“A detective digs around in the garbage of people’s lives. A novelist invents people and then digs around in their garbage.”–Joe Gores

In his short anthology, Classic Mystery Stories, Douglas G. Greene pays “a tribute to the first great age of fictional sleuthing,” the stories being drawn from 1841 to 1920.  Of course, he dates the first detective story from Edgar Allan Poe’s “The Murders in the Rue Morgue, as it is “widely acknowledged” to be the first by critics and mystery buffs alike.

As Greene notes in his introduction, “We may well enjoy suspense thrillers and psychological probings of diseased brains and even (in our guiltier moments) shoot-em-ups with plenty of AK-47s and car chases” [though writing today in the light of the Newtown shootings, these things seem very distant and far away on our scale of preferences of things to read about.  Writing and reading about such things has indeed been the very topic of a number of posts on the Internet in WordPress, all of which acknowledge our inundation with images and sounds and stories of ‘shoot-em-ups’ which make us less sensitive.  Nevertheless, I continue my post today with a sense that my interest in Greene’s book will not be unfairly mistaken as an encouragement of this sort of writing, the more especially as his book features only genuine mystery tales.]  As Greene continues, “….[W]hen it comes to the mystery story, there is nothing to rival the genuine tale of–to use Edgar Allen Poe’s word–ratiocination, wherein the detective solves the crime by investigation and observation, by using his or her wits.  In this genre fisticuffs may occasionally be acceptable–but only after the detective has already worked things out through brainpower.”

The three tales I want to mention are hardly even tales, but are instead billed as mere conversation-starters by their author.  Charles Dickens grouped them together under the title “Three ‘Detective’ Anecdotes.”  As Greene notes, “Poe’s stories were popular, but for detective fiction to become a major form of popular literature, public attitudes toward crime had to turn from sympathy for the criminal (as had been the response to the picaresque romances and Newgate Calendar tales of previous centuries) toward admiration for the law-enforcer.”  He notes that the Bow Street Runners were often “corrupt” and that it was not until the “creation of Scotland Yard in 1829” and 13 years later the “Criminal Investigation Department” (CID) that the “success and relative honesty of the Detective Police became known, [and] the old image of the crooked thief-taker was gradually replaced by the upright Bobby.”

As a journalist and an editor of Household Words, Dickens “spent nights with the police, invited almost the entire C.I.D. to the magazine’s offices for a party,” and recorded their investigations in these three anecdotes in 1850.  He was also influenced by them to write a “positive” Inspector Bucket in Bleak House in 1853, and Greene credits particularly Dickens with beginning the process of making the police detective a hero.

The first anecdote concerns a murder of a young woman, in which the predominant clue left behind is a pair of gloves under the pillow of the bed in the chamber where the young woman is found with her throat cut.  It’s a simple enough tale of attempting to find who had cleaned the gloves, in order to find out who owned them and had dropped them off at the cleaners.  Most of the story is a sort of comedy of errors of who found the gloves where and did what with them, and the story unravels as the detective finds the man who owns the gloves.  The main function of this story, however, is not so much to find the man who actually committed the crime as it is to clear the man who owns the gloves (circumstantial evidence) from having participated in the murder.  So it’s a sort of clearing away of a “red herring.”

The second anecdote concerns the apprehension of the “Swell Mob” (a gang of thieves) working Epsom Race Track on Derby Day.  The detectives get together to catch them, but the thieves manage to steal a bit of diamond jewelry off one of the three detectives anyway.  They are all caught, but when they are caught, nothing can at first be found by the two main detectives.  Finally, however, by an “artful touch” (and think here of the term “artful” in the same way as you would the phrase from another Dickens classic, “the artful dodger”), one of the detectives recovers the goods.    I’m not going to reveal exactly what this “artfulness” is, as it would ruin what is already a slight anecdote.  At the end of the story, the thief darts out of court and climbs a tree to escape, but is truly “up a tree,” because they catch him!  This combination of craft and silliness, whether drawn from real life or dreamed up totally by Dickens, has the feel of real life about it, certainly.

The third anecdote concerns a series of thefts from the medical students at “Saint Blank’s Hospital” (obviously, a particular famous hospital was in Dickens’s mind, for which he substituted the name “Blank” as was the custom of the time).  Again, even the ratiocination is not marked in this case, as it mainly consists of finding a hiding place in the cloakroom and waiting for the thief to show up and reveal himself.  Because the detective’s knowledge of men and women upon observation is concerned, however, he is able to determine just by watching the porter that the porter, though drunken, is not the man at fault.  Also, it is another case of the policeman being shown to be not only equal but superior to the thief in honesty and capacity.  Just as with the previous anecdote, there is a final bit of history given of the case after the case is officially over, in the sense that we are told that the criminal killed himself while waiting in prison.  Dickens is thus not as much concerned with heightening the drama of the tale (though a suicide is certainly dramatic) as he is with giving it a touch of verisimilitude:  the thief was a student, and the shame of being apprehended stealing from his fellow classmates and being carted off to jail contributed to his suicide itself.

Dickens’s basing of his characters (both policemen and criminals) on the types of people he was actually familiar with from his experiences as a journalist just goes to show that as melodramatic and unlikely as some of Dickens’s plots may seem to be, he did have the realistic research wherewithal to construct fairly accurate portraits of men and women, and these short anecdotes reveal Dickens in some of his most simplistic plotting.  I am greatly endebted to Greene’s selection of these anecdotes and notes for my material in this post, for though I’ve read a lot of Dickens, I had never before read these stories and realized just how close to reality Dickens could write.

For those of you who are Dickens fans, or even for those of you who are just coming to Dickens for the first time, Caroline at Beauty Is A Sleeping Cat is conducting a Dickens in December Readalong this month.  Why not drop by and participate in the readings and the conversations?  There’s nothing like a long Dickens novel to be read over the cold or at least inclement winter months when you’re trapped inside!

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“The time has come, the Walrus said, to talk of many things….”

As you may remember, when the Walrus in Lewis Carroll’s poem was ready to “talk of many things,” it was as part of an effort to “snow” the shellfish whom he had decided to consume.  Though I too feel that it’s long past time to “talk of many things,” I’m not trying to snow you, my readers, only trying to offer up an account of myself and apologize for having been so lax in posting in recent days.

