Caroline Blackwood: Corrigan

One of the more rewarding corners of 20^th century literature must surely be that occupied by darkly comic British women writers, among whom there seems to be a superfluity of talent: Beryl Bainbridge, Muriel Spark, Barbara Comyns, Angela Carter, Barbara Pym, Elizabeth Taylor – I am leaving out scores. Wielding an especially sharp knife for carving out (and up) her subjects is the Irish/English writer Caroline Blackwood.

Corrigan, Blackwood’s last, longest novel, features a few well-tread topics - the difficulties of marriage, mother-daughter conflicts, the upstairs/downstairs dynamics of class - but also elements seldom encountered: a main character in a wheelchair; a self-aware fashion model; an inherent sense of fair play, with the emphasis on that last word; and copiously flowing champagne. It also contains a clever plot that made me wonder if Georges Polti, author of the classic The Thirty-Six Dramatic Situations, had ever encountered a writer like Caroline Blackwood. Those few of his formulations that might apply here – Fatal Imprudence? Self-Sacrifice for an Ideal? Crimes of Love? – undergo such subversion in Blackwood’s hands as to be scarcely recognizable. This is the third Blackwood novel I’ve read, after Great Granny Webster and The Stepdaughter, and I relished being back among her unpredictable turns of plot, deftly drawn characters, biting but humanistic humor, and effervescent, incisive, worldly-wise social observations.

Corrigan’s opening finds the elderly Devina Blunt, bereaved three years before by her husband’s death, still mired in sorrow in her Wiltshire home. Her life undergoes a sudden transformation, however, with the arrival of the wheelchair-bound young Irishman Corrigan – he prefers only his surname - rolling through the countryside to collect funds for a new library for the St. Crispins hospital. Corrigan’s interruption of Mrs. Blunt’s static grief falls like a drop of brightly-tinted solution into water – a gradual diffusion that irreversibly colors Mrs. Blunt’s grey world. His gift for conversation, sympathetic ear and unfiltered frankness affront and disarm at the same time, forcing Mrs. Blunt from her cocoon of sadness. Though Corrigan departs empty-handed this first visit, he leaves a palpable void that Mrs. Blunt fills with hope that he’ll return soon. He does.

A series of subsequent encounters follows, aided in comedic effect by one of Blackwood’s indelibly drawn secondary characters, Mrs. Blunt’s bustling, motorcycle-riding Irish servant, Mrs. Murphy, a necessary but grating presence in the house:

Mrs. Murphy never climbed Mrs. Blunt’s stairs, she always stormed them like a military unit making a headlong charge to gain some useful vantage-point. She was very short and her squat body carried enormous weight. Yet she still moved around the house with a pointless but frenetic speed. When she charged up Mrs. Blunt’s staircase, she always managed to make the carpet slippers that she wore, since shoes hurt her swollen feet, sound just as menacing as the running tread of regimental boots.

With each visit Corrigan seems to nudge aside his Irish counterpart as he draws closer to Mrs. Blunt, now aflame with a desire to do something useful:

She felt that, like someone in the Bible, her eyes had been opened by Corrigan. She suddenly understood that grief had made her cruel and she thought that at last she knew why her relationship with her daughter had become so distant and strained…when she thought about her life as compared to that of Corrigan, she felt that whereas he had found a way to escape from the prison of his infirmity by the use of his mind and imagination, she, who had never suffered from any physical disability, had crippled and imprisoned herself by her refusal to use her brain.

Inviting Corrigan to move in, Mrs. Blunt awakens to activity at an accelerating pace and with expanding ambition: renovating the house to accommodate Corrigan’s disability, learning to drive, and purchasing up adjoining land to create a farming cooperative. In moments of leisure, she and Corrigan recite poetry, converse about literature and life, and pop open one bottle of champagne after another.

Mrs. Blunt’s daughter, the unhappy Nadine, is meanwhile stuck in London in her own domestic stasis, minding twin toddlers and cooking for the “ungrateful young people” her patronizing husband invites to dinner. Neglectful of her mother since her father’s death, Nadine is nonetheless concerned when she hears of Corrigan’s presence in the family home. She takes up the offer of her closest friend, the high fashion model Sabrina (another of Blackwood’s unforgettable characters: a bright young woman acutely aware of the brief shelf life of her career and a complete slob everywhere outside the camera’s frame) to pay a visit to Wiltshire to find out what’s going on.

The ensuing events upend expectations and add depth to Blackwood’s characters, who, as in her other novels, come off the page as singular beings irreducible to simple behaviors. Though Blackwood can be merciless in describing the witless or those who hew closely to convention (an obsequious minor character is “a little squirt of a boy whose energies seemed to have gone into cultivating a crop of acne boils”), her characters are almost always bigger, and often better, than they - or we - thought they were, conveying a genuine interest in the capacity of persons to be multi-faceted, surprising, and deeper than their surface appearances might suggest. Blackwood’s faith in human complexity extends to her characters’ navigation of social situations and problems; in Blackwood’s world, rigidity or reliance on expediency and authority to determine what should be done are intolerable paths. Rather, Blackwood invokes a sense of fair play that, in challenging situations, prioritizes the real life emotional and psychological consequences for people over the distancing technicalities of principles or rules. Even in serious matters - perhaps especially in serious matters - a generosity that rewards playfulness and the use of one’s wits makes Corrigan a wry work that celebrates the triumph of these qualities over conformity, banality, and ploddishness. If almost no one in Corrigan turns out to be the persons we assume them to be – or even the persons we may later suspect them to be – it’s thanks to Blackwood’s magnanimous refusal to underestimate people. And though this magnanimity combines with a particularly black humor in unfolding human contradictions and perplexities, it would be hard to imagine any reader (other than perhaps the most rigid of teetotalers) not enjoying this ride – especially with so much champagne flowing. 

