“Jonathan
Swift had an obscure relationship with two girls--Esther Johnson and Esther
Vanhomrigh, better known as Stella and Vanessa. A father in God (Swift was, of
course, the Dean of St. Patrick's in Dublin) evinced a somewhat unfatherly
interest in two of his spiritual daughters, and these two young women are
conjoined in Finnegans Wake in the
personality of HCE's daughter Isobel.”
It’s
another Irishman, Beckett, not Joyce, I hear most clearly in Swift’s prose –
the same precision or mock-precision, clarity or mock-clarity. In Letter XV of Journal
to Stella, dated Feb. 1, 1711, Swift writes: “I was this morning with poor Lady
Kerry, who is much worse in her head than I. She sends me bottles of her
bitter, and we are so fond of one another, because our ailments are the same.”
There’s
a familiar Beckett theme – fondness or love rooted in – what? Shared illness,
incapacity, pain. After World War II, Beckett wrote one of his best stories, “Premier amour,” which he later translated
as “First Love.” (Apropos of nothing, Turgenev, Nabokov and Welty also wrote
stories with that title.) Here is Beckett’s Swiftian recitation of bodily
disgust:
“To
be nothing but pain, how that would simplify matters! Omnidolent! Impious
dream. I’ll tell them to you some day none the less, if I think of it, if I
can, my strange pains, in detail, distinguishing between the different kinds,
for the sake of clarity, those of the mind, those of the heart or emotional
conative, those of the soul (none prettier than these) and finally those of the
frame proper, first the inner or latent, then those affecting the surface,
beginning with the hair and scalp and moving methodically down, without haste,
all the way down to the feet beloved of the corn, the cramp, the kibe, the
bunion, the hammer toe, the nail ingrown, the fallen arch, the common blain,
the club foot, duck foot, goose foot, pigeon foot, flat foot, trench foot and
other curiosities.”
And
this:
“Perhaps
I loved her with a platonic love? But somehow I think not. Would I have been
tracing her name in old cowshit if my love had been pure and disinterested? And
with my devil’s finger into the bargain, which I then sucked. Come now! My
thoughts were all of Lulu, if that doesn’t give you some idea nothing will.”
And
best of all:
“What
goes by the name of love is banishment, with now and then a postcard from the
homeland, such is my considered opinion, this evening.”
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