Posts Tagged ‘theatre’

This is another book that is just what I’m looking for right now: interesting, but not demanding.

Alan Lennox is a temp. I don’t mean a fresh-faced, wide-eyed young go-getter; I mean mid-twenties and realizing his life isn’t going anywhere. His best friend is Caitlin Ross, an actor whose career is not taking off, so she’s probably more accurately called a bartender. They have two roommates, Dakota Bell and Mark Park. Dakota works for a giant company and is probably the only one who can afford to live in their apartment (I never understand how these fictional kids can always manage to live in New York). Mark is a personal trainer, so people go on about how hot he is. For the first part of the book, it’s a bit like playing Six Degrees of Separation, as the threads of their lives gradually tighten. Of course, it was all a big evil plot.

You remember all those movies about machines becoming conscious and taking over? Star Trek: The Motion Picture, 2001: A Space Odyssey, that sort of thing? Imagine if that concept could be applied to a corporation. What would happen if a company could become sentient? Just how human can a business enterprise be? This is the idea that Olsen explores. Amalgamated Synergy as a single mind/entity takes over. She does weird things, like create departments that don’t do anything and buy and sell in pointless ways. When given complete control, the company doesn’t know what’s best for itself. She likes games, so she plays around with Work It, a sort of Second Life office environment simulator. And she falls in love with our boy Alan, Christine-style, and uses a combination of murder and manipulation to get him close to her, including killing his boyfriend, which is tragic because I really like him. They only go on one or two dates, but Pete’s great.

The one thing that is specifically human, which the machine doesn’t get, is the search for meaning. Meaning itself she can comprehend, but not the life that doesn’t have it but wants to. Like so many of us in our twenties, that’s where our main characters live. They look for meaning in their work, but it’s a challenge when your paycheck doesn’t match your self-perceived worth. Trust me, I have a lot of experience being underemployed. When society doesn’t recompense your work with enough money for food and shelter, you question not only the worth of your work but the worth of yourself as well. Caitlin gets shaken out of it in this overly long excerpt, but Alan never quite does.

They sat there in silence for a moment. Then she sat forward and turned towards him. “Okay, but why did you ask that?”

He took her hand. “I don’t know, honestly, I didn’t mean anything by it. You’re an actress, that’s great.”

“Actor,” she corrected immediately. “You don’t go to the doctress when you’re sick. Your colleagues aren’t accountresses.”

“I’ve made you angry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to.”

“Finish your thought,” she said. “You said, ‘And a bartender, I know, but . . .’ But what?”

“You’re just going to get madder and I honestly don’t know what I’m talking about.”

“Too late now, Aussie. Spit it out. But what?”

“But… being an actor and a bartender, that’s great, really, it is. But… they’re not real jobs, are they?”

And there went her evening, Caitlin thought. So much for showing off the hot Australian guy in the morning.

For some reason she couldn’t fathom, he was still talking. “I just mean – unless you’re a movie star or something, you can’t do it forever, right? I was just wondering if you had thought about what you might do when you’re a little older. That’s all. You don’t have to answer.”

“Oh, Lachlan, Lachlan, Lachlan. Beautiful Australian Lachlan.” She pulled her hand away from his. “Acting is an uncertain career, full of insecurity and doubt, and that has been a big, big problem for me lately. I admit, I’ve been having second thoughts. I haven’t been working much lately, haven’t even been getting a lot of call-backs.”

“Maybe…”

“Shush. I should thank you, I think. What you just said has made me so angry that I’ve realized how important what I do is to me. I really, really don’t give a shit if you don’t see any value in how I’ve chosen to live my life. That doesn’t matter.”

“I…”

“Still talking. What matters is that I see value in it. That I know there is value in it, worth in it, because the times when I’m on stage are the only times when I feel like I actually contribute something of meaning to the world. I’m an actor and I can’t be anything else. So if I really can’t do this for the rest of my life, I guess what I’ll do when I get older is starve.”

Lachlan was quiet, waiting to be sure she was finished. “I’m sorry, really, I am. I didn’t mean to offend you. I don’t know much about acting, I’m a numbers guy, maybe I’m just ignorant.”

“Maybe.” She didn’t look at him. She realized that at some point in this conversation she had decided to take the job at AmSyn on Monday.

He stood up. “The party’s winding down, looks like. I should get home. I’ll…I’ll call you.” He walked away.

She waited until he was gone, then sat there for a while longer, thinking.

The key to it is, of course, to stop deriving your self-worth from your job. Alan has people who love and care for him and don’t want him to be enslaved to a giant corporation, and that in itself should indicate that his life is worth something. I find that life is more rewarding when I think of self-worth in terms of what I give to and how I interact with specific people instead of society in a mass. The faceless public doesn’t give a shit; the individuals do. I suppose that’s another piece of Olsen’s project: the short-sighted self-centeredness of the corporate mind in contrast to the genuine love and support of the members. Focus on the units, not the aggregate.

