January 22, 2013 § Leave a comment
Finished: The Fifty Year Sword, by Mark Z. Danielewski.
Reading now: 20 Lines a Day, by Harry Mathews; Vertigo, by W. G. Sebald.
I find myself with shockingly little to say about T50YS. Lovely, and I enjoyed it, but I found it rather more gimmicky and full of design-for-design’s-sake than the two “novels.” I look forward to another book-length work from Danielewski. (All the same, though, I’m still giddy that my parents got me the signed limited edition that comes in the five-latched box. Nice to have a pretty, menacing object on the shelves.)
Mostly, I’m full of *FEELINGS* thanks to Sebald and Mathews. Sebald I expected this from. The possibility of bawling and/or hysterically laugh-sobbing comes with every page, and the second section of Vertigo, “All’estero,” is filling me with equal parts the quintessentially Sebaldian sense of uncanny melancholy, delighted wonder, and the weird pressure you get behind your eyeballs from too much emotion trying to spill out. Here, he’s moved from Freud’s Vienna to Mann’s Venice to Pisanello’s Verona, where he encounters incredibly bad omens. A pizzeria with the proprietors listed as “Cadavero Carlo e Patierno Vittorio.” Cadavero?!
The man’s words seem to make me a mess for reasons as yet unclear.
Mathews, on the other hand, I also dearly love, but I didn’t expect such emotional investment in a book of writing exercises and journal entries, ostensibly written as starters to heavier labor of working on his novel-in-progress in the early 1980s. The book opens with a few very lovely and very sad entries, from St. Bart’s of all places, preoccupied with the recent death of Georges Perec. One, in which the wind is treated as a kind of didactic metaphor, or literal “plot” device, or neither, or both, is a kind of masterpiece of very short memoir or prose poetry. He then moves on to his time teaching in New York, and a series of entries featuring “Billy Bodega” as an alter ego for Mathews himself are troubling, touching, and somewhat tricksy in their confessional tone. Nevertheless, they kind of make me want to curl up in a ball, too.
I have a new theory that January and February are the months in which a person changes the most, precisely because they are the months when little is happening in day-to-day life. I may have made a mistake, reading these books in January. I’m loving them both but didn’t expect such a strong reaction to them. Here’s hoping for plenty of sunshine this week.
August 2, 2009 § 2 Comments
Just finished: Ms. Hempel Chronicles, by Sarah Shun-Lien Bynum.
Reading next: White-Jacket, by Herman Melville.
If I were to become a teacher, I’d want to teach the middle-school grades. Kids then are old enough to learn about and understand some pretty complex material, but are also still kids, often interested in and involved with childish things: imaginative worlds, toys, made-up games, sleepovers. They’re also on the verge of going to terrifying high school, and becoming adolescent: raging hormones, insecurities, mood swings, and cliques. It’s the perfect time to be opened up to the right book, the right band, the right friend. And maybe it’s just me, but I was most invested in my teacher in the seventh and eighth grades. I wanted guidance, I thought he was cool, I craved his approval.
Ms. Hempel Chronicles is the best book I’ve ever read about teaching, about being a teacher; but then, I’ve never been a teacher, so that doesn’t really say much. However, it’s also a great book about working in your twenties and trying to figure out what you’re meant to do and who you’re meant to be and how to do your job all at once. This I have experience with.
Ms. Hempel teaches middle-school English, and the book is suffused with the perfect tone of sweet melancholy to help you connect the dots: the overlooked sadness of childhood passing away, for both the seventh- and eighth-grade students and for Ms. Hempel, their young teacher. Passages in which Ms. Hempel, exhausted, grades papers and watches television, wishing she had the energy to do something creative instead, are spot-on: work taking over, youthful ambitions shunted aside.
And yet it’s not a sad book — or not only sad, anyway. The first story, “Talent,” is downright joyous (and probably my favorite); and so, in its way, is the last, “Bump.” It’s a slim little book, but it feels utterly full. Beatrice Hempel occupies its space perfectly, a fully realized unreal person.
As Beatrice realizes a few years into the job, one of its horrors is that she is constantly repeating the seventh grade. The students move on, while she’s left learning once again the level of history, the level of literature, that a seventh-grader can comprehend. And it is amazing to think of career teachers doing this over and over for decades.
(Spoilers ahead.) “Bump” is so fascinating in this respect, both because I didn’t see it coming and because it flips the whole book on its head. While the story itself is quite happy and upbeat — since we’re occupying Ms. Hempel’s headspace, and she herself appears to be happy and upbeat — there’s a real sadness, too. When Beatrice, now (I speculate) in her mid- to late-thirties, meets a former student, and hears how much she meant (still means) to this student and others with whom the student is still in touch, she is utterly overjoyed. And yet it’s so heartbreaking: she’s not doing it anymore. She’s left. And it really does seem to be the best for her. But I doubt, somehow, that it’s best for the kids she could’ve been teaching, could’ve been turning on to the right book, the right band, the right way to be in those difficult years of awkwardness. The tragedy of teaching, I suppose, at least in the U.S.
January 31, 2009 § Leave a comment
Now reading: Villette.
There was a reading and reception for Poe’s 200th birthday yesterday at the Duke library — a fine event, with some exceptionally good readings of six Poe works (three prose, three poetry). Ariel Dorfman, who read “The Cask of Amontillado,” made a great point about how appropriate it was that Poe lived and died in Baltimore, the dividing point between the cold, rational North and the Gothic South, just as his works feature both some of the first detective stories and some of the most overheated Gothic prose ever.
