“When
I see the constant failure around me, I think of myself as Emma [Jane Austen’s,
not Flaubert’s]. Rita wanted to know once why I spoke with literary allusions.
It helps balance me: Dickens and Dostoevsky help me more.”
Here’s
a very different sort of writer, Philip Larkin, writing about Dickens to his
girlfriend Monica Jones, from Belfast on Aug. 26, 1951 (Letters to Monica, 2010):
“I
sit in my room like Miss Havisham, about whom I have been reading this week.
Better the Dickens you know than the Dickens you don't know - on the whole I
enjoyed it. But I should like to say something about this `irrepressible
vitality,’ this `throwing a fresh handful of characters on the fire when it
burns low,’ in fact the whole Dickens method -- it strikes me as being less
ebullient, creative, vital, than hectic, nervy, panic-stricken. If he were a
person I should say `You don't have to entertain me, you know. I'm quite happy
just sitting here.’ This jerking of your attention, with queer names, queer
characters, aggressive rhythms, piling on adjectives -- seems to me to betray
basic insecurity in his relation with the reader. How serenely Trollope, for
instance, compares. I say in all seriousness that, say what you like about
Dickens as an entertainer, he cannot be considered as a real writer at all; not
a real novelist. His is the garish gaslit melodramatic barn (writing that
phrase makes me wonder if I'm right!) where the yokels gape: outside is the
calm measureless world, where the characters of Eliot, Trollope, Austen, Hardy
(most of them) and Lawrence (some of them) have their being.”
We
know the feeling. I’ve revised my understanding of Dickens repeatedly since I
first read him half a century ago or more. Larkin rightly observes the “insecurity”
in Dickens (odd to observe in so prolific a writer). He shares a manic quality with
certain comedians: “I just told a joke and they loved it. I better tell them
another one quick so they don’t stop loving me.” In Dickens, this works on the
small scale. Some early passages in Pickwick
Papers make me smile just to remember them. But over the long haul, Dickens
can be exhausting. He tries too hard. I share Larkin’s fondness for three of
the five novelists he finds in the “calm measureless world,” but later in the
same letter the poet admits: “Since starting this letter I’ve begun to read Bleak House, with pleasure, again.”
When
Faber and Faber permitted the novels of Barbara Pym to go out of print, Larkin
wrote a letter of protest that is very funny and critically acute, coming from
a great poet who started out as quite a good novelist:
“I
feel it is a great shame if ordinary sane novels about ordinary sane people
doing ordinary sane things can’t find a publisher these days. This is the
tradition of Jane Austen and Trollope, and I refuse to believe that no one
wants its successors today. Why should I have to choose between spy rubbish,
science fiction rubbish, Negro-homosexual rubbish, or dope-take
nervous-breakdown rubbish? I like to read about people who have done nothing
spectacular, who aren’t beautiful and lucky, who try to behave well in the
limited field of activity they command, but who can see, in the little autumnal
moments of vision, that the so called ‘big’ experiences of life are going to
miss them; and I like to read about such things presented not with self-pity or
despair or romanticism, but with realistic firmness and even humour.”
1 comment:
regarding the self-pity/despair:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dHw1LJvzo4Y
Post a Comment