Autumn XXII. Older writers

Intro & Preface & Contents

Previous: Autumn XXI. Young writers

I wonder whether it be really true, as I have more than once seen suggested, that the publication of Anthony Trollope’s autobiography in some degree accounts for the neglect into which he and his works fell so soon after his death. I should like to believe it, for such a fact would be, from one point of view, a credit to “the great big stupid public.” Only, of course, from one point of view; the notable merits of Trollope’s work are unaffected by one’s knowledge of how that work was produced; at his best he is an admirable writer of the pedestrian school... it would be a satisfaction to think that “the great big stupid” was really, somewhere in its secret economy, offended by that revelation [in his autobiography] of mechanical methods which made the autobiography either a disgusting or an amusing book to those who read it more intelligently. A man with a watch before his eyes, penning exactly so many words every quarter hour -- one imagines that this picture might haunt disagreeably the thoughts even of one of Mudie's steadiest subscribers [Charles Edward Mudie, English publisher and founder of Mudie's Lending Library and Mudie’s Subscription Library], that it might come between him or her and any Trollopean work that lay upon the counter.

...At that happy time (already it seems so long ago) the literary news set before ordinary readers mostly had reference to literary work, in a reputable sense of the term, and not, as now, to the processes of “literary” manufacture and the ups and downs of the “literary” market. Trollope himself tells how he surprised the editor of a periodical, who wanted a serial from him, by asking how many thousand words it should run to; an anecdote savouring indeed of good old days... There has come into existence a school of journalism which would seem to have deliberately set itself the task of degrading authorship and everything connected with it and these scribblers (or typists, to be more accurate) have found the authors of a fretful age only too receptive of their mercantile suggestions... It is not easy to see how, in such an atmosphere, great and noble books can ever again come into being....

Alpha.

Interesting to read this today when the "literary" market is seen as under threat from online distributors and a lack of willing readers. Gissing here again reminds me of a concept I learned from Albert Jay Nock -- that Gresham's Law also applies to publishing.

[from Wiki] Gresham's law is an economic principle that states: "When a government overvalues one type of money and undervalues another, the undervalued money will leave the country or disappear from circulation into hoards, while the overvalued money will flood into circulation."[1] It is commonly stated as: "Bad money drives out good".

Nock observed that, just as bad money displaces good, bad books displace good books. He attributed this to increasing levels of literacy. When  reading was the monopoly of the elect, those few people who read determined what would be published. When, in the 19th century, literacy spread to the general population, then that much larger market came to determine what books would be worth publishing.

In fact, I think Nock was overstating this disaster. I might agree that the better books today are published by university and small presses, and not by the big publishers, but then those big publishers only exist because they do cater to the mass market. The previous market still exist, it is just trivialized in monetary terms by the devalued -- in literary terms -- market that I believe Gissing would associate with “the great big stupid.”

And as for a word count for a serial, I wonder if Gissing every had to lay out a page of print. Journalistic printing is a matter of columns and column inches, of page real estate. If, after reading what he wrote here, I were printing something of his in a newspaper he would find his prose sandwiched between ads for ladies undergarments and livestock feed.

Music, again.