It’s a bit strange, getting into a career when people have been predicting its demise for thirty years. The face of librarianship has changed a lot in that time, but the core mission remains the same: connecting people with the information they need. People will always need librarians, so I think this is a worthwhile career. But when the going gets tough, as it will, my personal mission in life doesn’t have to be my job. There are people who love me and don’t want to watch me starve to death, so I really think I’ll be okay, so long as I can remember that the job isn’t my life. Thinking of the film Across the Universe, it’s not what you do, it’s who you are.

This is a cute little book. I’ll probably continue the series: there’s one title for each of the four. Enjoyable, highly readable, great for winding down during a time of high stress.

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When you find your seat you glance at the businessman sitting next to you and decide he’s almost handsome. This is the second leg of your trip from Miami to Casablanca, and the distance traveled already has muted the horror of the last two months. What’s to stop you from having a conversation with this man, possibly even ordering two vodka tonics with the little lemon wedges that the flight attendant will place into your plastic cups with silver tongs? He’s around your age, thirty-three, and, like you, appears to be traveling alone. He has two newspapers in his lap, one in Arabic, and the other in English. If you get along well enough, you could enjoy a meal together once you get to Casablanca. You’ll go to dinner and you’ll sit on plush, embroidered pillows and eat couscous with your hands. Afterwards, you’ll pass by the strange geometry of an unknown skyline as you make your way back to one of your hotels. Isn’t this what people do when they’re alone and abroad?

But as you get settled into your seat next to this businessman he tells you he plans to sleep the entire flight to Casablanca. Then, with a considerable and embarrassing amount of effort he inflates a neck pillow with his thin lips, places a small pill on his outstretched tongue, and turns away from you and toward the oval window, the shade of which has already been shut.

Thus begins a book about disappointments, betrayal, and starting over. The entire book is told in the second person, so the protagonist is always this ‘you’, and while I understand that this can be an effective rhetorical strategy to make the audience empathize with the protagonist, it came out as false and forced to me, because she is constantly making choices that I wouldn’t. It took me a long time to read this book, much longer than it should have because it’s so short, because of the cognitive dissonance between me and her.

But really, my biggest problem with the book is that it ends too quickly. A number of events happen to shatter her sense of identity (we never do learn her name), but she doesn’t create a new sense of herself as a whole person. She has one big scene where she cries over the people she’s lost, but that only moves her from Denial to Anger. There’s no healing; she just keeps running, inventing false identities, jumping on whatever is going to get her through the next ten minutes. At the end, the author makes it clear that she’s really looking for herself, the self that she has lost, but she just runs again. She doesn’t reach any stability or honesty; nothing is resolved. The stakes actually get smaller and smaller as the book goes on, the opposite of the usual trajectory, so that her last change of identity is simply to avoid social embarrassment in front of a group of total strangers, people she has never seen before and will never see again, except for the one person who knows her trauma and would be sympathetic. So maybe she doesn’t get out of Denial after all.

People going on vacation really need to take some time to think and plan it out. If you’re going to Casablanca, watch the movie and see what it’s like: a rat’s nest of criminal activity that no one wants to be in. I’m sure that there are lovely bits in the city, and some really nice people, but when the guidebook says that the first thing to do when you arrive in Casablanca is to leave, maybe it’s best not to go there at all.

As part of the whole identity shift, she spends a good part of the middle of the book working as a stand-in for a famous American actress (also unnamed). Things seem good here at first, but she starts to be too good, and the director tells the famous actress to take some notes from the stand-in, and that is problematic. The actress also sends her on a date with a wealthy Russian that she wants to distance herself from, but the girl is more successful than she is with him as well, and some photographers get shots of her drunk and falling over, and of course they assume she’s the actress. Role reversal at work plus tabloid smack equals no more job. But it’s while she’s acting, doing a scene in a big mosque, that protagonist lets go of her tears and is finally able to admit to herself what happened. Acting can be a means of self-revelation, even revealing the self to the self, finding bits of you that you were hiding from. I don’t think I was very good at it – I had the desire to be someone else that so many teenage amateur actors have, but I didn’t have the self-knowledge to portray feelings appropriately. If you don’t know what you’re feeling, you can’t display feelings well. Also, I was too tightly self-controlled to emote much in my daily life, and that makes it hard to do it on a stage. Subtleties can be hard to read at that distance.

Life is hard. But sometimes we make choices that make it harder, and this protagonist just keeps making things difficult for herself. We never see her actually pay for her bad choices because she never has a moment where the choices in the book catch up to her. She has the one moment where she faces her trauma, but then she goes right back to running away from the consequences of her decisions, and that makes it really hard for me to identify with her, or even like her.

If you’re fond of books that imply that the best way to deal with trauma is to keep lying and keep running, and if you are about to get caught then lie and run some more, then this is the one for you. If you’re looking for a book that involves learning to deal with trauma in healthy ways, then stay away. There is so much poor mental health here, and very little healing.

Another atypical novel. There’s nothing Gothic or weird about this; it’s depressingly real. It begins with The Hon. Charles Wyndham calling his wife and her family a bunch of parasites, and then they spend most of the rest of the novel remembering their lives together.

Maria and Niall are not actually brother and sister; her father married his mother when they were both infants, and produced the third child, Celia. Maria and Niall are sometimes like two halves of a single person, they rely on each other so much, but at other times not.

