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Among the pleasures of reading a good book is reliving the pleasures of other wonderful texts it evokes. Among the pleasures of reading The Age of Innocence
was the breadth of references it summoned. More than a hundred years -- and a gulf of sensibilities, aesthetics and styles of humor -- separate the two that resonate most deeply for me: Henry James' The Portrait of a Lady
, and Stephen Dobyns' "Spiritual Chickens."
Wharton's novel owes so much (including its protagonist's last name) to James' Portrait
that mentioning the debt borders on pedantry. Wharton would likely be so appalled by Dobyns that the connection risks absurdity. And yet the two references serve to reinforce the same idea: that our choices about how to engage with the multi-layered nature of reality (to perceive, to deny) define us.
In Portrait of a Lady
, Isabel Archer takes the measure of unyielding reality in a scene
when she sits thinking long into the night. She has deluded herself into marrying the wrong man. She sees through her illusions to the unpleasant substance of her husband Osmond's personality. She realizes also an intimacy between Osmond and a family friend, Madame Merle, who introduced them. The sleep-deprived and hermetic intensity of her thought succeeds in disturbing the surface of her reality and rearranges the relations between herself, Osmond and Merle. Although Isabel is not ready to articulate her newfound understanding to herself, she comprehends that Merle and Osmond are collaborators in some manipulation against her.
The scene finds its parallel in The Age of Innocence
when Newland Archer hosts the first formal dinner of his marriage to mark the occasion of the departure of the love his life, Madame Ellen Olenska. Newland has been blindsided by Ellen's announcement of her return to Europe, and he is barely functional:
Archer, who seemed to be assisting at the scene in a state of odd imponderability, as if he floated where between chandelier and ceiling, wondered at nothing so much as his own share in the proceedings. As his glance travelled from one placid well-fed face to another he saw all the harmless looking [dinner guests] . . . as a band of dumb conspirators, and himself and the pale woman on his right [Ellen] as the centre of their conspiracy. And then it came over him, in a vast flash made up of many broken gleams, that to all of them he and Madame Olenska were lovers . . . . He guessed himself to have been, for months, the centre of countless silently observing eyes and patiently listening ears, he understood that, by means as yet unknown to him, the separation between himself and the partner of his guilt had been achieved, and that now the whole tribe had rallied about his wife on the tacit assumption that nobody knew anything . . . .
Like Isabel Archer, Newland Archer arrives at this moment of revelation after a process of delusion. Unable to possess Ellen Olenska physically and share his intellectual and emotional intimacies with her in the course of quotidian living,
he had built up within himself a kind of sanctuary in which she throned among his secret thoughts and longings. Little by little it became the scene of his real life, of his only rational activities; thither he brought the books he read, the ideas and feelings which nourished him, his judgments and his visions. Outside it, in the scene of his actual life, he moved with a growing sense of unreality and insufficiency, blundering against familiar prejudices and traditional points of view as an absentminded man goes on bumping into the furniture of his own room. Absent -- that was what he was: so absent from everything most densely real and near to those about him that it sometimes startled him to find they still imagined he was there.
This habit of absenteeism reaches its apotheosis at book's end, when Newland Archer opts not to meet Ellen Olenska again, after 27 years. "'It's more real to me here [on a bench outside her flat] than if I went up [to meet her]', he suddenly heard himself say."
In this behaviour, Newland Archer anticipates the unnamed protagonist of Stephen Dobyns' brilliant poem, "Spiritual Chickens
." Confronted by a chicken he has eaten seven years ago, a chicken returned to the earthly plain because of overcrowding on the spiritual one, a man "runs out of his house / flapping his arms and making peculiar hops."
Faced with the choice between something odd
in the world or something broken in his head,
he opts for the broken head. Certainly,
this is safer than putting his opinions
. . . .
As it is he is constantly being squeezed
between the world and his idea of the world.
Better to have a broken head -- why surrender
his corner on truth? -- better to just go crazy.
Sadly for Newland Archer, he's not as interesting as Dobyns' protagonist. He has opted to go AWOL instead of crazy, abandoned his life instead of cracking it. But the fault runs along the same line: cowardice.
A little more than a hundred and thirty years ago, Henry James set out to tell the story of a woman colliding with her destiny; today we might describe her less grandiosely, as a woman "constantly being squeezed / between the world and [her] idea of the world." Plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose
: however worded, the situation remains the crucible of our character, and the measure of our worth. Embrace of the depths of reality yields the only guaranteed rewards of this existence ("the flower of life" in Wharton's words); avoidance reaps failure.