I keep coming back to music. Both as something that takes me back in time and also as the thing I most remember in the past. Besides the Nat King Cole song that takes me back to my bedroom on a Louisville suburban street in the late 1950s, there’s a Hollie’s song that puts me in a classroom in the San Fernando Valley in the mid-’60s, a Mamas and Papas song that puts me in a school talent show around the same time, a Gary Puckett song that puts me in a particular car on a particular street in Phoenix in the late ‘60s. A Beatles song that puts me in the same car on a different street in Scottsdale, Led Zeppelin songs that put me in a cabin in the woods, Simon and Garfunkel or Cream songs that put me at that same camp in the mountains, also in the late ‘60s. And most of the Crosby, Stills & Nash album lands me in the stew of my college years. There’s even a Blossom Dearie song that puts me in a lawn-chair inside my apartment here in the early ‘80s. But let’s do that over, take two: The careers of two men have shaped to an amazing degree the music I’ve listened to and loved. The first is Ahmet Ertegün and the second is Clive Davis. I suppose if they hadn’t been around other execs would have discovered most of the talent they discovered, but I wouldn’t want to risk losing some of Ertegün’s discoveries in particular. Subtract the acts they discovered or developed and the soundtrack of my life would be a very different thing.
It would be interesting to know the exact process involved in linking these songs with times in my life. I’m fairly certain hormones play a role, but time would seem to be as much a factor in creating these bridges as the songs are in linking the present to the past. I would guess it takes two to three decades for one of these musical connections to take shape -- at least I can’t identify any strong connections after the mid-1980s. It will be interesting to see if that changes. If ten years from now I will have similar musical connections to the 1990s.

Next: Autumn XXIII. A Reckoning.

Summer IV - V. The Sabbath + the “help” + Françoise

Intro & Preface & Contents

Previous: Summer III. Izaak Walton

It is Sunday morning, and above earth’s beauty shines the purest, softest sky this summer has yet gladdened us withal. My window is thrown open; I see the sunny gleam upon garden leaves and flowers; I hear the birds whose wont it is to sing to me; ever and anon the martins that have their home beneath my eaves sweep past in silence. Church bells have begun to chime; I know the music of their voices, near and far.

There was a time when it delighted me to flash my satire on the English Sunday; I could see nothing but antiquated foolishness and modern hypocrisy in this weekly pause from labour and from bustle. Now I prize it as an inestimable boon, and dread every encroachment upon its restful stillness. Scoff as I might at “Sabbatarianism,” was I not always glad when Sunday came? ... This day of the seven I granted to my better genius; work was put aside, and, when Heaven permitted, trouble forgotten.

... Think as one may of its significance, our Day of Rest has a peculiar sanctity, felt, I imagine, in a more or less vague way, even by those who wish to see the village lads at cricket and theatres open in the town. The idea is surely as good a one as ever came to heavy-laden mortals; let one whole day in every week be removed from the common life of the world, lifted above common pleasures as above common cares... If its ancient use perish from among us, so much the worse for our country... With the decline of old faith, Sunday cannot but lose its sanction, and no loss among the enumerable that we are suffering will work so effectually for the popular vulgarization. What hope is there of guarding the moral beauty of the day when the authority which set it apart is no longer recognized? -- Imagine a bank-holiday once a week!

Alpha.  

In theory I like the idea of a day of the week set aside for reflection -- but why just a day? Also it would be unseemly for one, for whom “old faith” has declined to nothing, to support the trappings of that ancient institution.

V. Sabbath cont.

On Sunday I come down later than usual; I make a change of dress, for it is fitting that the day of spiritual rest should lay aside the livery of the laborious week. For me, indeed, there is no labour at any time, but nevertheless does Sunday bring me repose. I share in the common tranquility; my thought escapes the workaday world more completely than on other days.

It is not easy to see how this house of mine can make to itself a Sunday quiet, for at all times it is well-nigh soundless; yet I find a difference. My housekeeper comes into the room with her Sunday smile; she is happier for the day and the sight of her happiness gives me pleasure. She speaks, if possible, in a softer voice; she wears a garment which reminds me that there is only the lightest and cleanest housework to be done. She will go to church, morning and evening, and I know that she is better for it. During her absence I sometimes look into rooms which on other days I never enter; it is merely to gladden my eyes with the shining cleanliness, the perfect order, I am sure to find in the good woman’s domain. But for that spotless and sweet-smelling kitchen, what would it avail me to range my books and hang my pictures? All the tranquility of my life depends upon the honest care of this woman who lives and works unseen. And I am sure that the money I pay her is the least part of her reward. She is such an old-fashioned person that the mere discharge of what she deems a duty is in itself an end to her, and the work of her hands in itself a satisfaction, a pride.