The fact of the matter is, there are not “many things” on my list to talk of right now.  Today, I’m baking Christmas cookies and still doing some of the neverending crocheting that I’ve been doing for weeks now in order to finish a new Afghan blanket for the bed.  For several days now, I’ve been reading short stories in the hopes that one will “catch fire” in my imagination and give me a topic I really want to share with you (though this effort has been to little or no avail).  I have Christmas cards to get out in the mail, and I need to review the instructions for how to tie-dye tee shirts, since that’s  one of my Christmas surprises for some dearly loved children in my family.  But even given these things, there’s a paucity of “topic” revolving in my brain; to put it more simply, I’m drawing a blank.

There are also other writing projects that are pressing up around my throat and refusing to get done at the same time (and that is a horribly mixed metaphor, for which I’m trying not to be held responsible).  I have two novels going at once right now, but both are in the stalled position.  Talk about writer’s block!  I’ve never had such a bad case of it before that I can recall.  Yes, I’m still kvetching and whinging and chuntering on about my lack of inspiration (I love words for “complaining” and “whining”–they’re so descriptive!  Maybe the only things that aren’t blocked off right now are my “complaining” words!).  “Kvetching,” as I understand it, is Yiddish from Russia; “whinging,” to rhyme with “singeing,” is from the Anglo-Saxon; and “chuntering on” is a general synonym from dialectal English of the Cockney variety.  Anybody else know any more, I’m collecting them, rather in the way other people collect butterflies, to put pins in the ones of their own personal acquaintance?!?

The only remotely creative thing I’ve done in the last week is a poem, out of the blue, which is too raw and bad and personal to share (no, nothing will persuade me that I should, I’m not hinting to be begged).  And I haven’t even been writing poetry for a year or three now–go figure!  At this moment, I’m actually feeling very guilty about using my blog as a way of expressing frustration that as far as I know has no immediate solution–I mean, if I were working out a way of getting out of my dilemma, then I could forgive myself, but so far today all I’m doing is letting you in on the not-very-well-kept secret that I’m having trouble working:  if you’ve been following my posts for the last three weeks or so, you already know that.

The solution people in creative writing classes used to revere was to “write it out, write your way through it, just keep going until something profitable or worthwhile crops up.”  It makes me wonder about the script of “The Shining.”  As you’ll recall, in that movie the Nicholson character, a writer, can’t budge a writer’s block, and while he is in the process of trying by writing over and over again “All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy,” or words to that effect, his family starts to get haunted.  It causes me to speculate as to the inspiration for the movie:  was the scriptwriter going through the same difficulty in trying to write the script?  Perhaps drawing (a bit fantastically) on personal experience?  But I would have to do research to find the answer to that question, and one aspect of writer’s block is a certain amount of accedia and laziness, so I just throw the suggestion out there for anyone else who’s got the energy to pursue the matter.

Yes, I’m acting like a spoiled child.  I know it.  Soon, I will begin to pull hair and drum my heels on the floor, and scream at the top of my lungs.  Whoever said “Frustration is good for the soul” was way off base.  But for now, I’m offering what I’ve got, and that is this post, dedicated to my loyal and trustworthy readers, who can always be counted on to say something that makes me feel ashamed of my babyishness, and vow to do better for them next time:  this is where I am right now.  I hope to offer you better again soon (and now I’m off to bake cookies and to try to lift my spirits with some holiday participation that may lead to those better moments).  shadowoperator

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Scrooging the Liebster and the Very Inspiring Blogger Awards–What’s wrong with me? (I don’t know!)

Now, let’s get one thing straight!  I’m not denying either the worthiness of the awards or my own personal worthiness to be nominated for them.  Awards are important for focusing attention on noteworthy achievements, and for maintaining a sense of community solidarity among participants in a given field.  As to my own personal achievements, I have a certain amount of pride in my literary accomplishments to date, whether of the fictional variety on my pages (the titles of some novels and poems are featured at the top of the front page above the picture of books) or of the critical/scholarly variety placed in my posts (the titles appear on the front page, either running down the page, in the right-hand margin, or in my Archives section).  So, why, you may ask, when two different people with whom I’ve exchanged compliments and comments before nominate me, at almost exactly the same time, for two different awards (Forever More – Reviews! nominated me for the Liebster and Emma McCoy nominated me for the Very Inspiring Blogger Award), why, you repeat, am I not agog with excitement and feverish haste to participate?

I’m not sure, but I think it has something to do with having eaten too much candy, and not feeling worthy at this particular moment, and being generally disgruntled and out of sorts.  Before Christmas, you ask?  Shades of Scrooge and his like!  What do I mean by it?  Do I want to bring down the bad luck fairies on my hapless head?  Here’s the thing:  I think the bad luck fairies have already had a go-round with me, or I wouldn’t be feeling this way.  When I say I’ve eaten too much candy, though I probably have done that in a literal sense in the last few weeks since the middle of November (note that date, it becomes important in our investigation, Inspector), I’ve also done it in a figurative sense:  I’ve been self-indulgent and weak in the extreme, and have thus gotten mentally flabby and out-of-shape in a major way.  And being aware of this in myself, I have hence felt extremely unworthy even to pretend to be worthy of an award of any kind, and in turn this has made me irritable and crabby (these two words are not close synonyms–“irritable” is what people with pretensions become, whereas the least significant among us can lay claim to being “crabby”).  As you can see, I’m not really sure what’s wrong with me (though I have that date of significance, the middle of November, to figure from in terms of time), but I’m gradually working it out here, in prose.  As to the bad luck fairies?  Well, some of the ancients believed that too much praise of a person made them susceptible to bad luck, so that there are good reasons why your Aunt Matilda always says something insulting about you and spits twice in your shadow after someone lauds you to the skies in the hearing of the heavens and everyone (and the heavens are known to be particularly envious of good luck).