“Humanity turned to jelly” – Léon Genonceaux’s Le Tutu

A few years ago, during an ambulatory conversation interrupted by the need to step around some of the ubiquitous dog droppings that punctuate the streets of Paris, and which supposedly assure one’s return to the city should one happen to step in them, my French companion commented, “It must be said that we French have a very particular relationship with shit.”

As Exhibit A in support of this assertion, it would be difficult to do better than offer an exchange of letters from 1694 between Elizabeth Charlotte de Bavière, Princesse Palatine, Duchesse d’Orleans to her aunt the Electrice of Saxony, Sophia of Hanover (I will conveniently ignore that both wrote in German and neither was French by birth). In conversational tone, the Duchesse and her aunt rhapsodize about the pleasures of defecating, the optimal times and places, its benefits for health and beauty, its democratic ubiquity (“...the entire universe is filled with shitters”), and conclude that “one would as well not live at all, as not shit at all.”

One can skip directly to these letters online, but then one would be miss out on an even more indecorous narrative that surrounds their appearance in an eccentric 1891 French novel, The Tutu: Morals of the Fin de Siècle (Le Tutu: Moeurs Fin de Siècle), written under the pseudonym “Sappho” and described on the cover of a new English translation by Iain White as “the strangest novel of the 19^th century.” According to White’s introduction, Le Tutu was all but lost for a century, published only in 1991 after being brought to light 25 years earlier in an article that revealed its existence and attributed it to Paris publisher Léon Genonceaux (whose Belgian birth I’ll also ignore; Paris does things to people). Genonceaux had accomplished literary feats high and low, including publishing the first unified collection of Rimbaud’s poetry, an important re-edition of Lautréamont’s  Les Chants de Maldoror (excerpts of which also appear in Le Tutu), and a swarm of salacious works that landed Genonceaux in repeated trouble with the authorities. His most serious problems occurred just as Le Tutu headed to press. He was forced to flee Paris, and the few copies he’d printed - only five of which are said to exist today - found their way into the world by being passed hand to hand.

As a particularly madcap example of the style established by Lautréamont and Huysmans, among others, The Tutu cooks up a full complement of Decadent ingredients, including an indulgence in death and the corruptions of the flesh, obsession with the morbid and sordid, irreverence towards morality and religion, pursuit of rare sensation, and an appreciation of oblivion:

A truly happy man is one whose brain has been emptied, whose legs, hands and ears have been cut off, his eyes put out and his sense of taste destroyed. He no longer senses, no longer thinks, he is animalised, he is out of this world.

Le Tutu also serves up all manner of bodily functions and grotesqueries, some of which, even given my tough stomach, leave me nearly enfeebled in contemplation of repeating them. But generally such provocations are so excessively over the top, so clearly designed for shock value and delivered with such capricious delight (imagine a late 19^th century Parisian John Waters) that it’s difficult to be appalled for long.

As the novel opens, Le Tutu’s chief character, Mauri de Noirof, is headed home at five in the morning from a night of debauchery, so pickled that he cannot recognize his cab driver. This inability to recognize those he knows is a recurrent pattern. On the rare occasions when he goes to work (as a publisher), he’s convinced it’s his first day on the job despite everything seeming oddly familiar. Trained as an engineer, he’s also a diletanttish dandy, an amateur of grand, crazy ideas – having a clod cow walk a 500-meter-high tightrope strung between Paris and Marseille, for example – or the effort on which he settles his attentions, building tunnels for lightening-fast trains that can zip from Lyon to Paris in a mere 17 seconds (resulting in a rapid depopulation of Lyon, whose residents fall prey to the now convenient seductions of the capital). De Noirof launches upon a series of adventures, spurred on by his general dissoluteness and debauchery, not to mention an oedipal complex to top all oedipal complexes (he reads the Duchesse and Electrice’s letters to his mother in an Ubu-esque dialogue concerning his desire to marry and impregnate her, as all other women disgust him and as his talk of marrying a tree has left her unenthused). Despite a rich curiosity cabinet of conceits that would have pleased the Surrealists, Le Tutu’s narrative drive is loosely tethered to a fairly linear plot involving de Noirof’s attempts to marry himself to a wealthy, increasingly obese alcoholic and to navigate paternity of a child birthed by his mistress, a two-headed circus freak, while at the same time maintaining his devotion to his mother, with whom he dines on human brains while they dream of loving one another “on high”:

“The only thing in the world that matters is us. Nobody will ever guess at the sublimities hidden within our hearts. Nobody else here on earth eats the brains from corpses and drinks the spittle of asthmatics. Let us act so that we might die in the satisfaction of having experienced, we alone, the True Sensation, of That Which Does Not Die.” Then she added: “Give me some money.”

