Goodies

Emerson on “Goodies”

I hate goodies. I hate goodness that preaches. Goodness that preaches undoes itself. A little electricity of virtue lurks here & there in kitchens & among the obscure— chiefly women, that flashes out occasional light & makes the existence of the thing still credible. But one had as lief curse & swear as be guilty of this odious religion that watches the beef & watches the cider in the pitcher in the table, that shuts the mouth hard at any remark it cannot twist or wrench into a sermon, &#038 preaches as long as itself & hearer is awake. Goodies make us very bad. We should, if the race should increase, be scarce restrained from calling for bowl & dagger. We almost sin to spite them. Better indulge yourself, feed fat, drink liquors, than go strait laced for such cattle as these.

Ralph Waldo Emerson, Journal Entry, June 23 1838.

Tangents

Tangents

I wanted to write this down for some reason. John Ridge, a leader of the Cherokee nation knew that there was no way to stop Indian removal. Though he knew it would mean his death, he signed an agreement with the Jackson administration, providing for 13,800,000 acres of land and $4,500,000 to fund schools for his people. He relocated his family from a location near Chattanooga, Tennessee, to a location near Van Buren, Arkansas (25 miles from where my parents now live). He was murdered in his home by members of his own tribe, in full view of his wife and sons, in 1839, the year photography was invented.

John Ridge senior was politically active and well off— he owned 18 slaves. John Rollin Ridge, his son, had been educated by a missionary woman, Sophia Sawyer, hired by his father. After his father was murdered, John Rollin Ridge decided that he’d had enough of tribal politics and immigrated to Sacramento, California (where my eldest brother died last year). He later became a writer for the California American, a leading newspaper for the “Know-Nothing” Party, a secret nativist organization of the 1850s.

While all this is totally unconnected with my current project, a couple of years ago I did an online edition of the Poems of John Rollin Ridge. I was thinking, as I reviewed my mentor Dr. James Parin’s biography of Ridge, that the rising tide of female school teachers in the early nineteenth century was largely responsible for the tide of activism in the following decades. Without these women educating the future crop of “muckracking” journalists, the nations history would have been far different.

More tangential bits: it was against the law in Georgia to educate slaves. The Cherokees didn’t see any harm in it, so they freely educated their slaves. Oh, and for those who have only seen Native Americans in old Western movies, the delegation responsible for the fat settlement (which was not honored) all wore suits, not loincloths and feathers. It seems interesting to me that these “savages” valued education so highly.

I’m currently knee deep in The House of the Seven Gables by Hawthorne. I’m beginning to think that it should be required reading for all historians— and photographers too. The way that Hawthorne describes the buildings is like an Evans photograph.

Heroes

Heros

I was looking for something I didn’t find . . . I remember something about Thomas Carlyle having acutely sensitive hearing, which was one of the things that made him cranky. I didn’t find that, but I did find reference to Carlyle as emblematic of “the Man of Letters as bad Husband”— another intense person gone wrong.

At the risk of being cliché, the phrase “If it’s too loud you’re too old” might apply. I found an old paper written before I discovered that bit and added it to the papers collection. The Cranky Clothier is primarily a biographical sketch, the only time I was asked to write this sort of paper as an undergrad. Looking at it again, it’s not bad. I was reading On Heroes and Hero Worship last night, with a side trip into the prose Edda. There are some interesting things going on in Carlyle’s twisted portrayal of the hero. Writers often want to be heroes. I was driven back to heroes and hero worship after reading Aphra Behn’s Preface to The Lucky Chance:

All I ask is the Priviledge for my Masculine Part the Poet in me, (if any such you allow me) to tread in those successful Paths my Predecessors have so long thriv’d in, to take those Measures that both the Ancient and Modern Writers have set me, and by which they have pleas’d the World so well: If I must not, because of my Sex, have this Freedom, but that you will usurp all to your selves; I lay down my Quill, and you shall hear no more of me, no not so much as to make Comparisons, because I will be kinder to my Brothers of the Pen, than they have been to a Defenceless Woman; for I am not content to write for a Third day only.

