Saturday Scrap Bag

     Writing:  When new poems, or even the desire to write them, aren't forthcoming, I usually revise. Revising is a creative act, after all, and a craft in itself. It's best done, I think, after a good amount of time has passed since you wrote the last draft of a poem, and since you last read it, even years after; then you can be truly objective. Sometimes it happens that, when you do finally read it again, a kind of horror fills you, and an involuntary "Yech!" escapes your lips. That's happened more times than I care to admit. But the horror is motivating. So I have been revising, as my previous post attests.

    

     Reading:  Since the 200th anniversary of the publication of Pride and Prejudice  has just passed, I decided to reread it. It's been quite a long while since I last read it, so it's practically fresh to me, even though I've watched the BBC mini-series many times in the interim. On this reading, I find myself comparing Austen's dialogue to Andrew Davies' adaptation of it—the parts of speeches he chose to leave out, the parts he kept word for word—and also the bits of narrative that Davies converted into dialogue. I guess I'm fascinated with the whole adaptation process. What I find amusing, and not in a good way, is when screenwriters claim to want to preserve the "spirit" of a work but, with all their mucking about, trying to make it "fresh" for a modern audience, they actually manage to squash every bit of the spirit out of it, thus defeating their own purpose. They throw period vernacular out the window, and impose all sorts of social, political, and sexual innuendoes on the work that, more often than not, the author never implied. Davies, thankfully, is not one of those writers. He has indeed preserved the spirit of Pride and Prejudice, by respecting Austen's own words and staying as close as possible to them. He lets Austen speak for herself. This is one of the reasons his adaptation has become a true classic.

     Watching:  I never get tired of The Mary Tyler Moore Show.  Like the BBC Pride and Prejudice, the combination of great writing and fine ensemble acting keeps the show fresh. My mother absolutely loves it. Whenever we have a quiet afternoon, there's nothing she likes better than to watch three or four episodes (I have the whole series on DVD). I have almost every episode memorized, but that doesn't diminish my pleasure in the least. So The Mary Tyler Moore Show  will stay in my DVD library, alongside Frasier, as my "go to" TV series.

     Looking:  I've fallen in love with the Copenhagen Interior School of painting. Before I even knew about that school, or the artists belonging to it, I was drawn to the simplicity of composition, domesticity of subject, and muted palette, that characterize it and the artists' work. I particularly love the paintings of Carl Holsøe and Vilhelm Hammershøi.

"Woman in Interior" by Carl Holsøe

 

"The Poetry of Silence" by Vilhelm Hammershøi

 

     Wishing:  Apparently, Punxsutawney Phil didn't see his shadow, so spring will soon be upon us. I was so wishing for a longer winter and more genuinely cold days, anything to postpone what I fear will be another insupportably hot and dry summer. But maybe (God willing) we'll get more rain!



Divided by a Common Literature

     Yesterday I went for my biannual teeth cleaning. Given that, when having your teeth cleaned/examined/otherwise-worked-on, you spend most of your time with your mouth open while gloved fingers grasping various tools muck their way around in it, you can't say an awful lot. You can, however, listen, if your hygienist or dentist is in a chatty mood, as my hygienist was yesterday.

     "Are you a fan of Downton Abbey?" she asked

     "Nng-nng, echh." (That's "Mm-hmm, yes" in teeth-cleaning speak.)

     This prompted a one-sided discussion on social class and snobbery, during which I longed in vain to contribute something other than grunts and whimpers. Even when the tools were withdrawn for a brief moment, it was only so that I could purse my lips around the little suction tube.

     When the cleaning was finally finished and I could speak again, my hygienist had moved on somehow to Persuasion.

     "I tried reading it once," she said, "but I just couldn't finish it. That father! Such a snob!"

     "It's probably my favorite novel of all time," I said, and prattled blithely on to proclaim the book's many merits, Jane Austen's genius, her comical treatment of characters—such as Mr Elliott—who are less than palatable, etc. "It's the kind of novel that's best read when one is older, I think; as opposed to Pride and Prejudice, which easily appeals even at a young age; no, Persuasion is much more autumnal in tone, and her heroine is older and therefore appeals to a more mature reader; I love Anne so much, because she knows very well what her father is, and yet she .... " Blah, blah, blah.

