Lighthousekeeping (Jeanette Winterson)

Posted: July 26, 2018 in fiction
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I’ll call you, and we’ll light a fire, and drink some wine, and recognise each other in the place that is ours. Don’t wait. Don’t tell the story later.

Life is so short. This stretch of sea and sand, this walk on the shore, before the tide covers everything we have done.

I love you.

The three most difficult words in the world.

But what else can I say?

I know, it’s more typical to start reviews with the first few paragraphs of a book, and these are the last. But there is something so gentle and affectionate in these final words that draws me as the moon draws the tides.

As usual, I am a little overwhelmed by how much I love Winterson’s novels. The plot and characters might change, but she seems always to be writing about finding love and freedom in love, a love that doesn’t bind or constrict but fosters growth, comfort, and safety. I don’t know if she’s writing what she has experienced or what she dreams of, but either way, it’s something that I want as well.

Silver is a girl who becomes an orphan and whom no one seems to want. There is very little sense of community in her life, probably because she lives in such isolated places. Her mother raises her in a house built slantingly over a cliff, highly precarious. When the mother dies, Silver gets placed with a lighthouse keeper, so she’s again on the edge of town where no one bothers to go. The keeper, an elderly blind man named Pew, tells stories and cooks sausages and keeps the light going. I think a blind lighthouse keeper is a good symbol for love – he keeps others safe by performing a task that he doesn’t benefit from.

With names like these, you are probably thinking of Long John Silver and Old Blind Pew from Treasure Island, and Winterson does make this connection explicit. The Robert Louis Stevenson connection is an important one, but she spends more time connecting her story to The Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde, as Silver retells the story of Pew’s ancestor, Babel Dark.

Babel Dark was a minister in the small town on the northern Scottish coast where our featured lighthouse is located. He was a handsome young man, and while at college fell in love with a working girl. She got pregnant, but for one reason or another they couldn’t marry, so he went off heartbroken to Scotland. He marries someone else, but when he runs into his true love at the Crystal Palace he ditches his new wife for hours on their honeymoon to spend time with the girl he really loves, and their blind daughter. He spends most of his life with his wife and legitimate children, preaching in a sort of dazed semblance of death, and only comes alive on his trips down south to the not-wife and the illegitimate children. Which of his selves is Dr Jekyll and which is Mr Hyde? Do any of us really have multiple selves? Is Babel Dark good or bad? I think that people, even most characters in books, are more complicated than that. I think that goodness and happiness are inextricably linked – that being happy in general means being happy with ourselves, not being constantly goaded by conscience – and I can see that Dark chooses unhappiness in order to preserve his respectability. It’s not a choice I would make, but I did live in the closet for thirty years, so I can understand how someone else would. And Dark learns the lesson that everyone does who tries to compartmentalize their lives – there’s only one life, one reality, and walls come down. You can’t keep life in little boxes; it grows and stretches and cross-pollinates, so nothing stays apart. I think it’s vitally important to embrace the wholeness of ourselves, to see our lives as single and complete, to welcome the bizarre combinations and mixtures that life presents us with. Henry Jekyll and Babel Dark both had to learn that life is as it is, and no amount of human control is going to change that.

I unlatched the shutters. The light was as intense as a love affair. I was blinded, delighted, not just because it was warm and wonderful, but because nature measures nothing. Nobody needs this much sunlight. Nobody needs droughts, volcanoes, monsoons, tornadoes either, but we get them, because our world is as extravagant as a world can be. We are the ones obsessed by measurement. The world just pours it out.

Toward the end of the book, Silver gets out into the world and finds new places, new people, new animals, and loves them. But she eventually comes back to the lighthouse, even though everything’s been automated and there is no more need for a keeper. I sometimes talk about places I have loved, but I think it’s related to places I have been loved, or felt loved. Love isn’t only romantic, and I heard/felt it this week when my friends told me that my new title is Their Fairy Godbrother. I feel it when my stylist friend gets sick of seeing my DIY haircuts and drags me into her chair at work. I feel and see it when I trade tarot readings with friends, or go for drinks after work, or when someone shares a memory on Facebook of a picture of the two of us. The Troggs were right about love being all around, but it sometimes takes a quick perception to notice it.

I’ve been having a hard time with romantic love this week. Not to bore you with details, but New Guy should have told me something months ago but chose to keep quiet about it, and now I’m questioning our future together. Honestly, I’ve been questioning that future for a few weeks now, but this was the straw that broke my camel’s back and I unloaded a furious barrage of angry texting. He might be older than I am, but age isn’t experience, and experience that hasn’t been reflected on is worth the same as no experience at all. Words, money, and sex are all fantastic things, but I need more than that. A friend of mine has been doing graduate research on the subject of mattering (see Gordon Flett’s new book, The Psychology of Mattering), so that language has been on my mind, and that’s the problem. I don’t feel like I matter to New Guy. Use whichever sensory metaphor you like, seeing or hearing, but I don’t feel like he perceives me as I am. I also question whether he’s ready for the type of relationship I want.

I wish I weren’t attracted to unhappiness. It’s not my job to cheer up handsome men who hate themselves. It feels futile, trying to use my love to fill in the space where his self-love should be. And the more he identifies himself with me, the more our two lives become one, the more he’s going to direct his self-hatred at me.

Winterson’s book isn’t about my relationship problems, which are different than Babel Dark’s, or Silver’s. It is about love, both given and withheld. It’s beautifully written, as her books always are, and there are some specific people I want to recommend it to, but I don’t want to lend it because my lent books so seldom come back to me. This one I want to keep.

 

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Comments
  1. “It feels futile, trying to use my love to fill in the space where his self-love should be. And the more he identifies himself with me, the more our two lives become one, the more he’s going to direct his self-hatred at me.” I think that’s a really good read, unfortunately. 😦

    • theoccasionalman says:

      I made this explicit to him this weekend. He doesn’t think this trajectory is inevitable, but I don’t think anyone can always remember to treat others better than they treat themselves. We’re pushing ahead for now, though I’m keeping an eye on the fire exits just in case.

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