And The Age of Innocence
? By providing the opportunity to draw a line between Isabel Archer's gloomy insomnia and Stephen Dobyns' delightful ghost chicken, the harvest has been sheer pleasure. Image of Edith Wharton from
The New York Times website
; image of Henry James from New York University website.
Moralizing around Edith Wharton's The Age of Innocence
is difficult to resist. The book's unsatisfying resolution defies attempts to file it away under "well-constructed story about the age-old conflict between individual self-realization and familial constraint." Wharton makes so concrete Newland Archer's sacrifice of the love of his life, Ellen Olenska, that the mind demands some purpose to redeem the carnage that has deprived Newland Archer of "the flower of life." The affront of the novel's conclusion begs the question: what is the meaning of this?
Closing the book and musing on what I had learned, I was most immediately struck by how The Age of Innocence
illustrates that courage is not so much a quality as a discipline. Without practice, a person cannot exercise it.
In giving up Olenska, Archer capitulates to "the old New York way" of placing "decency above courage." Decency arises from the discharge of duties, and duties in turn convey dignity: as Wharton explains, Archer's two-and-a-half decade marriage "had shown him that it did not so much matter if marriage was a dull duty, as long as it kept the dignity of a duty."
Dignity, of course, is necessary for human happiness and the realization of individual potential. But the dignity deriving from duty, though critical for social stability and integral to moral engagement with one's family and community, is not without its drawbacks: "The worst of doing one's duty was that it apparently unfitted one for doing anything else."
Specifically, it "unfits" one for acts of courage: by the novel's last page, Archer cannot face meeting Olenska again; cannot face his emotions so long under wraps ("He had to deal all at once with the packed regrets and stifled memories of an inarticulate lifetime"); cannot face modernity ("Say I'm old-fashioned: that's enough"); cannot face reality ("It's more real to me here than if I went up [to meet her]").
The dignity of duty is necessary, but not sufficient, for a fully lived life.
Of course, in the choice between courage and decency, dignity is a common element: it flows as much from acts of bravery as from the discharge of duty. The difference arises elsewhere. Courage is a more destabilizing value to cultivate: courageous people are much more difficult to control than decent ones. But courage is also more nourishing than decency: courageous people have a much better chance both of attaining "the flower of life" and of simultaneously being good people.
Ellen Olenska herself demonstrates this possibility. She is courageous: defying social convention, and at personal and financial loss, she leaves her husband. She tries to establish a satisfying life in New York, and (again, flouting conventions) she negotiates various degrees of independence (physically and geographically, though not financially) from her family, who find her difficult to control. She is, at the same time, a woman bound by duties: she undertakes the care of her aunt, Medora (who had raised her), and she refuses any betrayal of her cousin, May Welland, despite her love of May's husband, Newland Archer. When May manipulatively reveals that she is pregnant, Ellen abandons her efforts at living in the United States and retreats to Europe so as to snuff any possibility that she and Newland can consummate their love.
Although Ellen Olenska's flight snaps the bud of Newland Archer's life before it can bloom, she herself is not so disabled. He has lost the love of his life and spends the next twenty-six years in a tomb ("a deathly sense of the superiority of implication and analogy over direct action, and of silence over rash words, closed in on [Newland Archer] like the doors of the family vault").
The indicators suggest that her fate is otherwise. She has suffered a grievous loss, certainly; but her balance of courage, dignity and duty have enabled her to enjoy a full life before Newland Archer (one enriched perhaps more by pain than joy, but she has known ecstasy as well), and she will continue to do so after Newland Archer.
Courage has fitted her for life.Image of Daniel Day-Lewis as Newland Archer in Martin Scorsese's film version of
The Age of Innocence from Gonemovie.com
Gambling is a turn-off for me on a variety of grounds. First, boredom. If I make an effort, I am capable of enjoying a game of chance, but fundamentally outcomes determined by chance, rather than effort, frustrate me. And frustration is boring. Second, aesthetics. Las Vegas is vulgar. Race tracks are ugly. OTB is seedy. Lotteries are cheap.
