enterprising production of Sophocles’ play a the new Girton College in November 1883 […] despite her acclaimed success no woman featured again until 1950 …
Janet Elizabeth Case became Virginia Woolf’s (or more precisely Virginia Stephen’s) Greek tutor in 1902, and over time her role evolved beyond that of intellectual mentor and into one as confidante and friend. Case entered the young Virginia’s life at a chaotic time; when her mental state was fragile, and into a dysfunctional familial and domestic situation, fraught by grief and power struggles. Obviously Case’s learnedness and intellectual rigour would have impressed, and her lessons would have offered some structure and discipline to her pupil’s often tortured days, but she may also have exemplified for Virginia an alternative life model of what a woman could be – a notion that was taking form in the stifling atmosphere of her Father’s house, and which was to become an essential component of her work and how she lived her life.
As the years passed, the relationship between the two women became complicated variously by age, tradition, expectation and circumstance, but in The London Times 22 July 1937 obituary (reprinted at the end of Alley’s article), the respectful tribute Woolf pens to her old tutor and friend, could be no finer, no more generous in spirit. For the older Woolf had long ceased craving the approval of her old teacher (or just about anyone else for that matter!), was confident enough in her fame and the literary route chosen, and was no longer tormented by petty irritations and jealousies. And she knew then what the younger had not, of the burden of intractability brought on simply by the years lived – of being ‘set in one’s ways’ – for they now were upon her. What remained for Woolf were the ideas sown and lessons learnt long ago, that were essential to the writer she became – and an appreciation for their giver. So, then, was the profound personal loss she felt for Miss Janet Case – the tutor who showed her the way to the Greeks – and without the grammar!
such and such, …” – how often I have started a sentence so; inconsistently placing a hyphen, as in ‘re-reading’, or sometimes not – how then delighted I am by reading this essay written by Larry McMurtry in The New York Review of Books in 2005. (The NYRB is showing a great kindness of late by heavily digging into their archives, but available for only a limited period I would suggest.)
Referring to Leonard Woolf’s autobiography, McMurtry says:
[…Woolf…] records that his widowed mother, Marie Woolf, got herself a copy of Dr. Johnson’s Rasselas, kept it by her bedside, and reread it “dozens of times.” …As one who has so far failed to make it through Rasselas even once, I consider Marie Woolf’s devotion to the book a matter worth pondering. […Should what WooIf said be true …]—Marie Woolf was probably the world’s biggest fan of Rasselas, […as I…] might claim to be the world’s biggest fan of Slowly Down the Ganges, a wonderful travel book by Eric Newby, which I have been rereading more or less continuously since 1965.
And does then go on to ponder whether rereaders generally have the “one book fetish” he shares with Marie Woolf, or are more inclined to reread over a greater range. Anthony Powell and Shakespeare, but a thing for The Sun also Rises (humanising him, says McMurtry). Kenneth Clark and Ruskin, but Clark takes a shortcut and edits a collection (presumably including his favourites), always to keep near. And Edmund Wilson and Cyril Connolly ? Rereading was par the course inherent to their work, but one must think also an abiding pleasure. Did they have a “talisman”? McMurtry seems not to know. One could though go asearchin’ in the University of Tulsa repositories for clues. (By the way, okay Wilson is a renowned American literary figure, but I always wonder why the papers of others – like the aforesaid, and very British, Connolly – end up in universities in the middle of the US! Yes I know the answer I suppose – $$$!)
In the last days, I have savoured the theatrical treat (via YouTube livestream) of Benedict Cumberbatch and Jonny Lee Miller alternating as Victor Frankenstein and his monster creation (a tour de force by both as both in my opinion!) in Danny Boyle’s 2011 National Theatre (UK) adaptation of Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein. (Here is Michael Billington’s original Guardian review.) Without this pest that is upon us, would such a privilege be granted? Perhaps not. You see, I do look for things positive [sic] to take from this crisis.
Firstly, as I have previously stated, I am interested in the process of adaptation from one medium to another, and in this instance it works very well indeed; perhaps, because the reduced plot form (for instance, the omission of the framed narrative) and character tableau does not mitigate the precepts of rationalist thought and the limitations of science being explored in the original work, nor the questions posed of the conflict between the enlightened individual and a humane social order. As with the novel, this stage version can be best appreciated as a composite – as a philosophical treatise masquerading as an entertainment in a gothic tradition.
On reflection, I must also say that Shelley’s classic tale first published anonymously in 1818 as Frankenstein; or, The Modern Prometheus (the Prometheus additive being particularly telling), captivates still, and when considering a range of Lektüre for these daunting days, it is one, with its relativisation of our place in the greater natural order of things, that is well worth returning to. Not to mention, it being just a wonderfully well told story!
“We are all Mrs. Dalloway now.” says Evan Kindley in The New Yorker. Well, it may well be that many of us can’t afford to be – she is, after all, a lady of means, of a certain class. But I do get the point – the simple pleasures, the granted freedoms; of a walk in the streets, buying flowers, having a party – for us now laden with the aura of nostalgia and even adventure.
And, at the very least, we crave some moments, however fleeting, like those shrouding Clarissa Dalloway on that beautiful June morning in 1923 London; tempering her disquiet and apprehensions in the aftermath of war and illness, and allowing her instead to revel for a time in the bustle of city life.