     At one point, I turned into Niles Crane and used the word "milieu"—"Austen portrays her own milieu so well, with such perspicacity, humor, sympathy"—and as soon as the "m" word flew out of my freshly cleaned mouth, even as I continued spouting Persuasion's and Austen's praises, I noticed a certain expression in my hygienist's eyes as they looked down at me over the surgical mask. True, my view of her was upside-down, since I was still prone in the chair, but I clearly saw in her eyes that it was time for me to shut up.

     "Well," she said, rather lamely, "maybe I'll try reading it again."

     I do hope she does. I wonder what we'll discuss at my next teeth cleaning.

    

Saturday Summary

Carl Vilhelm Holsoe
"Lady in an Interior"

 

     I have a predilection for muted palettes, not only in art but also interior design. If there is sufficient natural light in a room, I love the changing color of it during the course of the day, and its influence on the space and the objects in it.

     When a muted palette in a painting is paired with the subject of a lone woman reading or writing in a domestic interior, that painting immediately captures my attention. What I particularly like in this painting is the patch of sunlight on the wall, which gives brightness to the scene without actually adding color. The only other element of light is the gleam of the silver.

     So this painting is what I discovered this week. Also, this past week, I:

     ... wrote another new poem, a sonnet that's a bit non-traditional in the sense that while it's mostly iambic, the lines are not all pentameter; some are longer, others are shorter. And the rhyme scheme departs from the usual Shakespearean and Petrarchan. But it definitely reads like a sonnet. I'm pretty happy with it.

     ... have been listening to Persuasion, read by the excellent Juliet Stevenson (Truly, Madly, Deeply; Emma). Ms Stevenson does a splendid job, though the voice she gives Mary is borderline annoying. True to the character, I suppose. This is my first Austen audio book, actually. I'm enjoying it, but still prefer reading to listening, as reading affords the chance to savor and to read certain striking passages multiple times in succession with more ease. Nevertheless, I will probably be buying more audio books in future. If it's a book you're already well familiar with, it's rather nice to fall asleep listening to it, in lieu of an actual person reading you to sleep. You can always go back to the parts you missed after passing out.

     ... read Guard Your Daughters by Diana Tutton, a light, amusing mid-century novel that has been making the round of book bloggers lately. Very enjoyable, worth the purchase, and a definite candidate for re-reading every few years.

     ... received in the mail Christopher Morley's New York, which I fully expect to be every bit as delightful as his Philadelphia, if not more so. I really must read some of his fiction; never have, not even Parnassus on Wheels or The Haunted Bookshop. At any rate, his essays deserve to be on the shelf of every true lover of literature, maybe not beside William Hazlitt, but certainly beside Leigh Hunt.

     I also received the Hans Hotter/Gerald Moore recording of Schwanengesang, and Schnabel's recording of the Impromptus, to further my recent epiphanic reappraisal of Schubert. I'm learning to love him more and more each day. Another sure sign of middle age.

   

Autumn in My Heart

     It's ironic, and a bit sad, that autumn is my favorite season and I live in a part of the country where it is almost unrecognizable. Except for the slightly cooler temperatures and the odd flame-leafed tree, autumn here is more a state of mind than a season. By the time Halloween comes and images of leering jack-o-lanterns confront me at every turn, reminding me that it is indeed autumn, autumn is already a third gone.

     I like to call it "autumn" rather than "fall" simply because it sounds more poetic, and it is a poetic season. I also like the way the word looks, with the twin "u"s and the side-by-side "m" and "n" that almost make your lips hum just by seeing them; there's a savory, comforting roundness to the letters themselves. The adjective, too—"autumnal"—is a wonderful word to say and see. The stressed second syllable sounds like dry leaves tumbling down the street in a brisk wind, and the "t" amid all those rounded letters is balanced by the noble Doric column of the "l." (Well, it's a Doric column when it appears in a serif font.)

     Why is autumn my favorite season, when I live where it is almost non-existent? That's precisely why. It is a quirk of human nature that the thing most lacking and yearned for is the thing that's most appealing and cherished. "The grass is greener ..." and all that; or, in this case, "the leaves are redder ...." But there is another, more concrete reason: it was in autumn that my life took a definite turn for the better, though I didn't realize it then. Looking back, I see my life clearly divided by that one autumn; everything before it is indistinct, and everything after it sharply focused.

Ricordo

Each year the light of autumn weaves new lace;
Each year the shade of autumn slows the pace;
Each autumn I recall another place,
     Another year.

A time when music sang with sweeter grace,
When music lay in autumn's cool embrace;
The autumn when I first beheld your face,
     And time stood still.

[© Leticia Austria. First published in Dreamcatcher.]