Plus I’ve been reading Burton’s Anatomy of Melancholy very slowly, as bedtime reading, for the last few months. It is really quite a fantastic read — a page or two at a time is perfect, since the whole book’s basically one big digression after another anyway. And it has me thinking about all the things we’ve meant by “melancholy,” down through the centuries, and why and how the word and concept persist.
So: let’s talk about mental illness. Specifically, hypochondria. Ishmael’s famous “hypos.” (And the comparison is illuminating: when Ishmael felt suicidal, he was able to run off to sea. Lucy had no such option; her short trip across the Channel was harrowing enough, and then, if she wanted to keep a measure of independence, she had to find some place to do respectable work — viz. the passage on p. 329-331 in which Lucy reveals to the de Bassompierres that she is a teacher.)
We now use “hypochondria” to refer to the condition of constant fear of illness; the meaning in the nineteenth century was similar, but referred more to low spirits, melancholy, a depression-like state, with no apparent cause. I am not a psychiatrist, so I use the following terms as a layman, but what we now call bipolarity and depression seem to have been considered symptomatic of hypochondria. Oh, and hallucinations could also be a symptom, in some cases.
Of course, you can find Gothic and/or Victorian attitudes toward psychology and mental illness discussed ad nauseam; and you can even find studies of Brontë’s writing and the psychology of the time in books like this. It can all seem fairly played out. But personally, I never seem to get tired of the subject: the time was the crossroads between so much superstition and speculation and so much new science, thought, and experimentation. That pre-Freudian century contains so much potential energy in the enthusiasms for phrenology, spiritualism, evolution, utopian thinking and living. Plus, no matter how much Brontë is contextualized and demythologized, Charlotte really does seem a special case, and Lucy Snowe — well, Lucy Snowe’s something else entirely.
(A crabby aside: the academic party line now seems to be contextualizing and historicizing the Brontës, products of their time and environment and all that. I hear this from profs, I see it in books and articles. Now, I know the Brontës have been considered these utter anomalies, writing their wild imaginings in the hinterlands, but must we really insist that no one is special, that there’s nothing strange or amazing about these sisters’ writings, that they’re just products of their historical moment((s), I’m sure the lit profs would add) like all the others? Can we keep the humanities at least a little non-scientific, please, and savor something that smacks of miracle? I know, I know: no one’s getting tenure savoring a miracle. End crabby aside.)
Hypochondria pops up over and over again in Villette, and there are times when Lucy certainly does seem clinically depressed or manic. The writing at the times of depression can be quite heart-wrenchingly sad and beautiful. Chapter 15, “The Long Vacation,” when Lucy becomes desperately lonely and resorts to a Catholic priest’s confessional, and the beginning of chapter 24, as she suffers a seven-week silence from Dr. John, are especially memorable. But the two episodes most directly touched by hypochondria (so far, at least) are the appearances of the ghost-nun and the king of Labassecour.
The nun, a legend of Madame Beck’s school, appears to Lucy in chapter 22, and the circumstances are quite intriguing. Lucy has received her first letter from Dr. John, and read it in the garret, and been made very happy by its warmth and “good-nature.” (Lucy, that tricksy narrator, is coy on this throughout, but I do think she is in a fairly conventional kind of love with Dr. John, even if she doesn’t admit it to herself.) “The present moment had no pain, no blot, no want; full, pure, perfect, it deeply blessed me.” Then we get a remarkable run of paragraphs — I love how the textures and rhythms of this passage telegraph their Gothic-ness but nevertheless powerfully build suspense:
Are there wicked things, not human, which envy human bliss? Are there evil influences haunting the air, and poisoning it for man? What was near me?…
Something in that vast solitary garret sounded strangely. Most surely and certainly I heard, as it seemed, a solitary foot on that floor: a sort of gliding out from the direction of the black recess haunted by the malefactor cloaks. I turned: my light was dim; the room was long — but, as I live! I saw in the middle of that ghostly chamber a figure all black or white; the skirts straight, narrow, black; the head bandaged, veiled, white.
Say what you will, reader — tell me I was nervous or mad; affirm that I was unsettled by the excitement of that letter; declare that I dreamed: this I vow — I saw there — in that room — on that night — an image like — A NUN.
Dr. John soon diagnoses this as an effect of hypochondria, and I, at least at first blush, am inclined to agree. The image of a silent, celibate woman — one of the dreaded Catholics, no less — appearing to Lucy after a glimmer of romantic hope is simply too powerful to resist as a figure out of her own mind. The nun reappears to Lucy thereafter, and there remains some degree of Gothic mystery about whether the nun actually is a ghost.
But turn it around: what if it’s not a phantasm of sexual fear and frustration or some long-lost relative of Lucy’s, but a bloody ghost? What if it’s an affront to Reason? There is, after all, the remarkable dialogue between Lucy and her Reason on p. 265-6 (beginning at no. 19 in the e-text), and the ensuing castigation of the “hag” Reason to the glorification of Imagination and Hope. What if the nun is exactly what Lucy Snowe needs to acknowledge as the reason behind her impulse to flee to the continent — the missing (or repressed) part of herself?
The other remarkable passage on hypochondria is Lucy’s observation of the king, sitting in the royal box at a concert Lucy attends with Dr. John, and her recognition in him of a kindred spirit:
There sat a silent sufferer — a nervous, melancholy man. Those eyes had looked on the visits of a certain ghost — had long waited the comings and goings of that strangest spectre, Hypochondria. Perhaps he saw her now on that stage, over against him, amidst all that brilliant throng. Hypochondria has that wont, to rise in the midst of thousands — dark as Doom, pale as Malady, and well-nigh strong as Death.
And but so here it is again, in another form: the great white shark of pain.