I value Fame as much as if I had been born a Hero and if you rob me of that, I can retire from the ungrateful world, and scorn its fickle Favors.

Carlyle argued that the world needed heroes. Behn, even with her decidedly antifeminist idea that her poetic part was masculine, demanded equal rights to be a hero. I suspect that these notions are important, not for the reasons that Carlyle argues, but because of the right to be equally involved in eros. Humans share both the desire to be loved, and the desire to love. I think that’s what heroism is ultimately all about— not valor. There are some interesting bits in the Edda about valor. Maybe I’ll get that focused enough to write about later.

Finding Fury

‘Above all else: in God’s name don’t think of it as Art.

Every fury on earth has been absorbed in time, as art, or religion, or as authority in one form or another. The deadliest blow the enemy of the human soul can strike is to do fury honor. Swift, Blake, Beethoven, Christ, Joyce, Kafka, name me a one who has not been thus castrated. Official acceptance is the one unmistakable symptom that salvation has been beaten again, and is the one surest sign of fatal misunderstanding, and is the kiss of Judas.

Really it should be possible to hope that this be recognized as so, and as a mortal and inevitably recurrent danger. It is scientific fact. It is disease. It is avoidable. Let a start be made. And then exercise your perception of it on work that has more to tell you than mine has. See how respectable Beethoven is; and by what right any wall in museum, gallery, or home presumes to wear a Cézanne; and by what idiocy Blake or work even of such intention as mine is ever published and sold. I will tell you a test. It is unfair. It is untrue. It stacks all the cards. It is out of line with what the composer intended. All so much the better.

Get a radio or a phonograph capable of the most extreme loudness possible, and sit down to a performance of Beethoven’s Seventh Symphony or Schubert’s C-Major Symphony. But I don’t mean just sit down and listen. I mean this: Turn it on as loud as you can get it. Then get down on the floor and jam your ear as close into the loudspeaker as you can get it and stay there, breathing as lightly as possible, and not moving, and neither eating nor smoking nor drinking. Concentrate everything you can into your hearing and into your body. You won’t hear it nicely. If it hurts you, be glad of it. As near as you will ever get you are inside the music; not only inside it, you are it; your body no longer has shape and substance, it is the shape and substance of the music.

Is what you hear pretty? or beautiful? or legal? or acceptable in polite or any other society? It is beyond any calculation savage and dangerous and murderous to all equilibrium in human life as human life is; and nothing can equal the rape it does on all that death; nothing except anything, anything in existence or dream, perceived anywhere remotely toward its true dimension.’

James Agee, Preamble, Let Us Now Praise Famous Men

Blame Delacour. I dreamed I was Walker Evans, but I woke up James Agee listening to Mummydogs through headphones most of the night raging loudly against the death of ideas. Wordsworth lived his prophesized death; Blake and Shelley didn’t. They went out singing, deep inside the music rather than gazing back at it with longing.

Curtains

(since none puts by / The curtain I have drawn for you, but I)

I remember the fateful year I crossed the threshold into becoming the dread being known as the “English Major.”— scare quotes are needed because it is a scary thing for a resolute populist like me. My parents never went to college. Their education came from experience and the public library. Until recently, so did mine. Going back to college after twenty years was a gesture of defeat, or so I thought at the time. That’s okay— I felt pretty defeated by life in general.

There’s a time I recall sitting in my gateway course into the English department that summons deep feelings; it was a time filled with terror and love. I was coerced into taking a William Blake seminar at the same time as the intro class. I’d played with trying to read him for years with limited success and it was scary to step into a senior level class as a rookie. But I loved Blake, and chances were the course would not be repeated before I graduated. Dr. Yoder taught both classes, and he was only slightly older than me and of similarly checkered past. When he stepped out of the class for a week to trade with another instructor, I was forced to deal with a man who wore a suit instead of jeans. Dr. Ramsey always wore a suit even though it was a hundred degrees outside. He taught from the pulpit of high church literature. Ramsey began shoving The Bishop Orders His Tomb at St. Praxed’s Church down our throats. He was relentless in exploring Browning’s obscure imagery and coaxing unsupported opinions which he proceeded to shred, not by offering his opinion, but by asking questions which caused students to conflict themselves with every word they added.