The tunes he had written for this tiresome revue were maddening, insistent; you could not forget them for one single moment. Once you heard them, you went on humming them all the time, throughout the day, until they nearly drove you crazy. The trouble was, thought Maria, that when the time came to dance to them, she would be dancing with Charles. And Charles was a stolid, safe dancer, steering you rather as he might steer a little ship through shoal water, an anxious eye to the bumps of other dancers. Whereas Niall . . . Dancing with Niall had always been like dancing with yourself. You moved, and he followed. Or rather, he moved and you followed. Or was it that you both thought of the same moves at precisely the same moment? And anyway, why think about Niall?

Their parents were performers, so the children grew up in theatres, even when they were very young children who really needed the attention of their parents. Pappy was effusive but careless, and Mama was cold and distant. She began to connect with Niall when he showed a gift for music, but she died so shortly afterward that it couldn’t make up for all the time she didn’t care for him. Niall is the only one to go away to school, and he hates it, running away all the time, usually to go find Maria. She went upon the stage at the same time he went to school. Maria is always dogged by her father’s spectre; people assume that she gets roles because she’s his daughter, not because she has any talent of her own. By the time it’s clear that she is a good actress, her fears of inadequacy are too deeply ingrained to be easily overcome. Niall leaves school shortly before graduation, to run away to Paris with a friend of his parents. Pappy always talks about his French blood, saying that all his vagaries are due to the unknown biological father. He never learns discipline, and it takes decades for him to learn to write down music himself. There are times he reminds me of myself. Discipline has never been easy for me; I believe that I write well, but I never work at the craft, and rarely write anything original. If I were dedicated to writing, I’d do it more often, and think more about my sentences, and chart plots in my head, and listen for characters’ voices. Niall cranks out popular songs of the Irving Berlin/Cole Porter variety, good for revues, but he wishes he could write concertos, something that he perceives as worthwhile and lasting.

Celia’s problem would be a different one. People, finding her more sympathetic than either Niall or Maria, would pour out to her the story of their lives. “You have no idea what he does to me,” and she would find herself involved in another person’s troubles, her advice sought, her co-operation demanded, and it would be like a net closing round her from which there was no escape.

Celia, the youngest, product of both famous parents, the only legitimate child of the three, yet has no desire to follow them. She always wanted a family, so she spends her youth taking care of Pappy, as he declines into alcoholic old age. Her attention is always on other people; she draws well, and writes children’s stories to accompany the pictures. Her drawings capture her mother’s grace and her father’s emotive range, but without their drive to pursue Art. She has more pressing matters to attend to. Of the three, I find Celia the easiest to like, because she does care for ordinary people. Maria and Niall are too full of The Artist’s Vocation to notice or care about other people. I suppose they learned that from their parents.

And yet, whom do I identify with the most? The antagonist, the angry husband from the first chapter.

The movement from the armchair, as Charles changed his position and straightened out the sports page of the Sunday Times, should have warned them of irritation, but they took no notice.

This is me all over. If an actor is supposed to be so attuned to the use of the body and how it reveals character, why would they then ignore me, when my body language speaks so loudly? It was true with The Ex, and true with the guy I was seeing at the holidays. I guess they look long enough to figure out who I am, and then they stop. I’m not exactly mercurial, but nor is my interior life placid. I’m layered, like an onion, and I show more and more of myself as I build trust. Once you get past that first layer of silence, you can’t assume that you know me well enough to stop paying attention. Not if you want me to stick around.

“I will tell you what matters,” said Charles; “it matters to have principles, to have standards, to have ideals. It matters to have faith, and a belief. It matters very much if you love a woman, and a woman loves a man, and you marry, and you breed children, and you share each other’s lives, and you grow old together, and you lie buried in the same grave. It matters even more if the man loves the wrong woman, and the woman loves the wrong man, and the two come from different worlds that just won’t mix, that won’t turn into one world, belonging to both. Because when that happens, a man goes adrift and is lost, and his ideals and illusions and traditions get lost too. There is nothing much to live for any more. So he chucks his hand in. He says to himself: Why bother? The woman I love does not believe in any of the things that I believe in. Therefore, I may as well stop believing in them too. I also can lower standards.”

I’ve felt like this about the Midwest, including Texas. Texas and Illinois are not so different as Texans would have you think. I’m an East Coast guy; over there, I feel free, like it’s easy to find friends I have things in common with, like everything is possible. Here, I feel confined by the expectations of others. Back home, there are lots of different kinds of people, but here there are only two: Normal, which means moderately conservative straight-ticket Republican Christian; and Weird, which is everyone else. But while at my high school Goths and cowboys could be friends, here the Weird make the Normal really uncomfortable. I’d say this isn’t so much a Midwestern thing as a not-academia thing, but even when I was at the university in Illinois I had a hard time fitting in. My friends were a guy from Scranton PA and the local girl who had lived in Paris for several years. The Middies do their best to be kind, but I feel like I’m visiting a foreign country where they happen to speak the same language I do. You know, like Canada, but without the tundra.

