Subversive Reading

The excellent Birmingham Book Festival commissioned the philosopher A C Grayling to give a lecture at the festival this year, entitled "The Good Reader and the World". This is in part a tribute to the National Year of Reading, which encourages the promotion of literacy for children and enjoyment of reading for everyone. In line with this, Professor Grayling began his lecture by giving a detailed summary of the history of reading, from the earliest known literate communities in Ancient Egypt through to the reading explosion of the autodidacts of the nineteenth century. Grayling particularly emphasised the impacts of the early printing presses, particularly their significance not only in rising literacy, but in the fact that literacy was therefore no longer largely exclusive to the church and the ruling classes. The subversiveness of access to religious texts, for example, is not something we think much of these days, but it meant that more people were able to challenge the church on the basis of their own reading - literacy is pwer, and as it spreads power is disseminated. During the Renaissance the importance of the classical literature of Ovid, Cicero, Virgil etc allowed "insight into the wider mind of Europe", broadening the views of those who could read them (which was of course still a small minority). By the nineteenth century, however, books were cheaper and more available, and more people could read - especially essays and poetry - and many of the working-class were able to educate themselves through their reading. This is hugely significant for social development of a country as a whole, Grayling pointed out, because those who read are thinking more; for example, revolutionaries in the seventeenth century such as the Levellers and the New Model Army were literate, which is hardly a coincidence.

Grayling emphasised the different modes of reading - passive reading, for plot alone, such as one might with a beach novel, and intensive reading, where one puts thought and consideration into the book, permitting a dialogue between reader and author, disagreeing with it, coming to one's own conclusions. This, he suggests, is the way to be fulfilled in one's reading, and it has a transformative effect on the reader. Some books, of course, invite purely passive reading, while others engage the reader sometimes against their will, and it those that are treasures.

Modern British education fosters "literacy" and "numeracy" in the quest to turn citizens into "good foot-soldiers in the economic battle", but as Grayling says, Aristotle said that the point of education was to make "noble use of our leisure". Education isn't about getting a job; it's about one's life and what one does with it, and permits one to be a "responsible contributor to public conversation", and indeed a responsible voter, too. Looking at the future of reading, Grayling is optimistic, suggesting that there will always be readers, and always people who do find necessary stimulation in books, even if the nature of "books" as we know them is overtaken by technology. The content of books "will never be far from the centre of a genuinely civilised society".

Carol Ann Duffy

Carol Ann Duffy is, it seems, fast becoming something of a grande dame of British poetry, and with good reason. I have always enjoyed her poems, but it wasn't until I went to hear her read at the Birmingham Book Festival earlier this week that I realised just how well-written her poems are, and how they stand up to scrutiny. "Something for everyone" is a phrase I use but generally dislike, but it does seem to be kind of true in this case: she opened her reading with extracts from 'The Laughter of Stafford Girls High', a poem which rather reminds me of my own schooldays and the infectious laughter of teenage girls (although usually schools don't need to be closed down because of laughter!) It's a funny poem, unsurprisingly, being about laughter, but it's also an amazingly descriptive poems that captures individuals caught up in a mass movement of laughter. Certainly Duffy's reading raised much laughter from the audience.

Her next few poems were also familiar to me, and no doubt to many in the audience: 'Mrs Midas', 'Mrs Aesop', 'Mrs Faust' - these are also funny poems, and yet as she reads, with a dry humour and a delicious slowness which lingers on the words, her choice of words becomes ever more significant. Everyone should have to listen to poetry read aloud properly (not the mangled syllables of the classroom) - listening, one is forced to become a passive auditor, which allows the imagination that much more action, and imbues the poems with something quite different. I was disappointed that she didn't read one of my favourite poems, though, 'A Dreaming Week' from her book Feminine Gospels, which seems langorously to play with words for the hell of it, and the effect is sensuous, soporific and somehow thrilling. Duffy is also a poet who knows the power of repetition - either of words or of sounds of words, and she uses it not just for humorous effect but also for pathos and drama, which even her most amusing poems contain.