I’m not giving a lot away with these revelations; there is more than ample weirdness where that came from. And yes, a tutu is involved.

Elements of Le Tutu appear strikingly modern, for example the collage-like nature of the narrative, mixing varieties of text, theatrical vignettes, a musical composition by God (lyrics by The Word, with Saint Paul on third violin and Jesus Christ on cymbals), and dreams (including one in which God appears as a buff young hedonist recuperating from a 700-year orgy among the seraphim), or the kinds of language games played decades later by members of the Oulipo movement. In one scene, an exasperated de Noirof urges his prostitute girlfriend to communicate exclusively via the first syllables of words, a challenge to which she replies by asking how he’d handle a phrase like “the sky is no more pure than the depths of my heart” (a ripost that might well be put to Oulipians in general).

The decadent effrontery Genonceaux heaps upon bourgeois values is pleasantly, even hilariously, balanced by the sheer imagination and wit of The Tutu. One might well wonder, given the book’s odd history and the haziness surrounding its discovery - there are things it would be pleasant to believe - whether it could all be an elaborate, grandly accomplished hoax. But in the deliriously fertile, rebellious period of French literature from which it appears to have emerged, nearly anything seemed possible. And even if Le Tutu were to be a hoax, the fact should scarcely diminish any appreciative reader’s delight in this wild, demented, exultant book. This English translation should count as a significant literary event. 

An Infinite Book? Grande Sertão: Veredas

How is it possible that Brazilian writer João Guimarães Rosa’s 1956 novel Grande Sertão: Veredas (The Devil to Pay in the Backlands) has been out of print in English for half a century and remains all but unknown in the Anglophone world except to a small circle of academics and those fortunate enough to have been initiated into its cult?

Able at last to count myself among the latter, I can scarcely begin to touch on all this complex book has to offer, especially given my almost complete ignorance of Brazilian literature and the not insignificant matter of having read the book in translation.[i] Those disadvantages do not, though, stand in the way of recognizing that Grande Sertão: Veredas is neither of marginal, esoteric interest nor so dauntingly erudite as to be forbidding. On the contrary, it’s the rare kind of work that might serve as the reward for a lifetime of reading, offering potentially endless exploration in its expansive cosmos, resisting reduction along its boundless curvature, with myriad points of entry for myriad potential audiences despite qualities that could well be intimidating. Among these is a linguistic complexity that has spawned lexicons in Portuguese nearly as voluminous as the novel itself and includes word variants, neologisms, regionalisms, catalogues of flora and fauna, utterances, portmanteau names fabricated from multiple languages, slang, even animal cries. A recursive, digressive narrative jumps about in time and pursues paths as numerous as the “veredas” - the oasis-like depressions and the rivulets that connect them - that figure in the book’s title. Guimarães Rosa also draws from an unusually deep and broad aquifer of influences to irrigate his tale: from modernist peers to the ancient Greek tragedies and epics, Augustine’s Confessions to Don Quixote, Dante to the Tao-Te-Ching, the natural sciences to moral philosophy, archaic backlands superstition to contemporary global realities.

Yet Grande Sertão: Veredas comes across as a supremely engrossing work, and one that makes a great effort not to wear its deep erudition on its sleeve. Rather, not unlike Dante choosing to make his “Divine Comedy” more accessible by writing in vernacular Italian, Guimarães Rosa takes his wealth of knowledge and thoroughly emulsifies it into an ensorcelling, vital narrative in which these cultured elements seem to propagate naturally and organically from the irresistible pull of knowledge and a feverish, infectious love of language (in “Woodlands Witchery,” a revealing story from Guimarães Rosa’s earlier work, Sagarana, a character is obsessed with the sounds of words and refers to their “song and feathers”). Those who heed the narrator’s appeal will likely be amply rewarded:

…think hard about what I have been telling you, turn it over in your mind, for I have related nothing idly. I don’t waste words. Think it over, figure it out. Build your own plot around it.

But in Guimarães Rosa’s world the privilege of language and knowledge is not to be abused by constructing a wall between writer and reader, and his narrator gently concludes the advice above with a gesture of patience and good will: “In the meantime, we’ll have some more coffee, and smoke a good cigarette.” With an openness, immediacy and intimacy that invites trust and humbles one into listening, this captivating voice - rising and falling, emphasizing, warning of zones difficult to talk about and even superstitious to mention, following its own dictates in the way William James described the flow of thought as “like a bird’s life, seeming to be made of an alternation of flights and perchings” - calls upon readers to engage existential and moral questions, fundamentally and recognizably human in a “world beyond control.” 

This beguiling voice belongs to Guimarães Rosa’s unusual choice of narrator, Riobaldo, “an ignorant man,” an unschooled wanderer of the great Brazilian sertão, a retired jagunço (“a member of a lawless band of armed ruffians in the hire of rival politicos, who warred against each other and against the military, at the turn of the century, in northeastern Brazil”[ii]), with a down-to-earth affability, sharp natural intelligence and tremendously inventive, poetic gift for language that invites rather than intimidates. An implicit sympathy with and respect for the practical knowledge and native intelligence possessed by people whom urbanites and academics might regard as simple pervades Grande Sertão: Veredas. Self-effacing and modest about his remarkable narrative skills, which spring directly from his experience, Riobaldo knows that storytelling can only approximate life: “To relate stories full of surprises and deeds of daring may be much more entertaining, but hell, when you are the one who is doing the everyday living, these fancy turns of events don’t work.”