So, what about the middle of November?  Well, if you recall, that was the time when I went North to Canada for my graduation.  And don’t get me wrong, it was a blast!  I got to see my friends there again and party with them, I got to put on flamboyant clothing and stride out in front of a lot of people who were all indulgently clapping and have my picture taken and hear my name read out and shake hands with several people on a podium, all of whom are far more important than I will probably ever be, and I got to go to the art gallery and the ballet, things which I’ve had logistical problems with transportation- and cost-wise since living where I live now.  I also met a number of very nice strangers from all over on the trains up and back, and all in all, I had a wonderful time.  (Can’t you just hear the bad luck fairies plotting and grumbling?)  So what did the b-l-fairies have in store for me?  Well, they always hit you the best and the hardest when they hit you with your own weaknesses.

My weaknesses?  One is that I have a lot of trouble getting up and running again after a short time off for good behavior.  Add to this a general tendency to make excuses, and there’s one major sinkhole of weakness (and yes, I know this post is a prime example, but what would you have?  If I didn’t tell you the truth, you might think I didn’t appreciate the nominations, which I definitely did, especially since they came from people whose sites I follow).  The “too much candy” comes in not only in the literal form of actually having bought and eaten candy galore since I came back to the States (and I didn’t eat candy in Canada, so where do I get off, anyway?), but also in the figurative form of having heard my own praise too many times and having repeated for interested friends and acquaintances here too many times just what I’ve been doing and where I’ve been and what was said and done there.

Here’s what it is:  I need to talk about something other than myself (this post is a bad example of modesty, I’m aware), and winning awards and writing answers to questions about facts relating to myself only prolongs the agony.  One of the real drawbacks to having had so much time off since the middle of November is that like an old plowhorse I’m having trouble getting back into harness.  When I first started my blog, I did a post a day for quite some time.  Then, other obligations forced me to cut back to a post every other day.  Since I got back from my recent trip, I’ve only written about five posts, which is NOT a post every other day (you caught me, I’m trying to sneak this mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa post in as one of the five), and which makes me feel ashamed of myself, though I’m not currently aware of how to remedy the situation, because I’m also not reading as much or writing as much fiction or even doing as much crocheting as I did before I left, though all these things have started to budge a bit in the last day or two, mainly because I had a happy call from my friends in Canada and I realized that whatever happens in my part of the world, where they are life goes on, and if I’m wise, I’ll try to get back into harness and find a field I can plow.

So, to my two friends who’ve been kind enough to keep up with my blog and nominate me for the Liebster and the Very Inspiring Blogger Awards, I thank you and want to say just this:  I’d always rather read what you have to say on your sites and read and write comments back and forth with you than win all the awards in the book.  I get a real kick out of different people’s personalities, and find my own rather boring by comparison.  And to all my readers who may be wishing me well and hoping I’ll get out of my funk and start living life again, when you wish me well, just remember to get Aunt Matilda and her saliva spray going at the same time:  I don’t want to give those b-l-fairies another chance!

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“The future isn’t what it used to be.”–Anonymous

In all likelihood, many of you are familiar with the less common fictional tactic adopted by Italo Calvino in If on a winter’s night a traveller, in which only the beginnings of chapters are provided.  Each new chapter starts out a new fiction, and there is a sense of genuine frustration for the reader (making a valid and curious fictional point), who of course cannot do anything about the unsatisfactory resolution (rather, the lack of resolution) of the individual stories.  Then, there’s Julio Cortazar’s book Hopscotch, which like a few other novels that have come along since, has chapters which can be read in any order.  One would think that there’s only so much innovation that can be undertaken for innovation’s sake alone.  So that when one comes to Margaret Atwood’s story, “Happy Endings,” which features in its short length six different endings to “the story” of “boy meets girl,” one of the fictional plots which Atwood has always been best at in any case, one says, “Oh, okay, this is old hat; I’ve encountered lots of stories which feature different endings, even as far back as Dickens’s Great Expectations.  It won’t be that unusual.”  And that is where one would probably be wrong.

One would be wrong, because quoting a phrase, “the future isn’t what it used to be” when it comes to this six-part short story:  there are six different segments, each supplying a different ending from part A to part F, to the opening statement “John and Mary meet,” true.  But they all have the same ending, too.  How can this be?  Here’s how the stor(ies) progress:

“A–John and Mary fall in love and get married.  They both have worthwhile and remunerative jobs which they find stimulating and challenging.  They buy a charming house.  Real estate values go up.  Eventually, when they can afford live-in help, they have two children, to whom they are devoted.  The children turn out well.  John and Mary have a stimulating and challenging sex life and worthwhile friends.  They go on fun vacations together.  They retire.  They both have hobbies which they find stimulating and challenging.  Eventually they die.  This is the end of the story.”

In story B, the variation is that John doesn’t appreciate Mary, and things go gradually downhill between the two of them until Mary tries to fake a suicide so that John will “repent” and they can marry; unfortunately, she is too successful at her attempt.  John ends up marrying Madge and the story continues as in A.

In story C, John is an older man already married to Madge, and falls in love with Mary, who cheats on him with James, a younger man of Mary’s own age.  When John discovers them in flagrante delicto, he shoots both of them and himself.  Then, we are told, with a pricelessly dry tone, “Madge, after a suitable period of mourning, marries an understanding man called Fred and everything continues as in A, but under different names.”

The next story, story D, picks up with Fred and Madge, who, however, might as well be John and Mary for all the difference it makes to the eventual outcome, which we’ll get to in a minute.  They live by the sea, and when their life is threatened by a tidal wave, “the rest of the story is about what caused the tidal wave and how they escape from it.”  The last line reads “they…continue as in A.”

Story E also picks up with Fred and Madge, but begins with a sentence which by its very structure takes up the previous story, story D, in medias res (beginning with “Yes, but,” “but” usually being a connective and not technically grammatically correct at the beginning of a sentence):  “Yes, but Fred has a bad heart.  The rest of the story is about how kind and understanding they both are until Fred dies.  Then Madge devotes herself to charity work until the end of A.  If you like, it can be ‘Madge,’ ‘cancer,’ ‘guilty and confused,’ and ‘bird watching.'”  Here, the author is both playfully and carelessly tossing away the variations and alternatives which would usually be a significant part of the plot and character choices and would help structure the story.  Thus, it’s obvious by now, if it hasn’t become obvious already, that the thematic point of the story, not the plot or the characters, is where the author has really invested her energy.