Finally, she read some more serious poems from her most recent book, Rapture. This is rather different from her other work, being a book of love poems, but there's nothing soppy or unneccessary here. The book is based on the "fractured sonnet form", she says, suggesting that the sonnet is a kind of secular prayer: short, memorable, adhering to conventions, and expressing very personal emotions. She told the audience that she had abandoned religion at fifteen, and now feels that "prayer must be a comfort for believers, but atheists have only art". The last poem she read, 'Prayer', reflects this, using secular images to fill the mind in a kind of worship. All her poems seem to have a kind of intertextuality - referring to other poems, other forms, works of art - yet she makes them entirely available to the audience, chatting as she goes about Greek mythology, T S Eliot, Shakespeare, mobile phones, cups of tea...I wouldn't have missed it for the world.

The Ladies of Grace Adieu

The Ladies of Grace Adieu by Susanna Clarke is a gem. Not just in the contents, but also in the book itself - I won't go on about the materiality of the text, etc, but it's a beautifully designed book, lovely cover and wonderful, ethereal illustrations by the peerless Charles Vess. Actually, the book as a whole rather reminded me of a book of short stories by Walter de la Mare that I had as a child (the name escapes me) with illustrations in a similar style, and stories of similar jewel-like perfection.
Of course Clarke is best known for Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell, which I haven't read but have just ordered from Amazon. I can't comment on that well-received work, therefore, but I hope it will be as enchanting as this book. And enchanting is just the right word; it's all about enchantment - Clarke reworks fairytales, or develops her own characters from her earlier novel, creating a world which is entirely seductive. Here, the world of faery mingles with the world we know, bewildering but captivating. Clarke cleverly presents the book as an edited collection by the fictional "Professor James Sutherland, Director of Sidhe studies, University of Aberdeen" (the Sidhe are an ancient race of Celtic fairies - you can read more about them here). This professor introduces the stories as curiosities, relics of another time, collected and edited with footnotes by him. We are therefore invited to read these stories as anecdotes by people who, from the sixteenth century onwards, have actually seen and interacted with fairies. What makes it so intriguing is that the tales are thus placed within an entirely fictional context of a canon of studies which doesn't exist, playing with the boundaries of the academic, the fictional, and genuine research into folk-tales.
I don't think I'm doing it justice here; there is a marvellous wistful quality to Clarke's writing which makes the rhythm of the tales hypnotic; furthermore, she has an excellent ear for the cadences of writing in a certain period; her 18th century prose would do justice to Austen while her Elizabethans are almost (modernised) Spenserian. I don't know anything about Clarke, but I bet she knows her Eng Lit. It's an absolute delight; do read it.

That beautiful pale face is my fate

Last week I read this article in the Times about Newstead Abbey, Byron's home, and an exhibition being held there concerning the relation between Byron and contemporary culture. As I was in the area over the weekend, I decided to have a look...

I've been working on how contemporary culture adapts and interacts with the past, as I'm writing a paper for this conference about adapting the 19th century, so I was looking forward to seeing this exhibition, That beautiful pale face is my fate (said by Lady Caroline Lamb of Byron) but while I was there, it didn't quite do it for me - perhaps I'm not observant enough, but sometimes I couldn't tell which exhibits were part of the art exhibition and which were part of the standing display. Still, having read the brochure (after I got home) actually it seems much more interesting and relevant than I thought at the time, annoyingly. The Gothic side of it appeals to me, of course, and exhibits like Goshka Macuga's image of Byron etched onto a mirror suggest Byron's interest in his own image, as well as the modern preoccupation with public image and celebrity. I also quite like the idea that there are modern inheritors of the Byronic persona, although I'm not sure I would have picked the same people as Marcia Farquhar. Read the Times article - it'll give a much better indication of it than I can.

