I read a lot and there is the danger of dulling by surfeit the critical faculty. There are too many bad books reading over my shoulder sliming with cliche the the work in hand . One thing that causes me to put down a book immediately is the use of the continuous present. To the block Hilary Mantel. It seems to me a cheap attempt at immediacy and if the preterite won’t give your story force; it’s a weakling.
And then I was reading ‘Under Gemini, a Memoir’ by Mary Britton Miller and I realised that the continuous present in the first chapter was not producing the throw reflex. Why? Respondit Bergson by ouija:
This is not the Continuous Present it is the Durational Present. These events frame a soul and make a world: now. Miller is a very great writer and does not continue this device which is not a device past the opening. First in ordinary time she tells us what she is going to tell us.
"There is a legend that once the ribbons we wore upon our wrists to establish our identity were misplaced while we were being bathed. Our nurse, Mathilda, unable to tell which twin was which, called upon our mother to decide. She replaced the ribbons, saying I was Mary and the other child was Grace. Let us assume that she was right, for I was christened Mary and my twin was christened Grace; and so, awarding her the honor of having entered this world five minutes before I did, I will attempt to recapture the memories of our life together on this earth.”
Then she tells us:
“There is a room darkened against the light and on the couch a gentleman with a dark moustache is lying fast asleep. He snores. Behind the couch I kneel and kneeling with me is my other self. Identical excitement, terror, fearful joy invades us. We wait. I watch my duplicate arise and I am rising with her. There is a moment for decision and then a swift resolve—a dreadful sharing of the consequences that will follow the awful act we contemplate; and then, excitement urging us, we spit directly in our father’s upturned face. He rises. We flee while panic overtakes us and then a sudden darkness, the waters of continuing experience engulf our father and his wrath. We have no further memory of him whatever.”
In the same way their memory of mother is cut off. The sudden night that overwhelms them is due to the death by cholera of both parents. All at once the life of the five children in the family becomes the care of a maternal uncle and his organising wife Aunt Anna. They now live with their grandmother and a carer which they are instructed to call Aunt Julia. Apart from a ceremonial visit on Sundays to Aunt Anna’s they are left alone to express themselves by mighty acts of domestic delinquency.
Aunt Anna is no downtrodden and subdued Victorian lady:
"The spectacle of our Aunt Anna affected us quite differently. Whatever charm and geniality she might have had was compressed, laced in, buttoned up, suppressed. Her clothes fitted her tightly; they were handsome and well brushed, not glamourous at all but with their own special elegance. She did not approve of charm; she listened rather disapprovingly to Uncle Jim and always asked practical questions, saying, "My dear Jim, I don't agree. This should not be done. I don't approve." She said, "You must" and "You must not" with emphasis.”
The sweet sadness of the denouement of this memoir comes across the century. Now my problem is, what am I going to read after this elevation into contact with a real genius whose obscurity was self sought? I think more of her and then taper off with Elizabeth Bowen. Maybe Mrs. Gaskell first then Bowen. That’s what I’ll do.
American Classic.
No comments:
Post a Comment