Jaimy Gordon's Lord of Misrule
overcame my prejudices -- captivated me before prejudice came into it -- by pointedly undermining both these objections. I loved spending time in this novel -- "in" being warranted by its transporting prose that invoked a fresh imaginative space, as well as a seemingly altered physical state. I didn't take my pulse while reading, but I bet it slowed, so relaxed was the pleasure I took in the plot's unhurried unfurling. So: not boring. And: not aesthetically offensive. To the contrary, though the novel canvasses an impressively broad array of ugliness, the writing imbues life with that rare and treasured quality: beauty.
What most impressed me, though, was the novel's gentle inversion of my hierarchies. Roughly speaking, I don't respect the way addicts deal with the world. I recognize that not all gamblers are addicts, but I respect non-addict gamblers even less than the addicts: the non-addicts, at least, have some control over their behaviour.
And yet what I felt for the gamblers in Lord of Misrule
was not contempt, but empathy. Luck is the nasty wild card in the pack from which we all draw. However meritorious our hand, the unworthy get lucky, and the deserving go unrewarded. This situation is reality. It's also very difficult to accept. Nor do we like to discuss it or remember it. The role of luck in the lives of every successful person is not unlike the diagnosis of a venereal disease: unspeakable, forgotten or ignored if possible. For this condition, Chekhov prescribed his hammer
("At the door of every happy person there should be a man with a hammer
whose knock would serve as a constant reminder of the existence of
Gordon discusses it unforgettably. Her gamblers are the unrewarded. Worthy and unworthy alike, they are undone by chance. Gambling is part of their ritual for trying to keep it together, part of their fight to thrive. Their stakes are no different from those of the Greek and Roman protagonists wrestling fate: life and (sometimes) death; but, even if not death, unbidden metamorphosis, radical change, upheaval.
Yet despite the epic stakes, these gamblers have none of the distancing glamour of mythic forerunners. Losers, all of them, they are above everything accessible. They invite embrace and seem to reciprocate, even without being lovable, or even particularly likable. In their company, the enormous role of luck comes to seem, if not acceptable, at least bearable. Even, at times, beautiful.
young Jaimy Gordon from a 1983 interview in Gargoyle Magazine
The Haunting of Hill House
casts a pleasant pall, inducing in the reader a physical state of mild anxiety that seasons, as much as it quickens, the page-turning. And the book contains one truly dreadful scene that left me revolted: in the middle of the night, Nell and Theodora sit up in their beds, holding hands in the dark and cold -- holding so tightly they can feel the bones in each others' hands -- listening to ghostly babbling from the next room. Then the sound of a child being hurt and crying interrupts the babbling, and Nell summons the courage to shout, "Stop it!" At which point, the dark dissipates, the light is on, and Theodora wakes, asking Nell why she is shouting. Nell (and I!) are overcome by the question: "whose hand was I holding?" (p. 120.)
But for all the marvelous frightfulness of The Haunting of Hill House
, the scary aspect of the story is not the supernatural manifestations of evil. To the contrary, the terror arises from the profound -- ordinary, realistic -- isolation that Nell suffers. Although Nell tells herself that she is a "human, . . . a walking reasoning humorous human being," (p. 120), humans are social animals, and Nell consistently endures deprivation of normal social contact. Instead of being mothered, Nell must nurse her mother through illness. Friendless and jobless, Nell lives on the despised periphery of her sister's family. Nell is so without succor that when she needs support, she thinks back to an encounter with a stranger, an old lady who promised in passing to pray for Nell.
Nell's exile from the terrain of familial, communal and social human interaction -- from the web of human connections against which our identities emerge -- from the context humans need to be human -- evokes another heroine of another iconic ghost story: the governess in Henry James' The Turn of the Screw
. The governess also appears without recourse to necessary human support: her boss has instructed her never to contact him, and she seems to lack intimates (parents, siblings, friends) who can provide her with guidance. That neither woman has a paramour or husband goes without saying; indeed, the implicit assumption is that both women are virgins -- unloved, unwanted, adult innocents.
The significance of these protagonists' ambiguous social standing is not, as Edmund Wilson would have it
, that socially neglected women are likely to be sexual hysterics prone to hallucinations, but that the liminal space both women inhabit is the horror in these stories. Nell and the governess belong nowhere -- no lover, people or home claims them (with the caveat that evil Hill House does exert claim over Nell, which explains part of her attraction to it) -- but they
have done nothing to warrant such exile: they lack even the definition
of the banished. The mechanics of their bodies function, and their
physical existence confirms "life," but human life has only theoretical
existence outside the context of human society. As social animals denied the "social," Nell and the governess live in earthly purgatory; like the category-transgressing "dead restored" (p. 64) -- Quint and Miss Jessel -- in The Turn of the Screw
, Nell and the governess are, in a sense, themselves ghosts.