The abbey itself is wonderfully Gothic, though - Byron used to sit up at night with his friends, dressed as monks and drinking from a goblet made of a human skull (Thomas Love Peacock's Nightmare Abbey was based on his circle) and despite later alterations made to the building and its decor by its later owners, you can still sense what appealed to Byron. Anyway, it's inspired me to re-read Don Juan.

But words are things, and a small drop of ink,
Falling like dew, upon a thought, produces
That which makes thousands, perhaps millions, think;
'Tis strange, the shortest letter which man uses
Instead of speech, may form a lasting link
Of ages; to what straits old Time reduces
Frail man, when paper - even a rag like this - ,
Survives himself, his tomb, and all that's his.

Next Poet Laureate?

Tee hee (from the Times Books section last week)

The current laureate is Andrew Motion, but as it's now a decade-long post rather than a life-time position, we're nearly due another one. There have been calls for the first female laureate, detailed here, but many of the women have said they wouldn't be interested (see here). Of course, the first female laureate should have been Christina Rossetti, on the death of Tennyson, but Queen Victoria wouldn't countenance a woman laureate (and probably Rossetti would have declined it anyway) so instead they appointed the truly unmemorable Alfred Austin.

Anna Akhmatova

I'm reading the poems of Anna Akhmatova (in translation; I'm learning Russian, but not that quickly!) I don't know much about Russian poetry (other than a little bit about Formalist criticism) so am trying to learn, and was very interested by the introduction which mentions that she was part of the Acemist movement, or Guild of Poets, formed in Russia in 1910. Apparently the Acemists had had enough of Symbolism, and wanted concrete images, bringing poets and poetry back to earth, as it were. Their aim was "direct expression through images", as their manifesto, The Morning of Acmeism suggests.
Akhmatova's poetry is enthralling - unlike anything I've ever read. I'm sure it's partly due to translation issues (and I am planning to get my Russian good enough to read it in the original) but the poems seem to have a flavour of haiku, not just in their preoccupation with the natural world but also their conciseness and lack of high-flown sentiment. Acmeism seems to me to be a readily identifiable movement through this. (If "acme" means "the highest point", I suppose their intention was that this would be the peak of Russian poetry).
The poem 'The Guest' (1914) is both terrifying (in a very Gothic way) and quite concrete in its images; amazing how Akhmatova creates a sinister atmosphere without symbol or surface emotion. Apparently she was attacked by the Soviet state who claimed that the "mists of loneliness and hopelessness [were] alien to Soviet literature". Yet she created these mists from the materials of the world around her, like a sorcerer conjuring up a genie from a lantern. Both this and the haiku-nature of her poetry is illustrated in 'Parting', one of her many poems about love and loss:
Evening, sloping
path before me.
Only yesterday, in love -
he implored, 'Don't forget.'
Now only the winds
and the cries of the shepherds.
The cedars in uproar
by the clean springs.
(Trans. Richard McKane)

The Uncommon Reader

The Times recently described Alan Bennett as a national treasure, and here he is writing about another national treasure: the Queen. Yes, the real Queen - Elizabeth II, though he never actually names her, but contemporary references make it quite clear who she is. This book has been reviewed a lot recently as a perfect beach-read; for me, it was the perfect accompaniment to a train journey - not too demanding, suitably thought-provoking and just the right length (121 pages). The premise of the book is perfect: what if the Queen stumbled upon a mobile library whilst walking her corgis, and became an avid reader? What if she discovered the hitherto unknown and often subversive delights of literature, even neglecting her duties to pursue this new voracious interest?

Not only the Queen - who becomes more and more human and interesting as her reading takes over - but also the characters surrounding her, stuffed-shirt Palace officials, librarians etc, are comically described. It's an amusing read (for example, after reading Proust, she says, ‘the curious thing about it was that when he dipped his cake in his tea (disgusting habit) the whole of his past life came back to him. Well, I tried it and it had no effect on me at all.’ However, it's more thought-provoking than that; the effect that literature can have is explored in all its glory. Actually, I was gripped by the very first page, in which HM questions the president of France on his views on Jean Genet: 'Homosexual and jailbird, was he nevertheless as bad as he was painted? Or, more to the point,' - and she took up her soup spoon - 'was he as good?'