Riobaldo’s account (an oral, even oracular, tale perhaps best read aloud) is a kind of apostrophe to a vaguely sketched listener, an educated visitor from the urban coast who has come to explore the sertão. Having in his old age “invented this hobby, of speculating about ideas,” Riobaldo finds in this newcomer the sounding board that enables his discourse (that a story depends upon both teller and audience, or writer and reader, is a given in Grande Sertão: Veredas): “To talk like this with a stranger, who listens well and soon goes far away, has a second advantage: it is as though I were talking to myself.” And in finding his auditor to be a learnèd outsider, Riobaldo expresses a simple faith in education as a tool for better managing life’s vicissitudes:

How many really fine ideas occur to a well-educated person! In that way they can fill this world with other things, without the mistakes and twistings and turnings of life in its stupid bungling….In real life, things end less neatly, or don’t end at all.

Riobaldo’s recitation of the “real life” he has led - “like a live fish on a griddle” – begins with the intonation of a single word – “Nonada” (“It’s nothing”) - an alpha that will find its omega in another single word and an infinity symbol some 500 pages of uninterrupted monologue later. He seeks to reassure his visitor that the gunshots he’s just heard were not the notorious violence of the backlands, but just Riobaldo himself, practicing to keep up his finest skill, marksmanship. This division between violence and innocence, expectation and reality, will hang like a shimmering curtain throughout Grande Sertão: Veredas. Insisting with magnanimous hospitality, and perhaps a desperate need to unburden himself, that his guest stay - “A visit here, in my house, with me, lasts three days!” - Riobaldo weaves an intricate account of his jagunço life in the sertão: his adventures and trials under various jagunço chiefs; the brutal battles he and his comrades have fought; episodes of violence alternating with moments of great tenderness; dreams of revenge and power vying with a desire to escape the violent hand that life has dealt him; doubts and struggles, both particular and universal, in trying to make sense of a life in which, as Riobaldo repeatedly asserts, “the whole world is crazy.” Two other repeated phrases punctuate his speech: an acknowledgement that “to live is a dangerous thing” and reluctant references, sometimes briefly trailing into reflective silence, to “the devil in the whirlwind, in the middle of the street,” hinting at critical moments of confusion, “memories of things worse than bad,” that still weigh so heavily on Riobaldo that in the first moments of his tale he gets to the point that obsesses him most: Does the devil exist?

Far from being a matter of idle curiosity, Riobaldo’s appeal is the central existential question that plagues him, a need to understand his responsibility regarding the two great entwined forces that have shaped his life: the pact with the devil that Riobaldo may - or may not - have made one cold night alone in the haunting Veredas Mortas in hopes of extinguishing “an irrational evil,” the murderous jagunço Hermogènes; and Riobaldo’s profound love for Reinaldo, or Diadorim, the “different” jagunço companion he has known since a transformative moment of Riobaldo’s youth. These forces come together almost exactly halfway through the novel (the elegant structure of Grande Sertão: Veredas probably merits a dissertation) when two events occur almost simultaneously: the murder by the mutinous “Judases,” Hermogènes and Ricardão, of jagunço hero Joca Ramiro, revealed now to be Diadorim’s father; and immediately preceding this shock, Riobaldo’s first acknowledgment to himself that what he has felt for Diadorim – a desire “to place my fingers lightly, so lightly, over his soft eyes, hiding them, to keep from having to endure their fascination. How much their green beauty was hurting me; so impossible” - goes beyond fraternity and friendship, and is in fact genuine love, a feeling that “had been dormant, unperceived by me, in our everyday living. But now it was springing to life, like day breaking, bursting. I lay still a moment, my eyes closed, thrilled and glowing in my new-found joy” (another dissertation topic: Grande Sertão: Veredas as one of the great depictions of male love in modern literature).

“Am I telling things badly? I’ll start again.”

That it has taken half the book to get to this point is in part due to Riobaldo’s revision and reorganization of his thoughts, occasionally moving backwards or sideways to render important points or informative anecdotes. About a sixth of the way into his narrative, he abruptly halts his story, which has so far focused on his hunt for the Judases with the band of jagunços led by Medeiro Vaz up until the group falls under the leadership of the reform-minded jagunço chief, Zé Bébelo, intent on ridding the sertão of lawlessness. Riobaldo then begins re-telling it starting from his childhood and not returning to where he left off until some 200 pages later. Such temporal recursions find a parallel in the spatial dimensions of the novel as Riobaldo wanders about the great sertão, at times retracing paths he has taken before.

A coherence to the narrative is nonetheless sustained by the unswerving attention Riobaldo concentrates on his listener (in one sense, we remain in a fixed place and time: at Riobaldo’s ranch, enraptured by the spell he casts with his tale) as well as by the constant swarm of questions and ruminations he expresses about his place in the world, his relationship to violence and love, obligation and responsibility, even his own identity and existence:

“Where does my guilt come from?”

“Isn’t nearly everything one does or doesn’t do, treachery in the end?

“Who knows for sure what a person really is?”

“When did my fault begin?”

“Do you suppose there is a fixed point, beyond which there is no turning back?”