In both stories, our horror derives from the plausibility of such a fate. The supernatural manifestations and the deaths they precipitate in both books are a relief -- a venting of the tension arising from the unavoidable risk we all bear of occupying in our life times a purgatory, of finding ourselves in the borderlands between the living and the dead. By this measure, death, with its unambiguous finality, is a kind of happy ending.
That thought brought me lingering sadness as I closed The Haunting of Hill House
: what a miserable person Nell was, and what a pathetic life she led. The total absence of redemption -- neither cruel nor sentimental, but simply fact -- is the scariest aspect of this book, and the way Jackson guides the reader to this culminating truth and supports our absorption of it is a triumph. Image of Shirley Jackson from www.shirleyjackson.org.
Great artists are so frequently assholes that I have learned to compartmentalize. Ok, so Lord Byron was loathsome in his relations with women; doesn't stop me from admiring his work unstintingly.
Whether such compartmentalization is difficult to maintain or distasteful - probably a bit of both - it's not a popular approach. People prefer judgments. There's a pleasing equanimity in being able to say, for example, that because Picasso hated women, Cubism amounted to a visual violence against women - cutting up the planes of their faces and bodies and rearranging them - and that our assessment of Picasso's achievement should be accordingly tempered. In a world where bad produces bad, we find stability.
Such a world is not the one in which we find ourselves.
As a result, many people require a certain amount of creative narrative to rationalize situations in which bad produces good. Maurice Malingue is one such person.
Malingue was the editor of Paul Gaugin's letters to Mette Gad, his wife, and others. Working in the middle of the last century, Malingue attempted to reconcile aspects of Gauguin's life that were in some tension: on the one hand, he was a genius painter; on the other hand, he was an asshole.
The facts supporting Paul Gaugin's categorization as an "asshole" are as follows: After fathering five children, he quit his job, lived apart from his family and contributed little to his family's support or upkeep. He was openly unfaithful to his wife. He did not return home either when his favorite daughter, Aline, or his favorite son, Clovis, died, both in their early twenties. That Gauguin had syphilis, apparently of the variety that leads to madness, is something of a mitigating factor, though he seems to have contracted it after he set himself on the path of abandoning his family.
What Malingue made of these facts is laugh-out-loud funny to today's reader, who is at least 150 years too removed from the Romantics to be reflexively sympathetic to Gauguin's choices. Malingue has no such scruples. With a zeal unknown to generation acclimated to a divorce rate of roughly 50%, Malingue - in the Preface to Letters to his Wife and Friends
- attacks Gauguin's wife, Mette Gad, and condemns her for expecting Gauguin to support his family:
[Gauguin's] letters constitute the most . . . overwhelming indictments in the trial of Mette Gauguin, who can now be charged with incomprehension of the artist, indifference towards the man, and with having as a wife failed the father of her five children.
. . . .
Mette, in contrast with wives of innumerable artists, found it difficult to contemplate poverty for herself and her children.
. . . .
It is probable that Mette, the daughter of an official, brought up with some degree of mental freedom but in the observance of somewhat rigid moral principles, never could understand how a father of five children could throw up a comfortable position without bothering what was to become of his family.
Of Gauguin's abandonment of his children, Malingue remarks:
[Gauguin] is a father who suffered keenly in living apart from his children. Obviously, he could have had them with him if he wanted to. He renounced his paternal duties deliberately, because constrained to do so by the demands of his art. The presence of his children would have imposed on him paternal obligations.
As for Gauguin's infidelity, Malingue takes a (dare I suggest typically French?) brazen line:
[Gauguin] plunged into casual amours at Pont-Aven, set up house in Paris with a Javanese, and in Tahiti bedevilled hussies invaded his bed every night.
These "bedevilled hussies" were 14 year-old girls who Gauguin took as his live-in companions. (In Mario Vargas Llosa's telling - in This Way to Paradise
- far from finding his bed "invaded" every night, the aging, broke and syphilitic Gauguin, whose legs were covered with sores, and who lacked money necessary to feed even himself, struggled to find girls willing to live with him.)