Of course, a Queen who reads - really reads, proper literature, the written equivalent of heroin -is dangerous; she is perceived by those around her as being out of control. Is literature that dangerous? Can it upset what we see as normal, stable, day-to-day life? Of course it can - or what's the point of it? Bennett is gently poking fun, on the surface; but underneath one suspects he is raging at the lack of cultural understanding there seems to be in this country. This particular reader is 'uncommon' not because she is the Queen (and therefore as uncommon as one can be!) but because she is really reading, with a sensitive inner eye that understands, digests, really thinks for herself and is not afraid of the consequences. If only more readers were that uncommon.

Aurora Leigh (essential reading for EVERYONE)

I just like this:

For 'tis not in mere death that men die most;
And, after our first girding of the loins
In youth's fine linen and fair broidery,
To run up hill and meet the rising sun,
We are apt to sit tired, patient as a fool,
While others gird us with the violent bands
Of social figments, feints, and formalisms,
Reversing our straight nature, lifting up
Our base needs, keeping down our lofty thoughts,
Head downward on the cross-sticks of the world.

From Aurora Leigh, by Elizabeth Barrett Browning, 1856

Sound poems

I spent some considerable time this year explaining "what is poetry?" to undergrads. No, it doesn't have to rhyme, it doesn't have to have a narrative thread, etc etc - but does it have to make sense? In fact, does it even have to use words? Seahorses and Flying Fish had my class in hysterics, and I still can't decide if I think it's poetry. I like multi-media work, so this is interesting in that it juxtaposes image and sound, but....well, there are lots of buts. In some ways it's closer to music - perhaps.

The Mitford Sisters

A few years ago, I read The Mitford Girls by Mary S. Lovell - mostly because The Pursuit of Love and Love in a Cold Climate by Nancy Mitford are two of my most re-read books. I wrote this about it when I read it:
This has to be one of the most enjoyable biographies I have read for a long time. Although it's not a short book, it makes easy reading, written as it is in Mary Lovell's delightful style that is strongly reminiscent of Nancy Mitford's books. If you know her books, you'll love it for the insight into her life behind the books, particularly the girls' fascinating childhood; if you don't you'll be intrigued by the ups and downs of the family fortunes and their friendships with notable figures from Hitler to the Kennedys. This book is not just a biography of a famous and remarkable family, it is also a panoramic view of the history of the last century. Whatever happened, a Mitford was there - the war (both in Germany and Britain), the Communist movement, and so much more.Reading biography is almost as much an art as writing one, in the way each reader relates personally to the characters with whom they become intellectually involved, and in the reading of this book it is easy to become very involved indeed and, unlike many biographies, it does not seem to fade away towards the end; Mary Lovell's writing retains our interest right until the close.

So, at Easter this year I commenced reading The Mitfords: Letters Between Six Sisters, edited by Charlotte Mosley, while I was on holiday. A word of advice: for goodness' sake read the paperback. I started this in March; I finished it yesterday. The only other book that's taken me that long to read is The Golden Notebook - but that's another story... Anyway, the problem is that the hardback Mitford letters is so heavy that my usual reading-places - the bath and the bus - are out, so I got through it reading about ten letters a night in bed. But I have to say, it's been worth the slog! Sometimes reading editions of letters is about as exciting as reading a shopping list, so I've been trying to work out why this one kept me interested. Well, as the review above notes, they did know everyone, which is interesting in itself. More, though, it's their acerbic wit - no qualms about being rude, about others or to each other. I loved their names for everyone (the Queen Mother is Cake, because of a comment she made about a cake); and the little anecdotes they tell each other, very amusingly (such as Roy Hattersely's teeth falling out in the middle of lunch).