“Was I thinking?”

Questions that might in isolation sound ponderous instead become, enveloped in Riobaldo’s earnest inquiry and voluptuous discourse, matters of importance to ourselves because of Riobaldo’s having involved us fully in his life, enlisting our help in seeking answers to questions that resonate universally. Through the words of this complex, simple man of the backlands of Brazil, a mercenary warrior so ostensibly different from ourselves, who has done “deplorable” things but has “come there, to the sertão of the North, as everyone does sooner of later…almost without noticing that I was doing so, compelled by the need to find a better way of life,” we’re unable to turn away our gaze, or escape our essential, human commonality.

Guimarães Rosa’s concentration on the essential renders aspects of fiction such as plot and dénouement almost entirely subordinate to the pointedness of the book’s existential inquiries and the ebullient freshness and newness of the language with which they are delivered. Whether one knows ahead of time the “surprise” revelation of the end of the novel is much beside the point (especially in a book that ends with an infinity mark). In terms of plot, Riobaldo’s story in the novel’s second half winds along the tension between growing acceptance of a love he fears to admit and the burning, hateful vengeance he feels compelled to pursue and justify. These entangled but competing forces, this “devil in the whirlwind, in the middle of the street,” literalized at the end in an almost cartoonish fusion, but also forming a kind of quantum spin-liquid state in which Riobaldo’s ability to make sense of his life’s choices attains a pitch of constant instability - leave him closer to an answer but still asking the question that has dogged him from the beginning. Does the devil exist? This may seem the simple question of an uneducated person, and it is far from being the only question the novel asks. But if we heed Riobaldo’s advice, to “…listen beyond what I am telling you, and listen with an open mind,” it reveals itself as a question of great importance and enduring relevance, however sophisticated or unsophisticated the manner in which we may phrase it. Is not the world that offers beauty, goodness and love filled with jagunços and all who must deal with them, with persons born to or entrapped in violence and conflict, whose struggles to seek a better life involve us in their existence, whose stories demand that we question our own complicity and responsibility?

“The sertão,” as Riobaldo says, “is everywhere.”

I am immensely grateful to my co-hosts for this group reading of Grande Sertão: Veredas: Richard, Rise and Miguel. 

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[i] Having read about 90 pages of the French translation, I switched, without prejudice, to the English translation when it suddenly became available. These translations approach the novel quite differently, with the English translators electing to emphasize clarity over an attempt to recreate fully, as does the French translation, Guimarães Rosa’s linguistic inventiveness.

[ii] Glossary to The Devil to Pay in the Backlands, by João Guimarães Rosa, James L. Taylor and Harriet de Onís, translators, Alfred A. Knopf, New York 1963.

The Gray Cloth and Ten Percent White: A Ladies Novel

John A. Stuart, illustration from The Gray Cloth and Ten Percent White: A Ladies Novel, MIT Press, 2001

“…airships, that’s the world that never materialized.”

Karl Ove Knausgaard, My Struggle, Book Two

German architect/writer Paul Scheerbart’s 1914 novel, The Gray Cloth and Ten Percent White: A Ladies Novel, a fictional accompaniment to his more scholarly treatise, Glass Architecture, imagines a world of spectacular, colored glass buildings. Translator John A. Stuart’s introduction notes that the novel may have been in part a public relations maneuver for promoting Scheerbart’s ideas about using glass as a building material, but where Scheerbart goes with The Gray Cloth - a whimsical, world-ranging, architectural caper - puts his novel firmly and enchantingly in the realm of literature.

One accepts early on that character development, complexity of language, and philosophizing will be minimal in The Gray Cloth, but this fairy-tale fantasy, set in “the middle of the twentieth century,” rewards the reader in other ways, not least by sprinkling into the interstices of its narrative myriad inventive, charming conceits. The novel’s plot is simple: the world’s leading proponent of glass architecture, Edgar Krug, is so taken by the gray dress trimmed in ten percent white worn by Clara, whom he meets at the inauguration of the Tower of Babel, his grand, glass concert hall in Chicago, that he immediately proposes marriage to her, with the caveat that she contractually agree always to wear gray clothing with ten percent white so as to enhance his colorful buildings and insure that they won’t be upstaged[i]. To everyone’s astonishment, Clara accepts Edgar’s terms, and the novel then traces the evolution of this contract as the newlyweds float about the planet on airships - the chief mode of transportation in The Gray Cloth - to visit Edgar’s architectural projects: a convalescent home for airship chauffeurs on Fiji, a painters’ colony in Antarctica, a bath complex on a Borneo volcano, a series of revolving, hanging houses suspended over Majolica terraces for a rich Chinese client, Herr Li-Tung, on an island off Oman; a museum for antique oriental weaponry on Malta, an experimental station for aquatic architecture in the middle of “the huge Aral Sea,” and Krug’s own estate – a palace of light and glass on an island in Italy’s Lago Maggiore. Edgar foresees a world covered in colored glass architecture: scalloped shells of great glass slabs, immense paned walls carefully controlled for color effects, towers of light, sculpted glass roofs to delight airship passengers. Despite his contemplating covering the Himalayas in glass, his ambition does have a few limits; he balks at developers who would wreck the Egyptian pyramids with glass towers, and asserts that “nature...is always more wonderful that the somewhat weak fantasies of the small human,” intending his glass structures to evoke “Dragonfly wings!... Birds of paradise, fireflies, lightfish, orchids, muscles [sic], pearls, diamonds, and so on, and so on - All that is beautiful on the face of the earth.”

