Defending Jane Austen Against All Criticism

Readers of this blog know of my great reverence and extreme affection for Jane Austen’s novels (see my 1/25/10 post, among other mentions of Austen). So I was immediately defensive and even irrationally annoyed when I read an Associated Press article in the 10/26/10 San Francisco Chronicle about Oxford University English professor Kathryn Sutherland’s research that concluded that “Jane Austen was a poor speller and erratic grammarian who got a big helping hand from her editor.” But as I thought about it more, and as the article concluded, “the revelations shouldn’t damage the reputation of Austen,” who was “even better at writing dialogue and conversation than the edited style of her published novels suggest.” I thought about all the wonderful writers whose work has been enhanced by great editing. I decided that having a few spelling and grammar errors that needed to be corrected is pretty minor compared to the major editing some other writers needed. And I realized that nothing can obscure Austen’s amazingly wonderful writing, and nothing can dim her well-deserved reputation and popularity. So my automatic defensiveness and protectiveness toward Austen’s reputation (as if she needed my defense!) subsided.

"Instead of a Letter"

On 3/15/10, I wrote about the wonderful famed English editor and memoirist Diana Athill, now 92 and still writing. In that post I praised her three most recent memoirs. I have now gone back in time to read one of her earlier memoirs, "Instead of a Letter," which has just appeared in a U.S. paperback (originally Doubleday, 1962; paperback W. W. Norton, 2010). In this book, she writes a bit about her childhood (later covered in more detail in another memoir), but mainly about her life from her teens to her early forties. The most critical series of events for her was her long courtship by, and eventual engagement to, Paul, who then went off to war (WW II), stopped writing her, and after two years informed her of his engagement to another woman. He subsequently died in the war. These events left her devastated and stripped of her self-confidence and ability to relate to others, especially romantically, for almost twenty years. What eventually brought her out of this state was love, interesting work, and -- most of all -- her writing and the fulfillment it provided her. Ironically, during her difficult years, she dreaded old age, but now at 92 she has had a long, productive, and happy life that she is still -- according to recently published interviews -- thoroughly savoring. Athill writes with scrupulous openness about her own feelings and shortcomings. She also writes beautifully and descriptively about her life and her surroundings. Highly recommended.

"Bound"

The word “bound” is the title of Antonya Nelson’s new novel, “Bound” (Bloomsbury, 2010); it is also a word that evokes various images and responses. The multiple meanings of the word in this novel include the connections among characters, the connections of characters to their dogs (prominent in the story), the parallel story in the newspapers about the Wichita serial killer BTK (“bind, torture, kill”), and the way the characters are bound/limited/compelled by their own histories, economic and social backgrounds, and psychological traits. The main characters are childhood friends Misty and Catherine, who bond as teenagers from very different backgrounds; Catherine’s husband Oliver; and Misty’s teenage daughter Cattie (short for Catherine; she has been named after her mother’s best friend). There are also various ex-wives, stepchildren, friends, and traveling companions. Misty dies in a car accident early in the novel; Cattie disappears from sight for a while; and Catherine is notified that although she and Misty have been out of touch for years, Misty has named her in her will as Cattie’s guardian. All of the characters are a mixture of “lost” and “found.” As the various strands of the novel come together, there is loss, adultery, affection, worry, reunion, and more. Yet somehow the overall feeling of the novel, despite some deep sadness, is positive and life-affirming. Despite some straying and some selfish impulses, the characters eventually come through for each other.

Lovely English Names

On 10/24/10, I wrote about my weakness for the English accent, as well as for all things English. Another thing I encounter and get pleasure from when reading British novels is the novelty (from an American point of view) of some of the characters' names. Those evocative (to me, at least!) names show me that I am -- while reading the novels -- happily in England (or perhaps a non-American English colony). Some of these very British names for women are Edwina, Philippa, Fiona, Delia, Penelope, Rosamund, Beatrice, Briony, Fanny, Sophie, Louisa, and Augusta. British men's names include Nigel, Clive, Rowan, Winston, Rupert, Alastair, Cecil, Eustace, Sebastian, and Reginald. Just typing these lists makes me feel a bit British!

Panic on our Driveway!