Autumn read: Persuasion. Austen's last novel and my favorite of hers. Anne Elliott is also my favorite Austen heroine. The story of a long-lost but still-alive love restored to a woman who, in that era, was considered to be on the verge of spinsterhood (at the ripe age of twenty-eight), has a strong autumnal slant. Austen's writing, too, is more mellow and reflective here than in her other novels.

Autumn watch: Besides the exquisite 1995 BBC film adaptation of Persuasion, I would choose a comedy like Something's Gotta Give or It's Complicated—both about late middle-age romance.

Autumn listen: Schumann's great song cycle Dichterliebe, or the late Beethoven piano sonatas. Also, Chopin nocturnes and sonatas.

Autumn artist: American Impressionist Edward Cucuel (1879-1954)

"Two Girls in White beside a Lake in Autumn"



"Herbstlandschaft"

 

"Golden Autumn"

 

And my favorite:

"Beside a Lake in Autumn"

    

The Autumn of Four Elizabeths

     I have resolved. In order to make a significant dent in my TBR (To Be Read) pile, I will devote August and most of autumn to reading novels by my four favorite authors named Elizabeth: Elizabeth Taylor, Elizabeth Bowen, Elizabeth von Arnim, and Elizabeth Jenkins. All of them British, all of them 20th century, and all of them fabulous writers once unjustly neglected but now enjoying a well-deserved literary renaissance.

     Though I've read all four, I've not yet exhausted their works; of Elizabeth von Arnim's, it may be impossible to do so, as she was highly prolific, and many of her novels are long out of print and difficult to find (and, if found, the scarcer titles can be quite costly). But they are well worth the effort of tracking down and shelling out as much as one can. Her humor is such that I have been known to guffaw suddenly and loudly in genteel restaurants while reading her. Not all of her novels, however, are overtly funny; she's quite capable of being sober. Already read: The Enchanted April, Elizabeth and Her German Garden, Christopher and Columbus, Love, The Pastor's Wife, The Adventures of Elizabeth in Rügen. In my TBR pile: Mr Skeffington, Father, Christine, Fräulein Schmidt and Mr Anstruther. 

     Elizabeth Taylor seems to be the current rediscovered darling of the literati, at least in Britain, due to many recent reissues, a couple of film adaptations, and a recent biography by Nicola Beauman. She deserves whatever attention and readership she's getting, every bit. Fortunately, all of her novels and short stories are now widely and affordably available; so her deft, elegant, and economical prose, her perspicacity, as well as her subtle and welcome wit, may be enjoyed by all. Called by some a "domestic" writer, given her preference for ordinary characters in ordinary situations, the depth and quiet genius of her craft belies such an appellation. Already read: Palladian, The Soul of Kindness, A Wreath of Roses, A View of the Harbour, The Solitary Summer. In my TBR pile: The Sleeping Beauty, Angel, Mrs Palfrey at the Claremont, The Wedding Group, At Mrs Lippincote's, A Game of Hide and Seek.

     Elizabeth Bowen is perhaps the only of the four who has never altogether vanished from the literary world's sight lines. I've always seen her books in stores, even Barnes and Noble and Borders. However, it's only very recently, thanks to rhapsodic reviews written by Rachel at Book Snob, that I've begun to wallow in her beautifully precise writing. The broad themes of change, disruption, and adaption, whether of environment, society, or the landscape of the heart, pervade her novels. Like Taylor, hers is a quiet genius, though her canvas stretches a bit wider. Already read: To the North, The Death of the Heart, The Hotel. In my TBR pile: The House in Paris, A World of Love, The Little Girls, Friends and Relations.

     Alas, there is not a lot of Elizabeth Jenkins to be had, fiction-wise. Her novel The Tortoise and the Hare, considered by many, including myself, to be a minor masterpiece, was one of the first titles the Virago Press reissued under their Modern Classics imprint. Again, it is a "domestic" novel, telling the story of a provincial wife who silently watches the slow but sure attachment grow between her husband and next-door neighbor. Having read this and Jenkins' excellent critical biography of Jane Austen with great pleasure and admiration, I'm eager to read the two books in my TBR pile: Brightness and A Silent Joy.

   This is not a book blog, so reviews of any of these books are unlikely to appear here. There are many bloggers who write excellent, informative reviews (see "Others' Perspectives" at left for just a few). I just thought I'd put the four Elizabeths out there for those of you who are looking for literary fiction that is beautifully written, and timeless despite being miniature portraits of their era.