Scheerbart employs the language of a children’s fairy tale to tell his story. His humorous narrative consists of short, declarative sentences -

            The men then drank grog to Frau Clara’s health.

            They sat till midnight in the restaurant on the peak.

            Only colored lanterns and the stars in the sky shone above.

            The moon was not to be seen.

            Meteors moved along parabolic lines across the starry skies.

            On the horizon Venus was radiant.

- sometimes incorporating playful elements verging on absurdity:

Many storks floated over the airship. A stork sat near the helmsman, then, in a little while, he flew off after the other storks.

Color, light, air, zipping about the globe on zeppelins – these ingredients suggest nothing of the grim events about to engulf Europe. Rather, The Gray Cloth, a poetic fantasy like an unrealized architectural rendering, speaks of a radiant future. The gently ironic tone conveyed in The Gray Cloth contains a frolicsome, internationalist optimism for the future of the sort generated by the international expositions and world’s fairs that have all but vanished in today’s world (two such fairs frame the novel’s action). Stuart’s excellent introduction – which discusses Scheerbart’s prescient anticipation of the global diffusion of design, the impact of cinema, media’s turn towards celebrity, and other predictive qualities - notes that in part these blithe, utopian elements are posed to stand out against the threats facing humankind.

The Gray Cloth also announces, with its subtitle, “A Ladies Novel,” a concern with gender relations, exploring the independence of women and the juggling of power within marriage. Colonies of strong women populate the book: the mostly female painters’ colony; the entourage of Marquise Fi-Boh of Japan, whose colorful robes prompt Clara’s first revolt against her contract; an internationalist troop of ballerinas who perform on Li-Tung’s terraces; and above all the female friends Clara picks up on her travels, who offer moral support, advice and courage. But despite her own misgivings and friends’ pleas for her to escape the “tyranny” Edgar has imposed, Clara remains steadfastly determined to navigate her own path around Edgar’s entwining of egotism, stubbornness, and artistic genius, leading her husband to recognize her independence and stature as an artist in her own right (with some chimes, bells and drums suspended in towers, Clara, an organist, uses architecture as a musical instrument, her performances attracting global attention). This assertiveness in insisting on gender equality is also demonstrated by Clara’s female companions, one of whom marries Li-Tung - on her own terms.

While few would take seriously the fanciful world The Gray Cloth imagines, it nonetheless presents a gem-like and strangely poignant vision of an unrealized world and glows with a spirit that seems today all but lost: open-ended optimism for the future; belief in internationalism and solidarity among races and genders; ebullience, wonder and daring in trying on the new. In a world where concrete apartment blocks dominate skylines, gains in gender equality face depressing backlash and “the huge Aral Sea” has been reduced to a puddle, the glowing colors, leisurely airship voyages and innocent caprices of the The Gray Cloth seem seductively attractive, and immeasurably far away.

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[i] In its treatment of the egotism of architects, The Gray Cloth accomplishes with playfulness and whimsy what that most notorious of architectural novels, Ayn Rand’s The Fountainhead – a book I’ve never been able to get through - attempts with humorless heavy-handedness (a concise, insightful summary of Rand’s book can be found here).

"Apostles of uxoriousness, arise!"

Jack Loudan’s O Rare Amanda! counts among the most embarrassing books I’ve encountered. The embarrassment - my own - stems from my having read the book while on public transportation. It is not unusual in San Francisco to witness public displays by persons solipsistically seized by some secret mirth, but I am usually not one of them. My inability to stifle my tittering and snorts of laughter, more than once resulting in my spewing my coffee, caused some fellow passengers to edge away.

Loudan’s 1956 biography of Irish writer Amanda McKittrick Ros (1861-1939), frequently heralded as the worst novelist in the English language, offers a well-researched, affectionate, even admiring portrait. Ros, a literary folk artist, provided to fiction something akin to what Mrs. Miller provided to popular song. Rather than indulging in easy ridicule, though, Loudan, who took the trouble to get to know Ros personally, takes her seriously. He situates her not on the eccentric fringe – or rather, not only on the eccentric fringe - but places her delirious combination of romance and nonsense in the context of other literary trends and writers. The latter include her two influences, Marie Corelli and Regina Maria Roche (Ros was not much of a reader), as well as respected writers whose works might, with generosity, be aligned with her own, including Lewis Carroll, Edward Lear and even, in view of Ros’ idiosyncratic language, James Joyce (Ros herself would have fumed at the Carroll comparison; Loudan notes that her envy at the sum paid for the original manuscript of Alice in Wonderland led her to read the book, which she found to be “an idiotic, nonsensical, whimsical disjointed piece of abject happenings bursting with Stygian Style Expressions lined throughout with a pricky-patterned policy the gods would grunt at & decent minds abhor.”).