F suggests “If you think this is all too bourgeois, make John a revolutionary and Mary a counterespionage agent and see how far that gets you.  Remember, this is Canada.  You’ll still end up with A, though in between you may get a lustful brawling saga of passionate involvement, a chronicle of our times, sort of.”  (This paragraph is truly a masterful exploration of tone, inasmuch as the “see how far that gets you” implies that it won’t get you very far.  The humorous self-deprecatory note of “Remember, this is Canada.  You’ll still end up with A” is part of the national treasury of such moments, which disallows Canadian grandstanding on the issue of birthright and which also bespeaks a certain justifiable pride in it all the same.  Finally, the phrase, “a chronicle of our times” followed by “sort of” is yet another way of taking literary pretension down a peg, by use of the casual voice.

The essence of the piece is contained in the last two paragraphs of F, in which we are told that all the endings “are the same however you slice it…The only authentic ending is the one provided here:  John and Mary die.  John and Mary die.  John and Mary die.”  That the essence is not only about life, however, but is about life as lived by fiction writers is revealed by the last few lines:  “So much for endings.  Beginnings are always more fun.  True connoisseurs, however, are known to favor the stretch in between, since it’s the hardest to do anything with.  That’s about all that can be said for plots, which anyway are just one thing after another, a what and a what and a what.  Now try How and Why.”

One can see from even these short quoted segments of fabula* that Mieke Bal is correct in her assumption in Narratology:  Introduction to the Theory of Narrative that “a structural correspondence…exist[s] between the fabulas of narratives and ‘real’ fabulas, that is between what people do and what actors do in fabulas that have been invented, between what people experience and what actors experience….[If not,] then people would not be able to understand narratives.”  This is a necessary remark to make because of the history of modernist and strains of post-modernist thought opposed to narratology, in which the assumption sometimes is that there is no essential relationship between the experience of characters (“actors”) and the experience of “real” people.  I say that Bal is correct because of the very sense we get even in Atwood’s highly conscious and deliberate and ironic short story that “the future isn’t what it used to be”:  that is, the future changes with our expectations, and our expectations must become narrower as do our opportunities, and all we finally can know for certain about the opportunity of this span of “real” fabula we possess is that it always has death in it.

Finally, Atwood’s challenge, “Now try How and Why” does in fact transcend the fictional experience again, however, and stand for the Alpha (“How do we come to be here?”) and Omega (“Why are we here?  What is our purpose?”) not only of fictions, but of real people as well.  The opposition is thus posed between “happy endings” and “the only authentic ending,” with the challenge being perhaps to see where they coalesce and whether, if the future is changing every time we get a step farther forward, it necessarily is as “grave” a matter (to make a very old and bad pun) as we might otherwise think it.  Atwood’s story certainly has its share of mordant and deflating wit to keep it from too solemn a tone, while it is the very lack of morbidity itself which insures it a place among serious works about life.

* “A fabula is a series of logically and chronologically related events that are caused or experienced by actors….Actors are agents that perform actions.  They are not necessarily human….”  [A full set of definitions and terms used in narratology, the theory of narrative, is available in Mieke Bal’s book, as cited above.]

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American Gothic Romance and the impatiences of (one) modern reader– “Wieland; or, the Transformation”

“In a land without castles or ghosts, [Charles Brockden] Brown found the suggestion for a Gothic tale of terror in the strange case of a farmer in Tomhannock, New York, who believed he had been commanded by angels to kill his family.  He provided a sensational plot to interest all readers, while writing a novel of ideas that explored ‘the moral constitution of man.’  The elder Wieland, a mystic, builds a temple on his estate for his private devotions.  One night he is killed by a mysterious flash of light.  His children live on happily with their companions, using the temple as a summerhouse–until they begin to hear unearthly voices, a charming vagabond joins their circle, and the father’s fanaticism overtakes the mind of the son.  In its time Brown’s writing presented a searching and original study of mania and remorse, foreshadowing Poe and Hawthorne.”

This paragraph immediately above is a copy of the blurb from the Dolphin Book edition of Wieland; or, The Transformation:  An American Tale which I read, and I supply it because my topic today is not so much what actually happened in the story as something I’ve noticed in my own perusals of Gothic fiction, an impatience with the character’s avowals of various emotions and beliefs which makes me want to say, “Oh, c’mon now, you surely don’t expect me to believe that that was your honest reaction to that event/remark/action.”  In this tale, as in many such tales, the narrator is a woman, and we are asked to believe that she is an upright and well-trained and veracious person, as well as being a composite of all the womanly virtues, etc.  Therefore, certain (Gothic Romantic) pretenses are in order when she speaks.  But it makes one skim over her narrative and skip certain words and phrases and even sentences and paragraphs, because it seems so masochistic of her to insist upon suffering so!

If you doubt my words, I’ll just give you the final paragraph of the book Wieland (pronounced as in the German VEH-lundt).  Don’t worry:  if you want to read this book, you won’t miss anything by knowing the last paragraph from the beginning:  “I leave you to moralize on this tale.  That virtue should become the victim of treachery is, no doubt, a mournful consideration; but it will not escape your notice, that the evils of which Carwin [a trickster] and Maxwell [a seducer and murderer] were the authors owed their existence to the errors of the sufferers.  All efforts would have been ineffectual to subvert the happiness or shorten the existence of the Stuarts [Maxwell’s victims], if their own frailty had not seconded these efforts.  If the lady had crushed her disastrous passion in the bud, and driven the seducer from her presence when the tendency of his artifices was seen; if Stuart had not admitted the spirit of absurd revenge, we should not have had to deplore this catastrophe.  If Wieland had framed juster notions of moral duty and of the divine attributes, or if I had been gifted with ordinary equanimity or foresight, the double-tongued deceiver would have been baffled and repelled.”  This is of a piece with the opening poetical epigraph:  “From Virtue’s blissful paths away/The double-tongued are sure to stray;/Good is a forth-right journey still,/And mazy paths but lead to ill.”

