Saturday
23 May.
4:45 p.m.
Have just reread Scott Meredith's letter of
10 March.
Rereading for the first time
since I received it in March.
When I
read it the first time, it seemed to go on and on with the little carrot at the
front (very promising, good effort), but mostly critical.
Having reread it, I find it more helpful than
my first read.
I also read it the first
time out loud, which made it seem to go on and on. There were big words,
paradigm, prolix, etc., the "p" words, which I thought evocative of
the New York literati, a world of self important advisers.
There seems to be more help than I first
thought, and I look at the letter more kindly.
On to the next step with greater
structure,
the key word for the day.
The problem of
course remains, and that is that I rarely seem to know what I'm getting at:
revelation of life in glimpses and bits is all I seem to find, momentary
epiphanies of seemingly small value.
As
I walked around London on Thursday and Friday, I found myself thinking more
than usual. The result of Ulysses, I'm sure. My consciousness of my own thoughts has been
raised. I concluded
that probably the greatest advance in 20th century literature has been the
study of one's own consciousness, taking Proust and Joyce as two primary
examples. I suppose the other idea has
been to elevate the anti hero as worthy of veneration in the story.
We
used to have heroes (for a long time: epics), which coincided with the
certainties of Christianity. With the
advancement in this century of self-consciousness (Freud, Proust and Joyce) came
the elevation of the ordinary man to hero and, a cousin to that, the
possibility of a bad guy as a hero, that is, a sympathetic bad guy character
because now we can understand why he is the way he is.
Where
do we head from here?
The
old fashioned story remains important; a story with morals to be learned
remains a good read. The word
"rebuilding" also comes to mind.
The Waste Land represents the
dissolution of the old order; Ulysses wrecks the old order by placing one day
as the new order. The search is on for
the more complete self, i.e., consciousness, followed by the struggle to give
that consciousness new meaning.
So
far I don't think anyone has really given meaning to that self. Ulysses
relies too much on classical references (like the play Death and the Maiden, where the protagonists spoke about Schubert,
as if Schubert were very important, and he was to them, a love; but is Schubert
important to 80% of the people in the world or a particular culture? Probably not.)
Thus,
while all the effort that goes into Ulysses
is rewarding, it is more of a discipline than an enjoyable read. I agree that the lessons, consciousness,
family, father-son, love (as the introduction says) are important and worth the
trouble, but there are easier lessons, easier ways to learn the same thing.
We
no longer have the time to learn the references Joyce uses. Homer, for example. Memory seems to be a better reference point
because it is ready made for each of us.
The problem I suppose is to somehow tie all those memories together. One way this has been done, I think, is through
the Holocaust. Perhaps that is why there
are so many books about the Holocaust, because it creates a central reference
point in the memory, excluding less important memories, unifying alien
minds who all react in relation to the central memory of our age. There are other examples: Vietnam in the
U.S., other common cultural things, televisions, Catholic upbringing, Nixon,
Kennedy assassination, and so on. (What
will be the new memory events of our time?
The collapse of the old communist order in Eastern Europe and the Soviet
Union? The rise of fundamentalism in
Islam? Perhaps the liberation of people
from political ideology as they turn to become consumers of things?)
Where
are we headed? Can there be a new
statement for us all to say, "Yes, that's it?"
Thursday
we saw Death and the Maiden. It was a simple story and a simple theme, in
contrast to all the Shaw we have been seeing.
I enjoyed it but I suppose I wanted a bit more from the play than it
delivered, perhaps deeper questions, answers. However, the play dealt with terrible
emotional experiences, torture of humans, one by another; therefore the strong
emotions are balanced by simple ideas.
(Do strong ideas balance well with simple or less emotive characters?)
Today
in the paper read how older women have been lifting plants from Kew Gardens: an
epidemic of thieving!
Sunday
24 May. 8:45 p.m. Sat inside and read all day, first finishing
off Fatherland, then Brighton Rock. Now I am outside listening to the swifts, a
few other birds chirping, doves cooing, quiet day ending, having a cigar. I almost feel I have to smoke outside and it
is a fresh, moist Habana Upman (£5).
There is a pretty small Spanish chestnut in the back, Easton's side, and
a bird, blackbird size, but not a yellow beak, digging for a few last minute
worm snacks. Tomorrow is a Bank Holiday,
the third one since Easter Monday, plus May Day. I think it must be Memorial Day in the U.S.
tomorrow as well. It was breezy earlier,
but now cool and calm. The swifts come
and go, a very slight breeze. My ankle
(2 weeks now) still hurts, more today than 3 days ago. I tried to jog yesterday, two days walking
around London on Thursday and Friday.
Fatherland: a good thriller.
Nazi Germany as if it won, the Holocaust has never been made
public. As I read now, I keep noticing
things that seem to me techniques: I notice little hooks of suspense, hopes for
situations thwarted, then other things, appreciating the writer's craft more.
We
have two pink rose buds now, sweet peas starting, one other shrub,
hawthorn-like, nothing else but a few flowers on the weeds. The lavender looks as if it will come
soon. A jet comes by landing at
Stanstead.
Brighton Rock fits into my thinking of novels. It's a good example of how a bad guy (Pinkie)
can be the focal point of the novel. He
is a real bad guy, but portrayed sympathetically enough and given enough of a
psychological profile and unreality to make him a character the reader wants to
find out about, as he drags down the innocent Rose. The "innocent" Pinkie/Rose take
opposite courses, good/bad, but almost end up the same because of lack of
faith/belief. Has their Catholicism let
them down? (And nothing to replace
it.) In contrast, Ida, the almost-hooker
believes in people; she is the heroine, if one may be said to exist. Blackbird flies by with a squawk/squeak, the
swifts blend in, disappear, come back, blend in, etc.