You're Unfaithful, but I Like You Anyway

     Whenever a new film or television adaptation of a Jane Austen novel comes out, I am frustrated, even angry, if it is unfaithful to the book. Mind you, it doesn't have to be word-for-word. It can even "do away" with a character or two, or with entire scenes -- that's fine with me (Emma Thompson's screenplay of Sense and Sensibility does away with quite a few of both). But if the pure essence of the story is in any way corrupted or contains the smallest whisper of "revisionist," if the characters in any way stray from Austen's crystal clear portrayals, if the elegant language of Austen is "dumbed down," and the details of production incorrect to the period, I'm very unhappy. Besides the Thompson Sense and Sensibility, the adaptations I consider truly Austen-worthy are:

     Emma (with Kate Beckinsale and Mark Strong, ITV 1996)

     Persuasion (with Amanda Root and Ciaran Hinds, BBC 1995)

     Pride and Prejudice (with Jennifer Ehle and Colin Firth, A & E, 1995) 

     Mansfield Park (with Sylvestra Le Touzel and Nicholas Farrell, BBC, 1986)

     I also like certain aspects of the latest Sense and Sensibility and Northanger Abbey, both BBC, 2007. Every other adaptation (and I've seen them all, either whole or in more-than-generous part) is, in my opinion, guilty of at least one of the offenses listed above. I am, however, a big fan of Clueless. Why? Nowhere in the film's credits does it claim to be "based upon the novel Emma by Jane Austen." Only those who know the novel recognize Clueless to be a very clever modern-day retelling, but it is not an adaptation. The film took the modern-day concept and ran all the way with it; it is not a mixed bag of period costume, off-the-mark characterizations, and easier-to-understand (for whom?) vernacular, claiming to be Austen's Emma.

     All that said, I must admit to a certain inconsistency in myself. When it comes to other books, I somehow don't mind unfaithful adaptations -- in many cases, I even like and enjoy them. For instance, I love A. S. Byatt's novel Possession and was very excited when I heard a film adaptation was being done. I missed it in the theaters, however, and didn't get to watch the DVD till years later, after I left the monastery. When I did finally watch it, I actually liked it, even though the character of Roland was changed from British to American, and the film was but a mere shadow of the book, and a very spotty shadow, at that. I also am not crazy about Gwenyth Paltrow as a rule, and some details of the film I found and still find laughable. But I enjoy it, nonetheless.

     Alcott's Little Women is a book I've cherished since my brother gave me the beautiful Tasha Tudor-illustrated edition for Christmas, 1972. I have always loved the 1933 film with Katharine Hepburn as the perfect Jo. For me, it captures the very atmosphere of Alcott's book, and the cast delivered the faithful dialogue so naturally and convincingly. In lesser hands, Alcott's language can come off stilted and cloying. I'm not enamored with the 1949 film, which I think is, for the most part, seriously miscast, so much so that I just can't watch it all the way through. Also, its pacing is much too slow. However, the 1994 adaptation is wonderful. Although Winona Ryder is physically not Alcott's Jo, being much too petite, she conveys the essence of the character beautifully. The rest of the cast is equally fine; the script, though certainly not word-for-word or even scene-for-scene, and perhaps bearing a few social and political banners that I'm not sure Alcott intended in her simple but relevant story, is well-written and moves along nicely. I'm not bothered at all by these small inaccuracies and liberties, and rank the film among my top favorites. I only wish that someday, someone will do an adaptation of Little Women that places Laurie's proposal to Jo in the correct place, which is after Jo comes back from New York.

     Rumer Godden's In This House of Brede is another novel I love and read every few years. There is a film version from the late '60s, starring Diana Rigg (inspired casting). The film runs 100 minutes, which is not a sufficient length of time to include every storyline and plot twist of the novel, so the screenplay focuses on just one basic storyline. Unfortunately, that storyline is nowhere to be found in the novel; or, rather, they took two of the novel's storylines, altered one of them considerably, and put it together with the second one to make an entirely new storyline. The screenwriter also sacrificed accuracy in portraying monastic life, in favor of drama. The Rule of St Benedict was pretty much torn to bits in this film, so it is not a true picture of monasticism. Still, I like it. The acting is good, the story in and of itself is good -- I just separate it from the novel in my mind, and enjoy the film for itself.

     So why can't I do the same when it comes to Austen? Why can't I mentally divorce her novels from those less-than-faithful versions? Is her work so "sacrosanct" to my literary sense and sensibility?