This is pitching it a little too strong, and is rather like blaming the rape victim for what she was wearing when she was attacked.  First of all, there’s the perspective of the narration.  The story is told from the beginning in a way which capitalizes on the miraculous.  And there’s the fact that the father Wieland’s death is a mysterious matter, full of lightning flashes from heaven and the spontaneous combustion of his clothing (he is found in the temple/summerhouse where he regularly goes to worship, with all his clothes burned away from his body while his body is bruised, and then he dies a few hours later with “insupportable exhalations and crawling putrefaction” a factor in driving all mourners away from his body).  What I’m saying is that the narration is a sort of “fake-out,” a “sleight-of-hand,” because through most of the story the characters hear mysterious voices telling them to do or not to do things, and moreover it’s not just one character hearing the voices, rather it’s several.  Given the beginning, what else could one suspect but that heavenly or devilish voices are the sources of their visitations?

But pitted against these seemingly overwhelming odds, the prissy female narrator is constantly reassuring us of her own and nearly everyone else’s virtue and prudence.  The only thing of which she is not possessed in supernatural degree is “foresight,” and the amount of foresight she would have had to have to know what was actually happening would have been impossible (and I’m not going to tell  you; you’re going to have to read this book, both the exciting and good parts and the “draggy” and “gloopy” parts yourself–yes, those last two are critical terms).  Without having been a mind reader, she could not have known in any way or even remotely have guessed, in my view, what was happening to her.

So why all the “I would rather have stabbed myself than have defended myself against a potential rapist/murderer,” and “It would have been better to blame myself than to have assumed that a self-proclaimed liar/villain was to blame”?  I think it must be because it increases the reader’s suspense and tension to a certain nearly unbearable point.  The fact that it could also exasperate a reader and make her want to shake the protagonist silly (if the protagonist weren’t silly enough already) doesn’t seem to be a factor that was considered by Charles Brockden Brown.  Also, Brown was early on the author of a work on the rights of women, and as a champion he perhaps felt that it was necessary to “gild the lily” (that is, to make something good or holy enough even holier).  It has often been the case that male authors writing as women have felt the need to make the narrator more virginal, or naive, or just plain good than a realistic heroine would be, and of course this is a Romantic Gothic work, not a realistic one.

There are also a number of spots in which, true to form, the heroine/narrator decides upon a course of action which the foreshadowing clearly tells the reader is a mistake:  oh, if only she would take the opposite course of action, then this whole tragical farce would be cleared up!  But then, the story would be over, too!  So, it’s a choice between having one’s emotions as a reader manipulated and played upon, and coming to the end of the story too soon.  Personally, I stuck it out to the end, though the structure caused me to skip a sentence or a paragraph here and there during the last ten pages or so, because quite inartistically, some minor characters from early on suddenly resurfaced and had a story told about them which had little or nothing to do with the main fiction, or at least if the smaller story was meant to “point a moral, and adorn a tale” it wasn’t as apposite as it might have been to the main story:  why, for example, didn’t it have something to do with voices from heaven, or inspiration, or family dramas?  It actually seemed to be a sort of afterthought.

I realize that normally I review or write essays upon books that are of major worth, and though this book is a bit dated and not as good as other Gothic thrillers like Frankenstein or Caleb Williams (to name the two far poles of sensationalism that this thriller seems to lie between, partaking of the gory details of one, and the human drama of the other), it’s still worth reading.  It’s a book which was ahead of its time in 1798 America when it appeared, because fiction wasn’t well thought of on this continent then, and Brown had various troubles trying to survive as a literary figure, having to rely on a law career as well as having a position writing history and working on magazines.  But I really have been self-indulgent in this post, because my topic has not been so much a delineation of the progress of the tale itself (I don’t want to ruin the experience of the novel for the reader) as a topic about the price sensationalism paid and still perhaps pays in order to be allowed to outrage our sentiments legally:  the moralistic trappings of the narrator’s tale constitute the “wedding” that sometimes follows after (or accompanies rather than precedes) the “seduction.”

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Awareness at the moment of death–the elegiac and the factual, Tennyson and Dickinson

Two of the most beautiful short poems in the English language have been written by two different poets, one the paternalistic Poet Laureate of England during Queen Victoria’s reign, Alfred Lord Tennyson, and the other the dainty highly realistically-imaged wordsmith Belle of Amherst, Emily Dickinson.  And in both poems, the moment of death is of key concern and is a centralized concept, with the tenses and surrounding matter in the two poems suggesting that there is life after death from which to survey the moment itself.

In the first (1847), Tennyson writes “Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean,/Tears from the depth of some divine despair/Rise in the heart and gather to the eyes,/In looking on the happy autumn-fields,/And thinking of the days that are no more.”  This all seems fairly normal, and highly elegiac, though in the second stanza we get “Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail,/That brings our friends up from the underworld,” and thus the poem speaks of the life after death for the first time, since this “underworld” is not our contemporary one of goblins and demons, but the classical one with which Tennyson was familiar, one from which Aeneas’s or Dido’s ghost might rise to speak or sign.  But the really emphatic moment of death sequence occurs in the lines “Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer dawns/The earliest pipe of half-awakened birds/To dying ears, when unto dying eyes/The casement slowly grows a glimmering square;/So sad, so strange, the days that are no more.”  In the last stanza, in fact, there is even an ambiguous line with the comparison “Dear as remembered kisses after death,” with the ambiguity residing in the question of who exactly is doing the remembering, the dead person or the living person!  And of course the poem ends with the the clincher of the “we are immortal though perpetually separated and saddened” argument, “O Death in Life, the days that are no more!”  It seems at first as if the elegiac mournful tone itself has simply transported the poet into imagining that he has once been dead and has experienced the sensory input of “dying ears” and “dying eyes,” and yet the whole gist and force of the poem resides in calling to life, desperately, longingly, things that once have been.  They are “no more,” but live on in memory, and as I’ve noted, it is unclear who exactly is doing the remembering, the dead or the living (or both).

In Emily Dickinson’s poem, “I heard a Fly buzz–when I died–” (1896), the poet takes another tack entirely.  As is usual with Dickinson, she selects not the grand high tone of Tennyson, but a simple domestic image, that of a fly buzzing and bumbling around in the room in the midst of some solemn human doings.  There is, of course, the element of grand belief:  “The Eyes around–had wrung them dry–/And Breaths were gathered firm/For that last Onset–when the King/Be witnessed–in the Room–” though whether the “King” here is God or Death is in Dickinson’s own style uncertain, as either is a possibility, given the frequency with which both appear in her poems.  She talks briefly of making a will at the moment of death, then continues with the simple, factual statement (in which the Fly is both only itself and a symbol of something much larger and more final):  “–and then it was/There interposed a Fly–/With Blue–uncertain stumbling Buzz–/Between the light–and me–And then the Windows failed–and then/I could not see to see–“.