O Rare Amanda! alternates biographical material with chapters devoted to each of her three novels – Irene Iddesleigh, Delina Delaney and Helen Huddleston - and her two books of poetry, Poems of Puncture and Fumes of Formation. An inspiration for Elizabeth Taylor’s fine novel, Angel, Ros claimed to have begun her first novel, Irene Iddesleigh, at a precocious age, though this appears to have been a typical Rosian amplification. Her novels employ classic Victorian themes, each featuring a young, impecunious woman crossing class boundaries and suffering through love and deception with “men of rank and wealth and power.” But the manner of their telling is utterly singular, as almost any passage reveals (part of the hilarity of O Rare Amanda! comes from Loudan’s extensive sampling of her work, but as the Internet offers readers an abundance of Ros, I’ll forgo doing the same). With what Osbert Sitwell called an “innocently garish and ridiculous” style, her narratives employ alliteration, dangling modifiers, pause-inducing imagery, words used in bafflingly novel ways, characters left in one setting only to reappear mysteriously in another, temporal impossibilities, and improbable behaviors. “Her world is one of people who speak and act so unlike mankind that we do not expect them to behave normally,” writes Loudan.

Initially self-published, Ros would likely have vanished into obscurity had not her first book been forwarded to humorist Barry Pain. Reviewing it in 1898, Pain called it “The Book of the Century…a thing that happens once in a million years. There is no one above and no one beside it, and it sits alone as the nightingale sings. The words that would attempt to give any clear idea of it have not been invented.” Pain’s review thrust Ros into popularity and set her on a lifelong, furious crusade against critics. Loudan supplies a full two-column page of terms she used to describe them; “bastard donkey-headed mites,” “talent wipers of wormy order,” and “the mushroom class of idiotics” are among the kindest.

One of the strengths of Loudan’s book is his attention to the critical reception of Ros’ output. Few disliked her work. In addition to a strong popular following, she also found favor among the intelligentsia, who rallied around her singular talent, launching “Amanda Ros Clubs” and holding dinner parties where fans competed to impersonate her style. Several critical accounts Loudan includes are nearly as amusing as Ros’ own words; the critic Thomas Beer, for example, wrote that Irene Iddesleigh left him “dizzy.” A delicately nuanced, droll assessment of her talent by Aldous Huxley, who “saw in her circumlocution ‘the result of the discovery of art by an unsophisticated mind and of its first conscious attempt to produce the artistic,’” led Ros to declare him one of the few persons capable of understanding her. Subtlety in the recognition of her work, however, was lost on Ros, who seemed, like some of her readers, incapable of grasping sarcasm unless it bludgeoned her. Loudan limns this appreciation gap by suggesting that “Amanda is the most perfect instrument for measuring the sense of humour.”

For all of Ros’ engagement with the “crabbing critics,” her high opinion of her own work never seemed to waver. Late in life, she asked her publisher whether she might “make a dart” for a highly remunerative literary award she’d just learned about (the Nobel Prize), and also predicted that her writing would stand the test of time and be read “1,000 years from now.” But despite her obliviousness to the manner in which many viewed her writing, Ros seemed at times to have had some perhaps accidental but nonetheless keen insight into what she was doing. “My chief object in writing is and always has been to write if possible in a strain all my own.” Few would dispute that she succeeded. And in the end, Ros may have the next to last laugh (the last, surely, is reserved for her final reader), as writing this singular won’t easily vanish as long as there are those who love the English language. Loudan’s charming and highly entertaining biography will help insure that longevity.

Transformed as I was into a public spectacle by Loudan’s book, though, nothing in it prepared me for my first attempt to swallow Ros herself in a large dose. I can safely vow that I have never before experienced such a response to literature. Opening Delina Delaney at random one night, I began to smile, then giggle, then a sudden spell of manic derangement seemed to take hold, propelling my mind into regions of disbelief and helplessness. One may note the instability of modern narratives, but it would be hard to find a work more capable of rendering language so nearly void of meaning – none, anyway, that could simultaneously provoke such breathless, unhinged laughter. 

Passengers on my daily commute should be immensely grateful that I read Delina Delaney in the privacy of my home. I know I am. 

Grande Sertão: Veredas Read-Along

In the unlikely event that readers may not yet have learned of plans for a May 2013 group read of João Guimarães Rosa's Grande Sertão: Veredas, regarded by many as Brazil’s greatest 20^th century contribution to the novel, allow me to add another announcement to those already made by my co-hosts for this momentous event: Richard of Caravana de los Recuerdos, Rise of In Lieu of a Field Guide, and Miguel of St. Orberose. We will each be tackling a different version of the book, with Miguel in the center ring, cracking his whip at the original Portuguese; Rise lassoing the long out-of-print English translation, The Devil to Pay in the Backlands; and Richard taming it in Spanish. I will attempt a French translation, Diadorim, with a copy of the original Portuguese serving as a safety net in case a miraculous Oliver Sacks style psychiatric disorder suddenly allows me to be able to read Portuguese. Caroline of Beauty is a Sleeping Cat has just announced that she’ll be joining in with a German translation, so this promises to be a show involving – given the apparently notorious difficulty of translating the book - daring feats of international cross-pollination. 