The book is highly entertaining; but it's more than that. For one thing, as an only child I just don't understand sibling relationships, so for me it was an interesting insight into the wildly differing relationships they had with each other. The letters are also very telling in their frank, sensible way of discussing marriage, children, society dinners and the trials of old age - the latter being particularly moving, especially as the sisters die. Another intriguing aspect was their concern - particularly Deborah, Diana and Jessica - for their public face - the books they wrote and that were written about them, and their desire to protect the memory of their parents and sister Unity.

The letters are sensitively edited (Charlotte Moseley is Diana Mitford's daughter-in-law), with footnotes explaining in-jokes or obscure references, and the volume is also indexed, which must have been a labour of love. It's well worth reading - it just shouldn't take three months to do so!

A Room of One's Own

Women Writers at the National Portrait Gallery

9 December 2006 - 17 June 2007, Room 31 - 20th Century Galleries. Showcase display.

This is possibly the smallest exhibition I've ever gone out of my way to see, but I'm glad I did, because it got me thinking about things. It's one case, with no more than 25 (at a guess) portraits, but there's a lot of food for thought there. The exhibition is all photographs, all black and white, and all very evocative. The most striking thing about it is that if, like me, you write, you look at these women and wonder what there is that's like you, and what's different. This is, of course, both dangerous and utterly pointless, since these immaculate women in (usually)carefully posed photographs from the early 20th century are worlds away from us - much further, of course, in person than in their work, which remains relevant and is enduringly enjoyed. Nowadays writers are stereotyped as people who sit at their computer in their pyjamas all day; then, they seemed to have beautiful studies in country houses and always, always wore lipstick.

There's a strong feeling in me that what they looked like shouldn't matter. Male or female, rotund, glamorous, hairy, whatever, it doesn't matter; what matters is their writing, which comes from inside. (Although that leads me to another question I wonder about - how does our outward appearance - pretty child, ugly duckling, spotty teenager, etc, affect our character? Haven't got time for that now though.) But if the external doesn't matter, at least as far as writers are concerned, then why do we look? Why do we turn to the back inside cover of a novel to look at the picture of the author? And why, for that matter, would anyone go to this exhibition? Perhaps we put too much emphasis on appearance. Although - a slightly exonerating factor - I at least like the period detail, the immaculate desks and the glamorous women writers, because to me that's aspirational. It would be interesting to know how many people who went to see this exhibition were writers themselves. I suppose the other appeal is how independent they are. Writers, it seems, are never photographed with anyone else. And given that for many of these women, independence was the point, it's highlighted here. (Ivy Compton Burnett is quoted as saying that writing flourished because of: 'Being single, and having some money, and having the time - having no men, you see'.)

The other thing that struck me is their eyes - or, more specifically, their gazes. The situation of women in the world has often been defined by the (male) gaze, and the relative aspects of womanhood that appear through the gaze. For writers, this is, arguably, intensified. Writers both divert the public gaze from themselves, deflecting it with words, hiding behind their writing. Equally, though, they are opening up to the gaze, becoming public figures (hence these photographs) and revealing themselves through their writing. So what happens to their own gaze? The all-seeing eye of the writer is fanously feared; they scrutinise, dissect with their eyes, minutely examine. Many of the writers featured in this exhibition represent this, with their challenging gaze piercing the camera (for example, Daphne du Maurier).

Some look just slightly away, like Dodie Smith. And aren't you thinking, "Does she look like the kind of woman who wrote 101 Dalmations and I Capture the Castle?" I think so, but it's irrelevant, because she did.

Others appear reticent, however, gazing down or away from the camera, evidently lost in writerly reverie, but perhaps simply being evasive. After all, if you create worlds in books for the public to consume, why would you want to give them any more of yourself? Why not be evasive, not allowing the world any more of you than they have? If the eyes are a window of the soul, maybe that soul needs to be cloistered sometimes. Writers are often very private people, they say, so why expect anything other than a challenging belligerence or an evasive reserve? I think we expect too much of our writers; they are, as these pictures show, only human after all - and perhaps that's what we need to see.