In both cases, the poems go not to a Christian heaven or an afterlife reference, so my readers may be wondering why I am so emphatic that the two poems signify a point beyond that of death as the poetic speakers’ locale.  My answer is this:  in the Tennyson poem, Tennyson generalizes about what dying ears and eyes see and encounter, which suggests that the speaker is knowledgeable about the general experience of having been a dead or dying person, and has “lived” to tell about it (in this poem).  In the Dickinson poem, the very tense of the initial verb and the whole verb sequence of the poem tells its tale:  “I heard a Fly buzz–when I died–”  provokes the question (which is answered), “Yes, and what happened then?”  The fact that the speaker says what she says from the past tense suggests that she is speaking from a point further along in time (and Dickinson has adopted this tactic elsewhere too, as in “Because I could not stop for Death–” and “My life closed twice before its close”).

Thus, the similarity in the two poems is in the positioning of a character’s awareness in a person lying in bed dying, though with Tennyson, the whole experience is a meditation on “the days that are no more,” and a more generalized sense of loss; with Dickinson, the sparse, dry tone impresses by its very lack of mourning, and its sense of loss only comes to a head with the lines “And then the Windows failed–and then/I could not see to see,” a loss not of memories or of days long past, but of the very sense and capacity of sight.  “Windows” as images of the eyes are of course a poetic staple, but in this case, the poet hangs on until the very last moment to the realistic and the sense of symbolism only surfaces when one has entirely finished the poem.

Both of these poems have long been favorites of mine, and I hope that this short post will cause you to look them up in their entirety if they are previously unknown to you, and will make them favorites of yours as well.  They are easily located, both appearing in almost every short collection and anthology of the two poets.

As you may have noticed, I am easing my way back in gradually to doing my posts, not having done more than one or two in the last two weeks since I took a brief hiatus.  I do plan to resume doing more, but I am in the process of covering several works upon which I want to write, and none of them are done yet, so that will have to be my excuse.  I want to thank all of you who have been keeping up with my blogsite and welcome you if you are a new follower.  Onward and upward!

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“The Next Big Thing Blog hop” and me–or how I got back from my travels to friends and found more friends awaiting me….!

I got back from my trip to my doctoral graduation on Sunday, November 18, and was so happily exhausted from partying and the train trip and meeting all sorts of interesting new people both in Canada and on the train, and joyously sleep-deprived from the rocking of the train on the rails that I waited until today (November 23, the day after Thanksgiving) to put up this new post.  Thanks to all of you who asked after me, I am very, very, buoyant and full of myself now (or as people in my original part of the world would say, I’m full of buck and beans), but a special thank-you to Emma McCoy, who has nominated me in the last few days for “The Next Big Thing blog hop.”  As I understand it, I answer the ten questions she answered about her work on her site regarding her own WIP (work-in-progress), plus I notify and nominate five more people, contacting them to let them know by writing to their “About” section in each case.  Here are my answers to the questions which I observed that Emma answered on her own site:

1)  What is the working title of your work-in-progress?

The Story of the Cuffs.

2)  Where did the idea come from for the book?

Though I never read very much at all of Robert Musil’s The Man Without Qualities, I was much intrigued by one of the remarks he made about character development (tongue-in-cheek, it was), when he said his main character was flat and stencil-like.  I thought, how about a whole family full of such characters, with one family-member exception?  What would happen to them?  How would they interact?  Etc.  Hence, the Cuff family.

3)  What genre does your book fall under?

I don’t really write books in a particular genre, though I sometimes spoof a certain genre.  It follows from this that my book would probably just be categorized as “fiction” with the trade-sized paperbacks if it ever got published in a print format.

4)  Which actors would you choose to play your characters in a movie rendition?

This is a hard question to answer, as I don’t watch as many movies or as much television as I used to.  And I can’t think of whom I would want to play most of the characters, especially not Papa and Mama Cuff when they were young.  But I would like Wallace Shawn (if still extant) to play Mr. Cuff the Papa and the mother on “The Seventies Show” (I can’t remember her name) to play Mrs. Cuff the Mama as the couple ages.  Wallace Shawn’s voice is perfect for Mr. Cuff.  And if the movie ever had a British re-make, I would want the actor Peter Sallis to play Mr. Cuff.  His voice would be the perfect British equivalent.  Somehow, I’m very responsive to voices (I had a mad crush on Patrick Stewart for a lot of my twenties because of his lovely resonant tones).

5)  What is the one sentence synopsis of your book?

Just the question:  what’s the difference between flat characters and rounded characters, and how can one become the other?  Or is this a false distinction?

6)  Will your book be self-published or represented by an agency?

My book, as with all four of my previous novels, will be copyrighted with the Library of Congress and then put on my WordPress.com blogsite (here) for pass-the-hat-around-after-reading sorts of sales.

7)  How long did it take to write the first draft of your manuscript?

Still in progress on the first draft, though I usually rewrite while still writing the first draft, so that when I’m done, I’m mostly finally done except for small changes and proofreading.

8)  What other books would you compare this book to within your genre?

As I noted before, I generally just write in the general category of “fiction,” and one always hopes, of course, that one’s book stands alone (though of course it would be vain and arrogant to say definitely that that’s the way it is.  Pat Bertram on “Bertram’s Blog” has a number of good posts on writing outside of conventional genre expectations, and I would reference her posts as a general reference).

9)  Who or what inspired you to write this book?

This book as an independent work (and it can stand alone) is as I said before inspired by a stray writer’s remark by Robert Musil.  As one part of the eight-part novel series I am working on (the fifth part, to be precise) it represents in a vague way the middle daughter sign “Li” or “fire” or “clarity” of the eight family signs of the I Ching (#30).  When I finish, there will be one book each for the father and mother, three daughters, and three sons.

10)  What else about your book might pique the reader’s interest?

In this book, there is a New Age witch (or a “witz,” as the three-year-old daughter calls her).