To some extent, we create the world we live in; I’ve made some good connections here, primarily with students, but I’m thinking about The Ex. When we first got together, we seemed to inhabit the same world, but in time we built up in opposite directions. And this is where I feel like Charles; we both married the wrong woman. I shouldn’t have married a woman at all, honestly, but it was necessary for me to figure out that I’m not attracted to them. I went adrift and was lost, for what feels like a long time. I also lost the ideals and illusions and traditions, and now I’m working toward new ones. Charles goes directly toward another relationship, but I’ve been learning to do things alone. A month or two ago my son and I were both sick, and I told him how fortunate he was to have his mother to take care of him while I didn’t have anyone to do that, and he said, “Yes, you do, Dad. You have yourself.” And I’ve been pondering that, the fact that I complain about having no one to love and be loved by, but I have myself. And valuing myself and taking care of myself is important right now, because I don’t have anyone else. One day he will come, and I’ll stop singing “Someday My Prince Will Come” and “I’ll Know When My Love Comes Along,” and I’ll enjoy the fact that he has. And this man I hope to meet deserves to be with a guy who has his shit together. So I’ll keep learning to be the guy that the guy I’ll love will love.

This thought isn’t really related to anything, and I don’t have anything really to say about it, but it struck me as beautiful:

They say that when we sleep our subconscious selves are revealed, our hidden thoughts and desires are written plain upon our features and our bodies like the tracings of rivers on a map; and no one reads them but the darkness.

As we near the end, as their memories catch up to the present moment, Charles confronts them with the question of whether they are or are not parasites. They evade the question, but I think it’s important to say it outright: No, they are not. Artists are not parasites (and the idea of Celia as a parasite doesn’t even bear considering – cf the Surplus Woman Question of the nineteenth century). The word parasites assumes that they feed on us, that without our applause they would die. It’s just not like that. These artists create for the sake of the Art itself. Niall despises the people who whistle his songs, and Maria only notices the audience as a collective entity. Ordinary people like Charles are just not interesting to them. If anyone matters, it’s the other artists. She acts to prove that she can, both to herself and to the other actors. He writes music because he must, and to please his lover and his sister. There are rare occasions when a story will affect me that way, but when you work sixty hours a week and have a tiny apartment full of children and a talkative wife, as I did for several years, you learn to block it out. But if The Words are coming back, I want to welcome them. I want to make time to write; I want to have the energy and attention to get things down in the evenings. If I can use words well, I want to use them to make my friends’ hearts glad, to make the world beautiful. There’s nothing parasitic about that.

In the spring of 2003, I decided that it was ridiculous that I had never read anything by Jane Austen, and that it was about time I did. I read all six novels in about six months. Mansfield Park seemed to be the long, boring one (Emma is actually longer). A year later, though, I was a newlywed and had just moved across the country to start our new life together in Seattle, and I started to miss Mansfield Park. I realized that, while the book itself may not be the most attractive, it captivates me in a way that Pride and Prejudice just can’t. I spent most of the two years of my graduate study reading and writing about Mansfield Park – when I didn’t include it in a project, that project ended up a failure. I bowed to necessity and started nearly every academic thought with Mansfield Park. I’ve not subjected any of my students to it, but it is still frequently close to the surface of thought. With the possible exception of As I Lay Dying, it’s the book that I’ve read the greatest number of times.

My major professor once said that she had a hard time being friends with people who didn’t love Mansfield Park like she did; that may sound a little excessive, but I completely understand. Partway through the grad program, the ex declared that she hated the book (always had) and was tired of me going on about it. She resisted all of my attempts to inject a little Mansfield Park into her life. When you identify as strongly with a book as I did with Mansfield Park, hating the book feels like hating me. It certainly implies that she hates the parts of me that I see reflected there. As I read it this week, I realized that the parts of me that are reflected most clearly in the book are parts of me that I’m less fond of, so maybe I’m putting some distance between myself and it. I am fully cognizant of the irony that the longer we’re divorced, the more I become the kind of person she claimed to want me to be.

In many ways, Mansfield Park is Pride and Prejudice’s evil twin. That immortal opening line,

A single man in possession of a large fortune must be in want of a wife.

is matched with a line from MP’s opening paragraph,

But there certainly are not so many men of large fortune in the world, as there are pretty women to deserve them.

I read an article once that said that after Sense and Sensibility and Pride and Prejudice, the next Austen novel should have been Delicacy and Decorum, and while those are important concepts, I think a more apt alliterative title would have been Diffidence and Disappointment. I also read once that P&P is concerned primarily with happiness; I think that MP is more interested in disappointment. In most of Austen’s novels, two people fall in love with each other over the course of the book, and it ends with their marriage. In MP, we see our couples form, but the novel works at splitting them up instead of getting them together. The supposed hero doesn’t fall for the heroine until three pages from the end – he spends the entire book in love with the wrong girl, though frankly, I think she would have been good for him in a way that the supposed heroine will not be. There’s no balance of equals, as in the relationship between Mr Darcy and Elizabeth Bennet; Edmund has been a male authority figure for Fanny since they were kids, and now he will continue to be so for the rest of their lives. It’s like seeing a love affair between Mr Collins and Mary Bennet. In fact, most of the characters in P&P have clear parallels in MP. There’s a bit about Austen’s character patterns in Gilbert and Gubar’s Madwoman in the Attic.

