On novels, privilege, and reading...

I'm still not capable of commenting intelligently and without rancor about most of the national "news." I put "news" in quotation marks, because it feels/reads more like a firehose of expostulation, fabrication, and pure venom, most of the time. It's either entirely facile, or it's mostly fallacy. (And note: I'm having a bit of fun with rhyme and sound there-- which is good news-- I'm in a writing drought.)

I have not written one damned decent poem in months. I have one or two fledgling drafts that might have some promise-- mostly, a few phrases that ring true, but nothing else. This is troubling, but not fatal, I think. I've been rendered poetically inarticulate by a whole lot of outside forces: prepping for AP classes (very rigid, somewhat formulaic, entirely daunting), very busy with home-related stuff, being ill with that stupid stomach thing for what seems to be ages, and the muting that I feel by the daily onslaught of vituperation. One good (?) thing about the national dreck-fest is that it forces me to engage in far more colorful vocabulary. Scatalogical language is just not enough.

So I'm burying myself in busy-ness. I'm not the only one. In fact, many people I know and hold dear are packing their days with stuff-- chores, reading, watching interminable television series (did I mention I re-upped Britbox? And I'm immersed in Poirot?)-- anything to keep the monsters on the other side of the mental door. 

I've reverted to my youth in my reading habits, too. After crashing my way through Gather and Demon Copperhead (both still scarring to my psyche), I quickly read two Agatha Christie novels, and I'm romping my way through Maugham's The Painted Veil. O the melodrama of the privileged white classes. The angst of having to confront one's own worthlessness. O, to have enough spare time to confront one's own worthlessness, to flop onto a velvet divan, a beach chair, a sturdy man's chest to bemoan one's own insipid nature. Woe is me, where's the whiskey and soda? 

What strikes me about these novels, other than the fecklessness of the privileged class and their ridiculous concerns, is the racist and classist context. The description of the Chinese people, as told through Kitty's eyes, is cringey at best. The description of people's clothing, the sneering and judgmental commentary-- all amusing to the reader, sort of, but still-- it rings all sorts of alarm bells. I'm reading this literature with a whole different sensibility than I used to as a young and word-hungry reader. 

A few years ago, I revisited one of my very favorite novels of my childhood-- Burnett's The Secret Garden. What I didn't even notice or blink at as a child of nine or ten hit me like a coal shovel: the assumed superiority of the British colonials in India. Ouch. Seriously. Mary is a nasty little piece of work, but she had been raised to be-- or, ignored to be-- and her level of privilege is breath-taking. Which is why, I suppose, she has such a come-uppance when she must shift for herself, and her lessons in humility at the hands of the English servants when she arrives are necessary. But even then, there is still that privilege, but it's been molded to be kinder...?! 

But I love those Victorian and Edwardian novels. They are like a bowl of hot oatmeal, a fuzzy blanket, a hug that I can give to myself. But now, I read them differently, with a more practiced and empathetic eye. The same pain I feel for the characters in the more modern novels like Gather and Demon Copperhead --those who are violently and systematically "othered" by more privileged people and communities as a whole-- I feel more keenly now for the marginalized and unseen characters in the older novels. Many of those novelists intended their readership to feel that pain; Dickens comes to mind, for example. But yet, there's always a level of some sort of privilege, of institutionalized disdain for the poor, that comes through. 

One novel I love for its clear "lessons" is Dickens' Hard Times. The characters are meant to be archetypal, and the one "Hand" that we really get to know, Stephen Blackpool, is a study in the impossible circumstances of the working poor. He has no options available to him, and anyone who tells him differently only does so to hurt and exploit his genuine need for compassion. It's instructive for my students to read it; so much of what Dickens was railing on about is still with us, and it's a whole lot easier to talk about inequities in our own times when we can use a novel as a basis for discussion. Well, maybe not easier, but it'll get a teacher in a lot less hot water in some circles. We just have to let the students make the connections themselves. 

Speaking of connections, one essay prompt I gave this week to my British Lit students was to comment on the role of the Shaper (storyteller) in Gardner's novel, Grendel. How does the Shaper choose to present their collective stories? What does Grendel think of the stories, when he knows the truth of what happened, when the stories are reframed? I wanted them to then talk about how the Shaper is like media outlets in our own time, and how can we (or should we) trust the stories we are told. Hm. From the rough drafts, I think they get it. I sure hope so. Maybe reading novels with a open and critical "lens" is the way we can hold onto what is worthy, while building for a better future. 

So today, I will fill my day with errands and house chores, picking tomatoes (again), and so on. I hope I can sit and read, too. I want to avoid engaging with the media as much as possible. That Scylla and Charybdis mess is more than I can handle, though I'm drawn to it... 

Have a good day. Be safe. Give love, get love, and try to hang in there.

C