The five other authors whom I am going to nominate are:

Richard Gilbert of “NARRATIVE”

David Fort of “djkeyserv140”

Kathy Bertone of “The Art of the Visit”

Deborah Rose Reeves of “First We Read, Then We Write”  (Deborah has since expressed her preference not to participate, but invites all of you interested in her writing to continue to visit.  She has a lot to offer and writes some very interesting and exciting posts, as well as having a WIP which she may choose to comment on at some future time, when she herself feels she’s ready.)

and the anonymous-by-preference author of “The Living Notebook

Never having been nominated for a blog hop before, I have no idea of what happens next, and I hope I’ve done everything I’m supposed to and in the right order.  All I know is that I was absolutely delighted to participate, and to have been nominated by Emma McCoy, who writes a mean suspense novel herself and is in process of formalizing publication procedures for her novel Saving Angels (on her site now) while also writing a draft of her new WIP Unethical, participating in NaNoWriMo, juggling a career and family obligations, and blogging!  (She makes lazy people like me and you look bad, doesn’t she folks?)  The best to you all.  I hope everyone who is on our sites from the States is having a Happy Thanksgiving holiday, and that those of you the world over who are participating in other fall festivals that are analogous to Thanksgiving are also having a great time (hey, a party’s a party the world over, right?)  Until next post,  Victoria (shadowoperator)

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Just a short update bulletin of a post….

Hello again, readers!  Today, I have been packing for my trip to graduation, weighing my suitcase, and reading some of your posts on your websites, so as not to get too far behind with all my many enthusiasms while I’m away.  I will be away until Sunday, but my first task when I get back and get unpacked will be to get on my laptop (which isn’t going along for this trip) and answer any and every comment you have made.  In case I haven’t made it clear before, I love hearing from you, and I want to thank all of you especially who have responded to my announcement(s) about graduation by wishing me well, either via e-mail or comment.

As for what happens while I’m away, I’m continually surprised (happily, quite happily) by the number of you who visit my Archives and read and keep up with the site as I have written it so far.  Please continue to read if there’s anything there that interests you, and know that your comments on posts are always welcome, regardless of how far back in time the post was made.  If I find any of those items on my site when I come back, obviously I will be delighted to answer those as well.

Also feel free to respond to the comments of others on my site, which you can see if you click on the “Comments” button for each post (which also tells you how many comments there have already been).  My most frequent commenters are a lively and a well-informed group, and they often put me in touch with things I need to know as well.  It’s also always fun to hear from new voices, whose perspectives may be innovative or different.

When you hear from me next, I will be a fully fledged Doctor of Philosophy in English!  Come and visit and compare notes on our favorite writers with me sometime (I promise not to be any more self-satisfied than I usually have been to date!)

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A riddle about an unlikely comparison–“How are James Tiberius Kirk and Magda Danvers of ‘The Good Husband’ alike?”

I have first to apologize to all the original Star Trek fans out there who will no doubt be searching so diligently for a lengthy comment about the James (Tiberius) Kirk character, when all I have to offer is a mere comparison.  But there’s something about him which has been the key character asset to stick in my mind for years now, my favorite tidbit about him, and in more recent years, I’ve located a female equivalent in the character of Magda Danvers (alias Marsha Danziger) in Gail Godwin’s excellent novel The Good Husband.  Finding this similarity is reason enough for self-congratulation for a good feminist (such as I try to be), because it proves once again that creative and notable character traits are the preserve of humans in general, not of one sex or the other.  But enough of the tease:  what is it that I want to discuss, you ask?  It’s that tricky quality of psyche and personality which caused James T. Kirk to come up with a solution to an apparently insoluble problem on a Star Trek examination, part of his back history, in fact:  instead of agonizing and wasting time on the boundaries of the exam itself and ultimately coming in as an “also-ran” or a “good-enough,” Kirk simply reprogrammed the test.  This has often been commented on as having been envisioned as a particularly American trait, but this too is unfair:  it’s no more American solely than it is male solely, but in fact is part and parcel of the way humans in general function when under greatest pressure (and let’s not forget to give some extra-fictional credit to the fact that the actor who so notably portrayed Kirk is William Shatner, himself originally not a U.S. but a Canadian citizen).

So, how is this like what the character of Magda Danvers does in the book The Good Husband?  She too in her back history as it is given in the book has in a sense “reprogrammed” the test:  when doing her thesis for her degree and receiving some guff about it from her committee members, she simply goes ahead and publishes it as a book before submitting it to the committee for the exam, which to those of you unfamiliar with the procedure is doing things backwards; by this means she more or less forces the hand of her committee.  It is only fitting that her book should be about visionaries and should be called The Book of Hell, for her pattern of life is a truly visionary one which inspires a number of other people, both those closest to her and those in the extended circle around her, those at the periphery of the ripple effect in the body of water where a pebble has been thrown in.

The particular insight of Magda’s which applies in her personal life and which inspires others when she is dead is “Mates are not always matches, and matches are not always mates.”  Her mate is Francis Lake, a much younger man whom she met when he was in a midwestern seminary, and whom she married.  As everyone around them is aware, she pursues her career and Francis attends to the caring homebody side of the relationship, not ceasing his attentiveness when Magda becomes ill with her final illness.  She has been teaching since her degree was granted, and teaches those around her to receive her death with grace and dignity as she does, referring to her final illness as “my final teacher” and death as her “final examination.”  She continues to challenge those around her with life-changing speculations and questions, and considerations which will keep them busy long after she is gone (but she has ensured that she will never be forgotten).