The protagonist here is Fanny Price, one of the more suggestive of Austen’s names. Fanny was already used colloquially to refer to female genitals (I suppress a giggle at every mention of ‘your own dear Fanny’ or ‘My very dear Fanny’), and surnaming her Price suggests that she exacts a heavy toll before that part of her body can be enjoyed. Which is true. Fanny is the youngest of Austen’s protagonists, and being as serious as she is when a person is as young as she is means that she’s generally harsh and judgmental. However, she’s been trained to have extremely low self-esteem, so she usually keeps her thoughts to herself. That might make the book unreadable, if we heard her thoughts more often. In Austen’s other novels, we spend almost all of our time looking at the narrative from one perspective (Elinor, Elizabeth, Emma, Anne, Catherine), but MP balances perspectives and judgment.

For a long time I’ve identified strongly with Fanny Price. Partially because of the childhood stuff, large family, oversensitive child,

Her feelings were very acute, and too little understood to be properly attended to. Nobody meant to be unkind, but nobody put themselves out of their way to secure her comfort.

That’s my family experience exactly, but it takes a lot of mature, rational thought to arrive at this explanation of it. When you’re the kid in the middle of it, you just feel alone and unloved, no matter how many people are around or how little privacy you have. Fanny’s also very imaginative, as in this scene where she’s watching Edmund give Mary a riding lesson, but from a great distance:

After a few minutes, they stopt entirely. Edmund was close to her, he was speaking to her, he was evidently directing her management of the bridle, he had hold of her hand; she saw it, or the imagination supplied what the eye could not reach.

Fanny’s imagining this as more intimate than it may have been. I don’t think her imagination gets as much exercise as it needs, since she doesn’t read fiction, just nonfiction and poetry. This is one of those indicators of character – at the time of writing, fiction was still thought to be a little naughty, which is why the writers of it tried to make it so . . . safe. Though Austen’s most religious protagonist is in the book with the worst behavior, so maybe they weren’t trying that hard.

Fanny is not the paragon of virtue some people read her as. This passage sounds a little like the demonic puppetmaster bit in Villette:

Fanny looked on and listened, not unamused to observe the selfishness which, more or less disguised, seemed to govern them all, and wondering how it would end. For her own gratification she could have wished that something might be acted, for she had never seen even half a play, but every thing of higher consequence was against it.

There’s so much of Fanny Price in Lucy Snowe that it’s hard to believe that Brontë never read Mansfield Park, but there’s no definite proof that she did or did not, so we can speculate all we like. Fanny looks on while her cousins and their friends behave like idiots, pretending to be putting on a play while really working out their own desires and relationships. Fanny herself will pretend to be disgusted by what’s going on, higher consequence and all that, but she loves it. She does half the backstage work, hardly the behavior of someone who doesn’t approve of the theatre in general.

I like the theatre part because I used to do a bit of that myself, in high school and college. I get minor roles, usually as someone’s dad. I miss it sometimes. I don’t think I’m that good, but at the same time I don’t want to put the time into a production if I’m going to be an extra. I prefer musicals, but the local ones they do over the summers are directed by someone I worked with in undergrad, and time with him is something else I don’t want in my life. I just don’t hate myself that much.

Fanny also loses her halo because she gets fucking pissed. When Edmund spends months trying to decide how much he cares for Mary and how much she cares for him, Fanny loses her temper (when she’s alone):

“There is no good in this delay,” said she. “Why is not it settled? – He is blinded, and nothing will open his eyes, nothing can, after having had truths before him so long in vain. – He will marry her, and be poor and miserable. God grant that her influence do not make him cease to be respectable!” – She looked over the letter again. “ ‘So very fond of me!’ ‘tis nonsense all. She loves nobody but herself and her brother. Her friends leading her astray for years! She is quite as likely to have led them astray. They have all, perhaps, been corrupting one another; but if they are so much fonder of her than she is of them, she is the less likely to have been hurt, except by their flattery. ‘The only woman in the world, whom he could ever think of as a wife.’ I firmly believe it. It is an attachment to govern his whole life. Accepted or refused, his heart is wedded to her for ever. ‘The loss of Mary, I must consider as comprehending the loss of Crawford and Fanny.’ Edmund, you do not know me. The families would never be connected, if you did not connect them! Oh! write, write. Finish it at once. Let there be an end of this suspense. Fix, commit, condemn yourself.”