Robert Browning exemplified everything I hated about literature. There was little trace of an authorial presence, and because I based most of my judgments on an intuitive grasp of personalities, I was lost. There was an ostentatious manner in the words spoken by Browning’s despicable protagonists. If this was literature I didn’t want to get it. Dr. Ramsey reeked of intelligence and refinement, of dispassionate enquiry into the “text” — once again, the scare quotes are important to the concept. I was afraid to take a class with Dr. Ramsey until my senior year. I stared blankly at the class curtain hesitant to peek behind it.

Times change.

Continue reading “Curtains”

More Browning

I turned to those old times and scenes where all
That’s beautiful had birth for me, and made
Rude verses on them all; and then I paused—
I had done nothing, so I sought to know
What other minds achieved. No fear outbroke
As on the works of mighty bards I gazed,
In the first joy at finding my own thoughts
Recorded, my own fancies justified,
And their aspiring but my very own.
With them I first explored passion and mind,—
All to begin afresh! I rather sought
To rival what I wondered at than form
Creations of my own; if much was light
Lent by others, much was yet my own.

I paused again: a change was coming— came:
I was no more a boy, the past was breaking
Before the future and like fever worked.
I thought on my new self, and all my powers
Burst out. I dreamed not of restraint, but gazed
On all things: schemes and systems went and came,
And I was proud (being vainest of the weak)
In wandering o’er thought’s world to seek some one
To be my prize, as if you wandered o’er
The White Way for a star.

Robert Browning, Pauline 380-403

Browning

Is Blogging Browning?

My life has not been that of those whose heaven
Was lampless save where poesy shone out;
But as a clime where glittering mountain-tops
And glancing sea and forests steeped in light
Give back reflected the far-flashing sun;
For music (which is earnest of a heaven,
See we know emotions strange by it,
Not else to be revealed,) it is like a voice
A low voice calling fancy, as a friend,
To the green woods in the gay summer time:
And she fills all the way with dancing shapes
Which have made painters pale, and they go on
Till stars look at them and winds to call them
As they leaves life’s path for the twilight world
Where the dead gather. This was not at first,
For scarce I knew what I would do. I had
An impulse but no yearning—only sang.

And first I sang as I in dream have seen
Music wait on a lyrist for some thought,
Yet singing to herself until it came.

Robert Browning, Pauline 360-379

You’re Soaking in it

You’re soaking in it

I gave up. I was frantically looking for a bit from Henry Miller regarding the difference in attitude between the French and the Americans. Paraphrased, it goes something like this: In America, they teach their children that they can grow up to be president. In France, there is no such delusion. They grow up happier as a result, and more comfortable with who they are. Miller was quick to spot that romantic/pragmatic strain in American thought which brings with it the albatross of possibility, and the sinking feeling that remains when you don’t grow up to be president, and are forever doomed to be who you are instead of someone set apart, special, and above all different from everyone else. But I couldn’t find the quote.

I decided to soak in a tub instead. Something Mike Sanders said was bugging me. “Introspection must ultimately be done in private.” This is of course the hallmark of Wordsworthian romanticism, and goes along with the definition of poetry in the Preface to Lyrical Ballads:

I have said that poetry is the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings: it takes its origin from emotion recollected in tranquility: the emotion is contemplated till, by a species of reaction, the tranquility gradually disappears, and an emotion, kindred to that which was before the subject of contemplation, is gradually produced, and does itself actually exist in the mind.

This delineation of introspection as constitutive of feeling and more significantly, that the feelings which come from memory are the most powerful ones of all, has colored Western society— feeling is taken as a private rather than public, reflective rather than reactive, individual rather than collectively consitituted response. This is deeply at odds with human appetites. Humanity is far more social than that. Coleridge, no matter how much he agreed with Wordsworth in theory, subverted it in practice. He was loquacious, providing a great deal of his introspection in public. Thinking of the contradictions of publicly generated privacy gave me a headache, and I really needed to soak my head.