The second couple in the book, and the couple most nearly affected by the drama at the center of Magda’s life, is that of Alice Henry and her Southern novelist husband Hugo, the couple whose marriage is in difficulties.  But there is some question as to whether what attracts Alice most is Magda’s intellectual challenge to those around her, or the nearly irresistible atmosphere of the “perfect marriage,” something which Alice cannot tell herself by any means that she has with Hugo.  So what will happen when Magda, on her death bed, “wills” Francis to the newly single Alice?  What happens when Alice remembers the bequest but Francis seems not to?  And who has the last word in the world of the novel as it is written?  At the risk of telling too little, I am avoiding telling too much:  characters who live beyond the lifespan granted them by their authors, those characters who inspire us for years to come, are those who show themselves capable of doing what’s now called “thinking out of the box,” and coming up with questions and solutions that call out the best from their fictional friends, adversaries, and colleagues.  About such characters, we too as readers are the beneficiaries, as we may “play” any role in our minds of any character in the book; we may be the friend or adversary, but we may also learn, by example, how to be more like the main character ourselves, perhaps toning down some of the character’s more outrageous traits while achieving the same sort of creative thought pattern.  So, here’s to James Tiberius Kirk and Magda Danvers (who reinvented herself in choosing a different professional name):  long may such characters come along in various kinds of fictional endeavor and handily help us out of our self- and other-imposed traps–to the tricky but honest in human nature!  As Albert Einstein said of God (upon whom many believers feel we should base our actions) “Herr Gott is subtle, but not malicious.”  Such characters as Kirk and Magda Danvers embody this quality of being “subtle, but not malicious,” and show us something of the limits we can aspire to test.

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How Wolfgang Hildesheimer’s “A Major Acquisition” helps rid his narrator of a minor inconvenience (the conflict between facts as facts and facts as whimsy)

Wolfgang Hildesheimer’s short story “A Major Acquisition” is in fact very, very short (it runs to a length of only three pages), and yet as with all his stories, the conflict between fact and whimsy is marked enough to merit comment at some length.  His story opens with the narrator being approached in a somewhat surreptitious manner by “an unusual-looking man” in the local tavern, who inquires as to whether he would like to purchase a locomotive.  The comic force is immediate:  the approach, made “in a softly intimate voice,” is one that a reader might imagine taking place between a sly salesman of risqué cards or photographs, yet the real item on offer is something as large and as unwieldy as a locomotive.

Typically, the speaker in the story is himself quite whimsical to match the events he encounters.  As he says of himself:  “Now it is rather easy selling me something, because I find it hard to say no; however, I felt that caution was warranted with a major purchase of this sort.  Although I know little about locomotives, I inquired about the model, the construction year, and the piston gauge; I was trying to make the man think that he was dealing with an expert who had no intention of buying a pig in a poke….The locomotive looked good, and I ordered it once we agreed on a price.  For it was secondhand, and although, as we know, locomotives wear out very slowly, I was unwilling to pay the catalog price.”  The obvious fact is that the speaker is a little off his hinges himself if we take him seriously, and yet the astounding fact that someone would actually flog a locomotive in this way causes all the other odd “facts” to assume a status that forces the reader to practice a “willing suspension of disbelief”; besides, the story is so engaging in its mannerisms and conclusions that the reader must accept it for what it is.

What in fact we are asked to believe is unusual is the fact that the locomotive is delivered that same night to the speaker’s house, which he sees after the fact as peculiar:  he says that the speed of delivery was “shady,” but that at the time “this never dawned on me.”  He parks in it his garage, after what we are encouraged to believe is serious consideration as to whether it will fit somewhere in the house!

The major conflict in the story between people is between the narrator’s cousin (who represents “facts as facts”) and the speaker himself (who represents “facts as whimsy”).  The cousin soon comes to visit, and Hildesheimer’s readers are told this about him, in an accusatory tone which would cause them (in a less absurd story) to see him as the villain of the piece:  “This man is averse to any sort of speculation, any display of emotion; for him, only facts are facts.  Nothing surprises him, he knows better, and can explain anything.  In short, an unbearable person.”  When the speaker tries to act as a good host and introduce an unexceptional topic for conversation by beginning “‘These marvelous autumn scents–‘” his cousin interrupts and says “‘Withering potato tops.'”  Though the speaker acknowledges that his cousin is right, he challenges his cousin’s gift of cognac by saying that it tastes “soapy.”  Whereupon, the cousin tells how many world’s fair prizes it has won in minor cities, and decides to stay over the night in the house.

The intrusion of whimsical fact throws the cousin off his game, however, because he can’t deal with the “fact” that the locomotive is in the garage where he wants to park his car.  The cousin inquires, in a practical application of having found it there, as to whether the narrator often drives it.  The narrator replies that “a few nights ago, a nearby farmer’s wife had been about to have a blessed event, and [he] had driven her to the city hospital.  She had given birth to twins that same night, but that probably didn’t have anything to do with the locomotive ride.”

In the next and penultimate paragraph of the story, the narrator confesses to the reader, “Incidentally, all this was made up; but on such occasions, I cannot resist embroidering a little on the truth.  I don’t know whether he believed me; he silently registered everything, and it was obvious that he no longer felt very comfortable here.  He became monosyllabic, drank another glass of cognac, and then took his leave.  I have never seen him again.”  Thus, the inconvenience of having a locomotive in the garage helps rid the narrator of the inconvenience and discomfort of having his factually oriented killjoy cousin around.  He seems to consider it a fair trade, though he does note that a short time later there is a report that the French National Railroad is missing a locomotive, which had simply disappeared from the switchyard.  As he comments on his experience from this perspective (and Hildesheimer clearly loves to play with the reader’s reactions thus), “I naturally realized that I had been the victim of a fraudulent transaction.  When I saw the seller in the village tavern a short time later, I acted cool and reserved.  On this occasion, he tried to sell me a crane, but I did not wish to have any more dealings with him.  Besides, what am I going to do with a crane?”

This last line is in a way the most pointed comedy in the whole absurdist piece:  one might as easily ask what he plans to do with the locomotive, which there is no indication that he will get rid of or return to its rightful owners.  The whole story is written in an “as if” manner, observing the fictional boundaries of a sort of magazine cautionary tale about not trusting strangers, and about alienating one’s relatives by odd behavior; yet the assertiveness of the narrator’s behavior clearly labels his attitude as one which he feels he is right to have.  Thus as with most of Wolfgang Hildesheimer’s stories, the reader is asked to navigate back and forth between probabilites, impossibilities, improbabilites, and what we are told are dead certain facts, and by the way to take part in a joyous sort of play with reality.  I hope my readers will be able to find this fine collection of short stories in a bookstore or library; the translator I have read is Joachim Neugroschel, and the exact title is The Collected Stories of Wolfgang Hildesheimer.  You will find, if you do get a chance to read all of the stories involved, that your efforts to keep track with Hildesheimer’s quick shifts between “fact” and whimsy are well-rewarded.

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