Hell hath no fury like that of a quiet woman ignored. Her despair is so unchristian that she judges everyone around her harshly; Mary is not so bad as Fanny imagines her to be, nor is Henry Crawford. Fanny just hates Mary because Edmund is in love with her. Of the people at Mansfield, Mary Crawford is actually the person most careful of Fanny’s feelings, the one who takes her for granted the least. Some people do a queer reading of this friendship, and there’s some evidence for that. People in Austen novels are frequently interchangeable, but usually there’s a slot for a woman and a slot for a man. Fanny and Edmund tend to slip in and out of the same slot in Mary’s life, possibly her heart. When Fanny’s listening to the harp, she tries to leave, but Mary calls her back to hear Edmund’s favorite piece, thus demanding a repetition of a romantic experience with Fanny in Edmund’s place. In some ways, Fanny and Mary have much more of a relationship than Emma Woodhouse and Harriet Smith, though some critics try to make a big deal out of Emma’s need to elevate Harriet to an equal status and then control her behavior (that doesn’t sound like a relationship to me).

But Fanny doesn’t see it, because she’s not very self-aware. She starts falling for Henry Crawford while still assuming that she hates him. Here, when she’s denying his marriage proposal:

Fanny knew her own meaning, but was no judge of her own manner. Her manner was incurably gentle, and she was not aware how much it concealed the sternness of her purpose. Her diffidence, gratitude, and softness, made every expression of indifference seem almost an effort of self-denial; seem at least, to be giving nearly as much pain to herself as to him.

And I think she might be. She knows all the reasons for and against him, and the narrator frequently reminds us that if it weren’t for her obsession with Edmund, she could have been happy with Henry. And even with that obsession, his visit to her in Portsmouth reveals how much she wants him to think well of her. But she doesn’t realize how high her opinion of him is; she never thinks through her changing feelings for him. She gets a bad first impression of him and then consciously fights against changing it.

Mrs Norris sums her up in a moment of anger, and I think this is a more accurate description of Fanny than most people give:

If she would but have let us know she was going out – but there is a something about Fanny, I have often observed it before, – she likes to go her own way to work; she does not like to be dictated to; she takes her own independent walk whenever she can; she certainly has a little spirit of secrecy, and independence, and nonsense, about her, which I would advise her to get the better of.

Sir Thomas thinks this is unjust, but the narrator refrains from comment, because Mrs Norris is right. Fanny makes her own opinions and sticks with them. She may be outwardly submissive, but internally she’s a raging ball of hormones and teenage lovesickness, and she doesn’t tell anyone about it. The matter of Henry makes it pretty clear; she refuses to tell anyone why she won’t marry him. Edmund guesses, but he’s lost a lot of his influence with her by falling in love with Mary, so she won’t talk it over with him. Fanny is so used to being discounted that she won’t stick up for herself, with the result that she seems mysterious to strangers, and is rather secretive even with people she knows well.

I have a similar tendency – I get a feel for who people want me to be in a given situation, and I try to be that person. I do this so unconsciously that I don’t notice it, and I value my time alone because only then do I stop performing. I keep my thoughts and opinions to myself, unless I’m with someone I’m really comfortable with. [This is in real life; online, I’ll write about anything and be super opinionated. I’ll only talk out loud like this when I’m drunk or with close friends.]

I don’t like Edmund Bertram enough to identify with him; I can barely even call him the hero of the piece. I think Henry Crawford deserves that title. Compare him to Mr Darcy: their social habits are the opposite of the female protagonists’, so there’s some initial friction. Over the course of the novel, the man falls in love and tries to attract the woman with his old habits and proposes marriage, which she refuses. But he persists, and eventually wins her heart. Outwardly, I’m more like Mr Darcy, shy and withdrawn. But inwardly, I’m a bit more like Henry Crawford. I have that same unsettled, indolently restless nature. He’s interested in everything; sometimes he wishes he had been an actor, sometimes he wishes he had been a sailor, and sometimes he wishes he had been a preacher. He eventually decides that being rich and lazy is enough. I became a literature major because it really does give you the space to study everything, history, psychology, science, philosophy, education – whatever is part of human experience is in literature somewhere. Henry also needs everyone to love him, and that’s one of the qualities I’m trying to let go of (along with some Fanny Price-ish masochism and low self-esteem).

Austen almost never gives details of people’s physical appearance, allowing us to settle for ourselves how tall is tall and what a ‘fine figure’ involves, but then there’s this bit about Henry:

“I do not say he is not gentleman-like, considering; but you should tell your father he is not above five feet eight, or he will be expecting a well-looking man.”

I’m only three-quarters of an inch above five feet eight myself, which puts me at average height. In Brazil and the American South, I’m actually considered a little tall, certainly not too short to be handsome. [Unless it was the ex, and she was mad at me. She knew she was angry when she started thinking about how short I am.] However, in the Midwest I’m so small that someone tripped over me. They grow ‘em big in Iowa. Henry and I are also alike in the more substantial question of steadiness of character. He knows what’s right, but doesn’t have the consistency necessary to do it all the time. This is another of those traits that I don’t approve of when I see it in myself, but I do see it whenever I have something unpleasant to accomplish, or a large change to make. I keep putting things off until it’s too late. You can see the precise moment when Henry loses power over Fanny:

I have a great mind to go back into Norfolk directly, and put every thing at once on such a footing as cannot be afterwards swerved from. – Maddison is a clever fellow; I do not wish to displace him – provided he does not try to displace me; – but it would be simple to be duped by a man who has no right of creditor to dupe me – and worse than simple to let him give me a hard-hearted, griping fellow for a tenant, instead of an honest man, to whom I have given half a promise already. – Would not it be worse than simple? Shall I go? – Do you advise it?