On Sunday it was raining so hard that when I picked up the extra-big, supplement-filled Sunday San Francisco Chronicle from the driveway, it was -- despite being in a plastic bag -- totally soaked, a sodden unreadable mess. I had an immediate moment of irrational panic: What would I do without the Sunday paper? I would be missing essential -- yes, ESSENTIAL! -- information, articles, reviews that I couldn’t live without! Not to mention the comics and Parade magazine! Oh NO!!! What would I read with my morning coffee? I had to stop and talk myself out of my panic, reminding myself that I could go out and get another paper at a store, and even if I couldn’t, much of the content is online. This rather extreme reaction is embarrassing to recount, but I do so to show that -- despite reports of the imminent demise of newspapers -- those newspapers are still extremely important for at least some of us. I posted here on 8/5/10 about how important newspapers are, to me and to the world; today I add this postscript (do you like my pun?) to show how viscerally dependent some of us are on our daily newspapers.

"All is Forgotten, Nothing is Lost"

When I first started reading Lan Samantha Chang’s “All is Forgotten, Nothing is Lost” (W. W. Norton, 2010), I thought it would be the typical, somewhat self-referential and self-indulgent novel about writers and writing programs. Chang is the director of the famed Iowa Writer’s Workshop, and the first part of the novel is set in the fictional Bonneville School writer’s program. Despite this expectation, or – to be honest -- maybe partly because of it, I looked forward to reading this novel. Sure enough, there were some classic scenes of graduate student/writers’ reading their work around a seminar table and having it discussed and sometimes “bludgeoned” by their classmates and their revered professor, the mysterious Miranda. There were also classic scenes of angst, doubt, and dark nights full of self-examination about whether one had the talent to be a successful writer. In this first section, we get to know the main characters -- Roman, Bernard, Lucy, and Miranda – and their entanglements. Then the novel jumps forward to the future and follows the lives, careers, loves of, and intersections among, these characters for perhaps 25-30 years. Chang explores the nature of being a writer/poet/artist, and the delicate connections between one’s writing life and one’s personal life. She leads readers to imagine different ways for a writer to live. Roman, for example, takes a fairly traditional (for those few writers talented enough and fortunate enough) path to success as a poet and writing teacher. Lucy, intentionally or not, puts her writing mostly on hold while raising a child. Bernard is a sort of semi-recluse who chooses to devote his life to writing one long poem, at the cost of poverty and a rather restricted life, a price he is willing to pay. The character development is intriguing, and there are a couple of surprises near the end of the novel, but the surprises are –- fortunately –- fully in character for these writers we have come to know. So my initial concerns about predictability and tired scenes were –- mostly –- proven wrong, and I found the novel a rewarding exploration of the writing life, and enjoyable to read.

Oh, That English Accent!

Yesterday I wrote about listening to the audio version of “On Chesil Beach,” by Ian McEwan. Today I write about my first reaction to the first words pronounced in the recorded reading by the author himself. As soon as I heard that plummy, educated English accent, I melted and was completely drawn into the listening experience. At the same time, I had to laugh at myself for the almost knee-jerk positive reaction I have always had to that accent. Why do I always go a little gaga for it? Is it the somewhat common American feeling that somehow the British accent is more elegant, more educated, more intellectual, more mellifluous than the American accent(s)? Is it my frequent listening to Masterpiece Theater and other such British dramatic productions and films over the years? Is it my background as a person born in Canada to Canadian parents and raised in postcolonial India, with all the British-related aspects of each of those experiences? Is it simply part of my deep love of all things English, especially English literature? I have written directly or indirectly about my connection to England and English matters in various posts (e.g., on tea, 2/2/10; on my literary pilgrimage to Jane Austen sites, 2/18/10; on the colonial novels “Old Filth” and “The Man in the Wooden Hat,” 3/18/10; and on the Guardian UK, 9/19/10), as well as in my non-blog (academic) writing, but I haven’t written before about the visceral positive and a bit nostalgic (although I have never lived in England) feeling I get when I hear that lovely and – to me – evocative English accent. Of course I know that not all English, or British, people speak with that accent. And of course I understand intellectually that there is nothing inherently “better” about it; after all, I have studied linguistics and teach in a linguistics-informed field. My reaction is, I speculate, conditioned by my Canadian/Indian childhood and by my immersion in English literature for most of my life. It is personal, deeply embedded and, I suspect, ineradicable, even if I should want to eradicate it, which I do not.