When a child, I was permitted to handle on Sunday certain books which could not be exposed to the more careless usage of common days; volumes finely illustrated, or the more handsome editions of familiar authors, or works which, merely by their bulk, demanded special care. Happily, these books were all of the higher rank in literature, and so there came to be established in my mind an association between the day of rest and names which are the greatest in verse and prose...

Alpha.

Never have I longed to be a parent, to force my spawn upon the world. But the thought of introducing to someone, of encouraging the love of, my favorite cultural artifacts -- books, music, movies, TV shows -- is surely tempting. That, and the desire to see what your beloved might have been like as a child -- assuming, for me, a daughter and that she didn't, in character, skip a generation, as children are wont to do -- are the only reasons I can think of for wanting to have a child. But what are the odds that any of this would come to fruition?

As I said early, back in Spring II., this housekeeper is truly a utopian dream. I can’t imagine sharing a house with even so exemplary an employee. For one thing it would interfere with my idea of privacy, and I would be unable to relate to her as anything but an equal. I would arrange my life to make her’s easier. The “natural” relationship between the master and servant (wonderfully expressed in the short story The Second Time Around by M.F.K. Fisher) is completely foreign to me. This is not a boast; Ryecroft’s Mrs. M. would seem to have, from her point of view, a great gig. The housekeepers I periodically let in for a quick go at cleaning what I mostly fail to see, would probably envy her workload and steady income.

But I have to observe here, as we talk about the admittedly attractive aspects of the Sabbath, that for the housekeeper this is a day of less work rather than a day of rest. She is like the non-Jewish servants Jews like to employ so they have someone who can push buttons and nasty things like that on days their Sky Fairy says such actions are verboten. This reminds me of the elderly woman who would complain about my (a taxi driver) working on the Sabbath as I drove her to church. It’s assumed that some people will ignore the Sabbath to perform work that can’t be set aside. But where do you draw the line?

Also, the idea that “special” writers (Shakespeare, Milton, Homer) are best appreciated on “special” days reminds me of the tatami room in Japanese homes -- a special space from which to appreciate life. I actually prefer this spatial distinction to the temporal distinction, as you can take advantage of it at any time and it doesn't force the rest of the world to do something it can only imperfectly do. Of course I don’t have the physical space for such a room, but I still like the idea.

I can’t help thinking what authors and books I would set aside for special times. This book would certainly be on the list. The Decline and Fall and Wendell Berry’s essays. You don’t want anything both engrossing and long since you won’t be reading a whole book. Plutarch’s Lives would be good. Court of Memory by James McConkey and A Natural History of the Senses by Diane Ackerman or The Memoirs of a Superfluous Man by Albert Jay Nock would all work for me.

Beta.

If memory serves, this is the most we are going to get about Mrs. M., and I’ve already written something about servants and masters, so this is probably the place to say something about Françoise. I really had not expected to be referring to Proust and In Search of Lost Time here, but so I am. Proust is generally remembered as being obsessed with the aristocracy -- the Guermantes in his books. And this is certainly true enough, but, having read his endless book three times now, I have to say that the best parts, the most vivid and memorable characters, may be within “Marcel’s” own family: his bed-ridden aunt Léonie, his beloved grandmother and her two, too subtle sisters, his womanizing uncle Adolphe, and his father. But in some ways the best of all his characters is the servant Françoise. She is there from the beginning, when she still works for his aunt, through his infatuation with Gilbert, his trip to Balbec with his grandmother, and his affair with Albertine. I would love to see In Search of Lost Time rewritten from her point of view.

She is nothing like our Mrs. M. She is loyal and hardworking, to be sure, but she is not quiet, she has her flaws, and she most definitely has her own agenda. She is believable. If In Search of Lost Time were turned into a TV mini-series hers would be the best part for a character actress. The equivalent -- but greatly magnified -- of the Austen roles Sophie Thompson has played: Miss Bates and Mary Musgrove (née Eliott).

Next: Summer VI. Peace and war.