He’s started to make good choices, using his responsibility wisely, but then he stops and asks for her approval. This kind of wavering is what she can’t tolerate in him. He’s figured out the right course, but he just can’t stick with it without her cheering him on. Which, of course, leads to the novel’s final disaster and Fanny’s marriage to Edmund.

A quick word on style: Mansfield Park tends to have long complex sentences, which is partially why people have a harder time loving it than some of Austen’s other novels, but it makes the short sentences more effective. I mean, this one practically pops out at us:

William and Fanny were horror-struck at the idea.

And, of course, I’ve seldom seen an author who cares about her characters so much as Jane Austen. Which is why MP is so odd; people keep getting banished from the narrative, and ultimately some are utterly excluded from the community. This never happens – people like John Thorpe have a place in Austen’s communities, but here someone finally commits an unforgiveable sin. Not that the author goes on about it.

Let other pens dwell on guilt and misery. I quit such odious subjects as soon as I can, impatient to restore every body, not greatly in fault themselves, to tolerable comfort, and to have done with all the rest.

Which is one of my favorite passages in all of Austen’s work. It speaks of the playful optimism that you find in all of the other novels. It’s in Mary Crawford, our antagonist, instead of Elizabeth Bennet or Emma Woodhouse. The character most similar to Austen’s other heroines loses the man she wants and ends up spending most of her time with people she calls friends but doesn’t actually care for much. And I think this is why the ex hates it so much. She likes being irreverent and saucy; she’s rather similar to Elizabeth Bennet or Marianne Dashwood, so of course she dislikes a book where she’s the villain. Well, not quite the villain, but certainly less sympathetic. Because we tend to read the book through Fanny’s eyes, it’s easy to think poorly of Mary, but I don’t think Austen does. As mentioned above, Austen’s narrator has a different opinion of her than Fanny does. The conflict between narrator and protagonist can make this frustrating for an uncareful reader, but fruitful and exciting for the literary academic.

I’d like to think that I’m outgrowing my resemblance to Fanny Price and Henry Crawford. I saw them more objectively this read than I have before, though, like them, I probably need someone else to help me gauge that. All this time alone in the desert has helped me work out who I want to be, and who I don’t want to be any more. It’s time to get back to life, to be around people again and see if I can keep being myself when I’m with others, particularly others I wish to think well of me.

Quick disclaimer: The correct transliteration of Japanese into English involves dashes over vowels, but I don’t know how to make WordPress do these correctly. So I’m missing diacritical markers throughout the entry. I’m sorry.

Jun’ichiro Tanizaki is a famous early twentieth century Japanese novelist, among those who know anything about Japanese novels (not me). Many of his books have been made into pictures, and there have been four film versions of Manji/Quicksand, which tells the story of a lesbian love affair. Most of his novels seem to be similarly concerned with the often problematic nature of sexual attraction and behavior. This tiny book is an essay on aesthetics.

I hadn’t thought about it before, but Western design is all about cold flat surfaces. They’re easier to keep clean. Cleanliness is at the heart of most of it, and by cleanliness we often mean brightness or newness. We like light. The sun gives life to the entire planet, so we welcome it into our homes as much as we can. Part of our ideas about beauty and health involve exposing the skin to the sun in order to counteract “prison pallor.” We also like things to look new. Well, we prefer things to be new, but we can’t manage that all the time. But these are all Western ideas, Western values. Tanizaki has a tendency to decry Westernness in favor of his idea of traditional Japan.

Traditional Japanese design is all about warmth and shadow. Instead of putting glass in the windows, they put paper. Instead of filling the bathroom with tile and porcelain, they use wood. They only like silver when it’s tarnished, after being touched thousands of times by unwashed hands. They like dirt and darkness. The whole idea of a house is to create beautiful shadows in the corners. They set pictures back in little alcoves so the shadows grow deeper around the art. The attraction to gold is that it shines in very little light, glowing in the darkness. The reason for bright makeup and garish costumes in Japanese theatre is that it was performed with very little light. There’s a certain softness to everything, a haziness as life retreats into obscurity.

One of the things that bothers Tanizaki is Western paper. He sees it as thin and cheap and overly bright, and I’ll agree that much of it is (cheap copy paper). But consider used books. My copy of The Mill on the Floss, for example, has nice paper. You can feel the texture in it. It smells like wood and ink, as a book ought. Holding it without reading it, just touching the pages, warms the hands and the heart. Thank you Oxford UP, but really, most old books have this feel to them. Try a Bantam paperback from the 1960s, or a Penguin Classic. They’re nice. They give me the same feeling as being in a forest. I wonder if, as books age, they return to their woody origin, redeveloping grain. Maybe if we left them alone, they’d grow moss and bark. I love mine too well to try the experiment.

I could agree with many of Tanizaki’s points, though I was a little uncomfortable with the joys of grime, but my brain absolutely rejected his portrayal of feminine beauty.