From Wikipedia:

Grande Sertão: Veredas (Portuguese for "Great Backlands: Tracks"; English translation: The Devil to Pay in the Backlands) is a novel published in 1956 by the Brazilian writer João Guimarães Rosa. The original title refers to the veredas - small paths of wetlands usually located at higher altitudes characterized by the presence of grasses and buritizais, groups of the buriti palm tree (Mauritia flexuosa), that criss-cross the Sertão region in northern Minas Gerais, southeast Brazil - as a labyrinthine net where an outsider can easily get lost, and where there is no single way to a certain place, since all paths interconnect in such a way that any road can lead anywhere. The English title refers to a later episode in the book involving an attempt to make a deal with the devil. Most of the book's spirit is however lost in translation, as the Portuguese original is written in a register that is both archaic and colloquial, making it a very difficult book to translate. The combination of its size, linguistic oddness and polemic themes caused a shock when it was published, but now it is considered one of the most important novels of South American literature. In a 2002 poll of 100 noted writers conducted by Norwegian Book Clubs, the book was named among the top 100 books of all time.

Please feel free to join in. Though widely translated, the book is a challenge to find in English (my reason for picking it up in French), but there’s always a chance your local library may have a copy. We anticipate beginning discussion towards the end of May. See you in the backlands.

2012 In Review

It’s February already? Perhaps it’s past time for an end of 2012 post, but here’s one anyway. Whether a reader may share in the pleasure I take in looking over what I read last year I can only surmise from my own enjoyment of others’ similar recaps.

In addition to the mysterious internal algorithms that took me from one book to the next, I am indebted to the enthusiasm of other bloggers, who’ve led me to many new discoveries over the past year. I am particularly grateful for having been tipped off to one such work, Daisy Ashford’s The Young Visiters, which came along to offer a glorious, ribald ray of sunshine at an opportune moment. Sparkling with charmingly poor spelling and grammatical errors, Ashford’s 1919 novella manages to make such faults uplifting, as are the unusual turns of phrase and wildly irrational events concocted by the precocious mind of its nine-year-old author. My own nine-year-old goddaughter is now paying the price for Miss Ashford’s 105 pages of audacity: I have impressed upon her that I expect great things – poems, stories, novels, vast epics – and not simply these occasional, anodyne pleasantries hurriedly scribbled on a holiday card.

I began 2012 with There Came a Stranger, by good friend and former children’s book author Louisa Mae Johnston, who dragged out a dusty, decades-old manuscript once rejected by Harlequin Romances for being “too realistic” and reworked it to ratchet up the realism (take that, Harlequin philistines). By setting her romance among central Florida’s destroyed orange groves during a winter freeze, Louisa has created a haunting sense of atmosphere. This is a shameless plug. Buy her book. Born a mere handful of years after Daisy Ashford's book was first published, Louisa is now well along on a third novel, with the second undergoing final edits.

I ended the year with Irmgard Keun’s 1937 novel After Midnight, a surprising perspective on Germany being transformed by Nazism as viewed through the eyes of a young sybarite juggling party preparations and the man problems of her girlfriends against the looming background of encroaching totalitarianism and terrifying injustices. In shorthand, I’ve come to think of the book as Christopher Isherwood’s Berlin Stories meets Anita Loos’ Gentlemen Prefer Blondes. Nothing in the least uncharitable should be inferred from that; this was an unusual and memorable novel.

In between, 2012 provided a wealth of great books. Here, in rough order, are my top 15:

 

Celestina, by Fernando Rojas (Peter Bush, translator)

 

Little Dorrit, by Charles Dickens

 

Kaputt, by Curzio Malaparte (Cesare Foligno, translator)

Diary of a Man in Despair, by Friedrich Percyval Reck-Malleczewen (Paul Rubens, translator)

All the Names, by José Saramago  (Margaret Jull Costa, translator)

René Leys, by Victor Segalen (J.A. Underwood, translator)

The Queen’s Tiara, by Jonas Love Almqvist (Paul Britten Austin, translator)

 

When the Mountain Fell, by Charles-Ferdinand Ramuz (Sarah Fisher Scott, translator)

My Struggle, Book One, by Karl Ove Knausgaard (Don Bartlett, translator)

 

The Savage Detectives, by Roberto Bolaño (Natasha Wimmer, translator)

Ciné-Ville, by Ramón Gómez de la Serna (Marcelle Auclair, translator)

Kyra Kyralina, by Panaït Istrati (Christopher Sawyer-Lauçanno, translator)

Les couleurs d’infamie, by Albert Cossery

Memoirs of a Revolutionary, by Victor Serge (Peter Sedgwick and George Paizis, translators)

After Midnight, by Irmgard Keun (James Cleugh, translator)

Honorable mentions go to Jerôme Férrari’s Le sermon sur la chute de Rome, Angel Ganivet’s La Conquête du Royaume de Maya, John Williams’ Butcher’s Crossing, John Steinbeck’s In Dubious Battle, Keith Ridgway’s Hawthorn and Child, the poetry of Carlos Drummond de Andrade, Dino Buzzati’s The Tartar Steppe, Richard Zimler’s The Last Kabbalist of Lisbon, Alejo Carpentier’s The Kingdom of This World, Enrique Vila-Matas’ Never Any End to Paris, and a trio of Cesar Aira’s small, delicious bon-bons: The Seamstress and the Wind, Ghosts, and, especially, Les Larmes.

The remarkably few books that I either did not particularly like or that left me indifferent I won’t mention here other than as an affirmation, continuing into 2013, of William Faulkner’s suggestion that we “Read, read, read. Read everything.”