I
always feel a little uncomfortable with Greene's Catholicism. He portrays the idea all right, but there is
too much ritual, the characters seem to speak miles beyond what they would
really know. But I fall for it. Great stuff!
Monday
25 May. Bank Holiday. 12:45 p.m.
Walking to mass this morning I was thinking of making up a story
involving characters with a collective memory, thinking to create my own
references in the story, and therefore create my own conscious world. Would it work? Have to give it a go.
Also
began thinking a little of collective memories now, and my thought turns to the
Holocaust and also to slavery. How is it
that these two different, but similar memories should have produced different
results? Catholics/Christians have a
strong collective memory, and that is the deep impression of Jesus' life,
particularly the Last Supper, Crucifixion and Resurrection. Lately, however, that memory has been
attacked from all angles, weakening it. Need
to fight to retain it or figure out what is the next step after collective
memory. Anarchy?
Thinking
about the consumer world in which we live.
The danger is great that we succumb to the belief that we can buy
happiness. We buy, buy, buy and consume
all the time, with the idea that these things will buy us peace and happiness. One thing I have grown more used to here is
how everything takes more time. Back home,
we try to accomplish much, thinking, I suppose, that we should prudently
consume our time, spend our time to make us happy (like the acquisition of
things). Over here, little things, such
as going to the market and doing the laundry take more time and as a result we
do not have as much time to consume.
(Interesting idea that U.S. is richer both in material things and in
time. Compare our 40 hour week to 48 hours
here, yet we get two weeks vacation and they have six weeks here.)
Anyway,
over here is closer to being in the "old" days, when making a living
took time and there was less time for distraction, leisure and
improvements. Which is better? One thinks of our lives in terms of God. Is there anything about either way of life,
in God's eyes, that would make one better than the other?
I
don't know, other than to say that having more time to
spend/consume offers the possibility of both putting that time to greater good
and greater evil. Just the same, I
guess, as riches offer opportunities for greater good works or evil use of
money.
Thinking
the other day that during my year away I have become more accustomed to a
particular way of life. I understood, in
Santa Fe, in 1989, that home is where the heart is, where my family is and that
that could be anywhere. I confirmed that
this year, not missing anything at home really.
This place, with Cathy and the children, all of us engaged in common
discoveries, has been more of a home than home was! The question is what to do with this?
Tuesday
26 May. 10:03 a.m. Sunny, another warm day, perhaps not quite as
warm as yesterday (25C/77F: double the Centigrade temperature, take away 10%
and add 32, e.g., 25 x 2 = 50, 50 - 10% = 45, 45 + 32 = 77). I estimated 78, Cathy thought high 80's. It's the humidity! First roses out now.
I
need to add: how often I awoke with backaches at Callita Court, now never,
though at first there were. Perhaps
tension? Stress? At home when I jog I usually make them go
away, how does that work? Does work at
something such as jogging, mindless, hard, take your mind off worries? Is it the exercise itself?
Great
line to remember from Ulysses:
sentimentalism is indulging in feelings without responsibility for what it all
costs: 'The sentimentalist is he who would enjoy without
incurring the immense debtorship for a thing done." Page 164, line 550.
Later. Thinking of the letters from the literary
agent. How I circle around the
point. How true! My father and mother both tell stories like
that, my father's "shaggy dog" stories and my mother's care for
detail! On the other hand, it strikes me
as very English, judging from the newspaper stories which beat around the bush
for two or three paragraphs before they get to the point.
Later
still: Maybe grammar is the manners of language, to be abandoned and ignored on
occasion; but never without good cause: Katherine
Whitehorn. The Observer. Sunday, 24 May
1992. Although I question the last
clause (I would say: but only for good cause), I think the sentiment makes
sense.
P.
Ackroyd, Sunday paper:
I'm not a confessional writer," he says. "It comes down to Catholicism, in a
strange way. It sounds pretentious, but
Protestant writers are very keen on the individual experience and moral
consciousness, and Catholic writers tend to be more concerned with ritual,
display and rhetoric. I'm more in that
tradition--not concerned with exploring individual experience necessarily, but
having a good time instead.
5:40
p.m. Spoke with Brian a little while ago
and asked him to wire $2,500. He told me
the second mortgage loan was approved, so we are all set. I feel nervous calling him and still feel
upset, a nervous anxiety in the pit of my stomach. I suppose it is nothing more (or is it?) than
knowing I am stuck going back to where I left.
Probably not much changed. I
thought before, OK, I envisioned myself back at the office doing the same
thing. I am not so sure, now that the reality
is imminent.
I
have fiddled around with all kinds of writing this afternoon and treated myself
to a "Choice" movie on BBC1
at 2:20, Alastair Sim and a very young Trevor Howard. Murders taking place against the V-1s
(1942). I enjoyed it, but my life is as
real as the movie. My movie stars me as
the writer, getting by, things will work out; they always do. The reality is that I do not know what I am
doing nor do I know which way to turn, paralyzed by possibilities. (It helps to say that!) I come around again as well to my childhood
disc jockey persona, Michael Stewart, Mr. Pretend.
I
know that things will work out. Of
course they do. There can be no doubt
that, except for occasional moments of longing, wishful thinking, I can go back
and do what I was doing before without a problem. Perhaps I am now just standing back enough to
catch the view? And it is awesome. Back home, at work, there is no view, just
driving down the road, on the path, not much to see but what is straight ahead. Perhaps it is necessary for me to get that
view, to give me the push to go for what I want. But the problem is that though I may not like
the view I still don't know what to push for!
If I am disgusted and sickened by the thought of going back, what do I
do if I don't want to go back? That is a
different decision, not the same as deciding to can it all.
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