Continue reading “You’re Soaking in it”

Celebrity and Anonymity

Celebrity Porn and Anonymity

Looking through some mail (I just can’t keep up on listservs anymore) I found some interesting discussion on C-18L. A question was raised by Ellen Moody regarding the dominance of women’s first names being taken as titles for novels, whereas novels named after male characters are usually given as two names— Pamela, Emma, etc., vs. Robinson Crusoe, Joseph Andrews, etc. The rule has many exceptions, such as Moll Flanders, et. al, but it would be easy to argue that for feminine heroines, first names clearly dominate. One idea proposed by Moody is that this was standard because women changed names after marriage, so it was less confusing this way.

However, Olaf Simons countered by asserting that it was not gender specific. Prior to the second decade of the eighteenth century, it was commonplace for heroes and heroines to be named in the “romantik” fashion, with one name only. Simmons argues that the differentiation in names occurred largely because of demands of the marketplace. When authorial identity became a salable commodity, women were as quick as men to establish two names for both themselves, and their characters.

Moody countered with a bit of a challenge, asking that Simons name single-named male characters, but also refined her question to suggest that the use of single names for women reflected their lower status. Elvira Casal provided an interesting twist to the issue, suggesting that single names were more intimate and private, whereas full names were a more public presence. Therefore, the choice of single names reflects the more intimate and private nature of the novels named for female heroines. Interesting stuff— I agree that naming affects the construction of identity.

All this lead to the discovery of Simons’ site, Pierre Marteau’s Publishing House. Named for a fictitious, anonymous Dutch publisher from the eighteenth century, it’s under construction, but full of good stuff. For those interested in anonymity, Margaret Jacobs’ The Clandestine Universe of the Early Eighteenth Century is a great read. I was struck by some interesting parallel behaviors. Remember all the noise about the porn industry as a model for Internet business development a year or so ago? It seems that the porn industry was also instrumental in the early days of the novel:

Pierre Marteau’s earliest French language publications were primarily anti-French and anti-Catholic polemics that could have been written by devout Protestants. Almost simultaneously, the genre of Marteau’s books became experimental, as if the authors were trying to write in the new fictional style we now call the novel.
The precise nature of French corruption and decadence required narrative description: young nuns and Jesuits, readers were told, use dildos to give one another pleasure, although their actual intercourse finally occurs on the dunes near The Hague. The Capuchin monks are said to run a “university of cuckcoldry.” Marteau’s books also particularly targeted the French aristocracy. Illicit love among the great and the noble clearly sold books.

. . . According to the clandestine literature no social group could be as debauched as the Catholic clergy. Sometimes a woman was claimed to be the author of a tell-all account of the passions of Catholic nuns, whether in Portugal or France. In these Marteau books monks appeared as especially evil sorts, and their erections and masturbation with one another — “all the diverse emotions are rendered visible by the erection . . . ” — were recounted with relish for the supposedly naive public.

I was reminded as well of the fact that pornography was also important in the development of photography. In the early days, pornographic pictures of prostitutes sold for more money that the prostitutes themselves. Maybe Internet porn isn’t such an outlandish model after all. But more than that, perhaps how we name ourselves has an impact on how we are perceived as public or private personalities on the Internet.

Reason

Friendly Observations

I must warn against an opposite error—namely, that if Reason, as distinguished from Prudence, consists merely in knowing that Black cannot be White—or when a man has a clear conception of an inclosed figure, and another equally clear conception of a straight line, his Reason teaches him that these two conceptions are incompatible in the same object, i.e. that two straight lines cannot include a space—the said Reason must be a very insignificant faculty. But a moment’s steady self-reflection will shew us, that in the simple determination “Black is not White”—or, “that two straight lines cannot include a space”— all the powers are implied, that distinguish Man from Animals—first, the power of reflection—2d. of comparison—3d. and therefore of suspension of the mind—4th. therefore of a controlling will, and the power of acting from notions, instead of mere images exciting appetites; from motives, and not from mere dark instincts.

Samuel Taylor Coleridge