Of course, Malingue is full of shit. Mette might not have been a creative woman, but she was in no way wrong (or even "rigid" in her morals) to expect financial support from her husband and the father of her many children. Caring for five children might be inconvenient for Paul Gauguin, but the existence of children - not their presence or absence - imposes parental obligations; abandoning one's children geographically does not absolve a parent of responsibilities, however much one's time needs to be devoted to art. As for adulterous husbands, at a minimum one can demand that they be discrete and steer clear of minors.
In fairness to Malingue, he lived in a different era, when he was not alone in being relatively receptive to justifying the bad acts of a genius, done in the name of his art. All the same, Malingue's thinking - in any age - is slavish and lazy, the automatic "yes" of a dazzled fan.
Today, the trend is towards the opposite error, of dismissing Gauguin's mastery because he was an adulterous pedophile and a deadbeat dad. But such reasoning would be equally slavish (to PC standards) and lazy.
We live in a world in which good can come from bad. In which - Malingue is almost certainly right - Gauguin could desperately miss his children, and yet do nothing to be with them or help them. In which Gauguin's actions can be wrong and sick, and still the general public is much the better for them.
The accurate narrative is the critical and rigorous one, the one that describes the world in its ambiguity, and that captures and conjures what beauty there is in such a world as ours. It's not an easy narrative to tell or to absorb, not a narrative that likely to gain popular currency. And yet it's the narrative in Gauguin's painting; it's the reason, in fact, that Gauguin is great.
(Image of Paul Gauguin's Self-portrait with the Yellow Christ from the National Gallery of Australia website
Back in January, I blogged
about recording my second novel, The Swing of Beijing
, as an audiobook. I am sorry to say that the experience has taught me several life lessons in the manner through which I most commonly learn: the hard way.
First lesson: location, location, location! Eureka, California is about as good a place for recording an audiobook as coastal Japan is for a nuclear power plant. Quite simply, the audio engineer talent isn't in Eureka. If you want an audio engineer who is incapable of recording the spoken word inside a booth without also recording himself zipping up his hoodie outside
the booth - along with picking up other technical noises, like 60-cycle hums, which shouldn't be on the track - then by all means, record in Eureka.
Second lesson: notwithstanding my default assumption that most people in the world are basically well-intentioned and doing the best they can, the world is occasionally peopled with unprofessional, unethical scoundrels. Such folk may be disguised as soft-spoken, physically-pathetic, socially-awkward sound engineers to whom one may be predisposed to show kindness. But for reasons known best to themselves, the mask slips, and they reveal themselves: in my case, the incompetent sound engineer held my master audio file hostage and demanded a ransom of more than a hundred dollars in excess of the hundreds of dollars I'd already paid him . . . for an ultimately unusable recording.
Third lesson: people who deserve to be sued don't have to be sued by you. I didn't pay the ransom, but I did retain a lawyer. And another sound engineer. The lawyer sent a demand letter, which threatened to sue the first sound engineer if he didn't return the master audio file to me. The second sound engineer meanwhile analyzed some mp3 files made from the master audio file, a process that revealed that the master was hopelessly flawed and useless.
Thus, when the first sound engineer responded to the demand letter by refusing to return the master audio file, I found myself without much reason to pursue litigation. I could ask for a refund, yes, and punitive damages, as well; but the impetus for the suit had never been money: the audio recording was my voice, my novel, my creation - and I wanted it back. If it was, in fact, unusable, then I wasn't much interested in being the instrument of punishment for the Eureka-based, unprofessional, unethical sound engineer: let adult-onset diabetes, or some other lifestyle disease related to his obesity and general decrepitude, finish him off.
Fourth lesson: the fact that I paid $1,150 to two sound engineers and an attorney and ended up with nothing isn't the kind of fact that I should dwell on. Financial loss is an unavoidable fact of life, especially for artists, and apparently for me in particular, and acceptance is the only manner of dealing that isn't going to impair my quality of life (to say nothing of my emotional calm). Instead, I will focus on this soothing, amusing quote
from E.M. Forster's A Passage to India
, in which Aziz says:
If money goes, money comes. If money stays, death comes. Did you ever hear that useful Urdu proverb? Probably not, for I have just invented it. The Swing of Beijing
will be available as an audiobook at some future, but as-of-yet undetermined, date.
(Photo of Alice Forney personifying the Goddess of Frustration in Relation to Sound Recordings by Maya Alexandri)