My mother was remarkably slight, under five feet I should say, and I do not think she was unusual for her time. I can put the matter strongly: women in those days had almost no flesh. I remember my mother’s face and hands, I can clearly remember her feet, but I can remember nothing about her body. She reminds me of the statue of Kannon in the Chuguji, whose body must be typical of most Japanese women of the past. The chest as flat as a board, breasts paper-thin, back, hips, and buttocks forming an undeviating straight line, the whole body so lean and gaunt as to seem out of proportion with the face, hands, and feet, so lacking in substance as to give the impression not of flesh but of a stick – must not the traditional Japanese woman have had just such a physique? A few are still about – the aged lady in an old-fashioned household, some few geisha. They remind me of stick dolls, for in fact they are nothing more than poles upon which to hang clothes. As with the dolls their substance is made up of layer upon layer of clothing, bereft of which only an ungainly pole remains. But in the past this was sufficient. For a woman who lived in the dark it was enough if she had a faint, white face – a full body was unnecessary.

Oh my. It was bad enough being an American housewife, with the pressures to stay in and keep the house clean, but being expected to stay in, not keep the house clean, and barely even to exist? Straightening out the natural curves of the body until every woman becomes a clothes hanger, an ungainly pole? No. This is not beauty; this is torture. I suppose there are some evolutionary advantages: if you live on a small island chain, it’s important not to overpopulate your habitat (cf the British, who colonized the world to relieve the overcrowding at home). The women Tanizaki describes lack the traditional markers of fertility, and the stress of having to look like that I imagine would reduce what fertility they have. The disembodied face seems more like a ghost than a woman, and Tanizaki’s aesthetic for women has all the problems of Poe’s famous statement that nothing is more beautiful than a beautiful woman who has just died. How do these men have sex with these women? Who wants to fuck a gaunt stick? Traditional Western thought is that you heap a woman with clothes, and a man’s imagination works busier to imagine what’s underneath them (think about the bustle), but Tanizaki’s view of traditional Japan implies that they heap women with clothes and men forget what’s underneath. I think this is unrealistic, but I don’t really have much contact with Japanese culture other than what you get reading Memoirs of a Geisha and graphic descriptions of seppuku.

Japanese women used to coat their teeth with black lacquer to make their faces seem whiter. Tanizaki is sad that they don’t do this any more.

On the other hand, he also waxes poetic on the beauty of No actors. Kabuki actors wore bright white makeup, but the No actors just used their own skin.

I once saw Kongo Iwao play the Chinese beauty Yang Kuei-fei in the No play Kotei, and I shall never forget the beauty of his hands showing ever so slightly from beneath his sleeves. As I watched his hands, I would occasionally glance down at my own hands resting on my knees. Again, and yet again, I looked back at the actor’s hands, comparing them with my own; and there was no difference between them. Yet strangely the hands of the man on the stage were indescribably beautiful, while those on my knees were but ordinary hands. In the No only the merest fraction of the actor’s flesh is visible – the face, the neck, the hands – and when a mask is worn, as for the role of Yang Kuei-fei, even the face is hidden; and so what little flesh can be seen creates a singularly strong impression. This is particularly true of Kongo Iwao; but even the hands of an ordinary actor – which is to say the hands of an average, undinstinguished Japanese – have a remarkable erotic power which we would never notice were we to see the man in modern attire.

Even in our modern Western society, a man’s beauty is not diminished when he is dressed. Tanizaki is approaching a homosexual aesthetic here: why is there so much gym porn? Not just because it’s a culturally sanctioned opportunity for men to undress together. Gay people (men or women) relate to others in this way more frequently than straight people. Like Tanizaki, we see someone who is attractive, we look at ourselves and realize how little difference there is between us, and we see ourselves as more beautiful because of our similarity with the other. I was hanging out in an airport a couple of weeks ago noticing all the good-looking men walking by, and then I scolded myself a little – ‘Think about what these guys have in common, OccMan. Dark hair, glasses, beard, collared shirt? Now look at yourself. You’re such a fucking narcissist.’ Perhaps, perhaps. After all, I can take an essay on Japanese aesthetics and use it to talk about myself for fifteen hundred words.

Tanizaki realizes that he’s talking like a grumpy old man who can’t see the value of the time he’s living in now, and the nostalgia is so thick you can suffocate in it. But I don’t think his memory is the same as the reality. Only the wealthy could live in the manner he describes. I would imagine that the poor were less interested in beautiful shadows and more interested in getting their work done and their physical needs met. Forget her wispy ghost-face; can she cook? Most women had to leave the house sometime, instead flitting about in the elegant shade. There is beauty to be found in the lives of the poor too.

Tanizaki’s writing is lovely. Funny, serious, artistic, disturbing (lacquered teeth), insightful, possibly inaccurate. It opened to me a new way of thinking, in only forty pages. I find myself looking at the dust and shadow under the bed, trying to see that as one of the more beautiful aspects of the studio apartment, but my eye drifts back to the photographs I have up and I can accept the fact that I see the world as I do, differently than a Japanese writer in 1933. I’ll keep loving light and cleanliness, glass and steel, tile and porcelain. Our style has its own poetry, its own literature, its own culture. It’s good too.