the sun never rises

  “I have been loved," she said, "by something strange, and it has forgotten me.”
I keep encountering reluctance, on the part of some fans of Nightwood, to admit to any possible flaws in the book. Its faults are held up as virtues, a foolish critical error. I'm convinced that because Nightwood is an important text in the history of queer literature, some readers are afraid that any admission of artistic or technical weakness in the book will lead to a marginalization of it, to claims that Nightwood is not a very good book, or a failure best forgotten. These are political and social motivations, and refusing to admit the book's weaknesses only undermines claims regarding the book's strengths. But I've come neither to praise nor to bury Djuna Barnes' novel. Nightwood is a difficult little book that I find myself happy to have read.
Barnes was heavily influenced by the Expressionist movement of the 1920s, and Nightwood appears to be an Expressionist novel. That means it's primarily an internal novel, expressing the emotional states of the characters. It is not a story about people moving through the world; it is a story of the world moving within people. Expressionist art is a naked genre, an art of distorted reality and exposed nerves if you will. Many of the Expressionist writers I've read (e.g. Kafka, Brecht, Burroughs) lean heavily on absurdist comedy and something close to stream-of-consciousness technique, especially those writers coming in the wake of James Joyce*. All of this is to say that Barnes wrote a novel that relies minimally on plot (although one event is central to the novel, and things lead up to and fall away from that event), and maximizes the emotional experience of the characters.
“Oh," he cried. "A broken heart have you! I have falling arches, flying dandruff, a floating kidney, shattered nerves and a broken heart!”
These emotional experiences are all, more or less, miserable. I'm still waiting for the Expressionist novel that exposes joy rather than despair. Maybe passages in Woolf aspire to that; I'll have to think about it. I am digressing, I see.

The important thing about Nightwood is that it interrogates ideas of human relationships, questioning their truthfulness (are relationships primarily transactional, bound up in ideas of self-satisfaction and possession?), and explores the idea that civilization is artifice and that were we all to follow our natural inclinations, humanity would be more, rather than less, like animals. Robin, the figure at the center of the story, actually descends to the emotional and behavioral level of a dog by the end of the book.

I note that the cover copy on almost every edition of the novel says something like,"Nightwood is the story of Robin Vote and those she destroys," but this description of Robin is a mischaracterization. Everyone she meets attempts to make Robin into a pet, unconsciously hoping for a loyal dog, and is dismayed when Robin strays. She cannot be tamed, but neither has she promised to become tame. She is only and always herself, an instinctual creature no lover--man or woman--can claim.This I think explains why Robin exists minimally on the page, a person discussed by others but rarely present in the drama: she is an animal, a natural force, not really a human involved in humanity's business. She allows Felix to marry her, bears him a son, and then wanders away, into the arms of a woman, and then a different woman, and then another woman. Everyone loves Robin, who loves no one, because love is not a concept she grasps. She is affectionate, like a stray dog who lets anyone feed and pet her and take her in for a night or two, moving on in the morning to someone else's porch. Barnes, maybe, is telling us that this is how all relationships are; we pretend otherwise. The love is delusion, but the pain is real. This is the eternal night in which we all live. The tragedy is not in being betrayed; it is in discovering that we cannot possess that which we desire.
“Robin told only a little of her life, but she kept repeating in one way or another her wish for a home, as if she were afraid she would be lost again, as if she were aware, without conscious knowledge, that she belonged to Nora, and that if Nora did not make it permanent by her own strength, she would forget.”
This is the strong stuff that makes Nightwood a good book. I have lived too long in the modern world, I guess, to bat an eye over the queer elements of the novel. It's about a century too late for that angle to be a novelty, but I can see how the book must've been pretty surprising in 1936.
“The woman who presents herself to the spectator as a 'picture' forever arranged, is, for the contemplative mind, the chiefest danger. Sometimes one meets a woman who is beast turning human. Such a person's every movement will reduce to an image of a forgotten experience; a mirage of an eternal wedding cast on the racial memory; as insupportable a joy as would be the vision of an eland coming down an aisle of trees, chapleted with orange blossoms and bridal veil, a hoof raised in the economy of fear,stepping in the trepidation of flesh that will become myth; as the unicorn is neither man nor beast deprived, but human hunger pressing its breast to its prey.
Such a woman is the infected carrier of the past; before her the structure of our head and jaws ache -- we feel that we could eat her, she who is eaten death returning, for only then do we put our face close to the blood on the lips of our forefathers.”
I don't know what it means that T.S. Eliot's favorite element of the novel happens to be the thing I like the least: the speechy Dr. Matthew O'Conner. O'Connor (who is an unlicensed physician living in a Parisian garret, possibly making a living performing abortions for prostitutes, and in his private life an aging unhappy transvestite) is apparently based on a couple of people Barnes knew in real life, especially an acquaintance who was endlessly verbose, producing a stream of aphorisms and epigrams that Barnes would scribble down. O'Connor similarly goes on monologues that last for pages, roam widely through barely-connected subjects, and seem to be hardly at all reflective of what's actually going on around the doctor. He reminds me of several Shakespeare characters, say a cross between Jacques and Timon with aspirations of speaking Mercutio's speech about dreams from "Romeo and Juliet." Many critics (Eliot first among them) find O'Connor's monologues to be intensely poetic and full of art and movement. I find them, almost every paragraph and page, to be interminable, shallow, and pretentious. This is not deep thought, nor is it even mid-depth thought expressed in a particularly elevated style. A lot of it is mush, foamy fatty stuff that is meant to be read as white-hot ex tempore creativity. This reader is not fooled. There are terrific bits among the mush, but mostly, alas, it's mush and I don't see what Eliot found to be so impressed by. There is a sort of underdeveloped theme of Matthew-as-evangelist, speaker of the gospel of Godless night, teller of all mankind's tales but his own. This is an interesting idea that is buried beneath a lot of breathless and wandering non-poetry; all striving and no arrival. That may be the point, that life is inarticulate and chaotic, and that art is merely an attempt to pretend that reality has some kind of formal and recognizable shape, and that language cannot overcome its built-in limits to express the real. I don't know.
“And once Father Lucas said to me, 'Be simple, Matthew, life is a simple book, and an open book, read and be simple as the beasts in the field; just being miserable isn't enough -- you've got to know how.' So I got to thinking and I said to myself, 'This is a terrible thing that Father Lucas has put on me -- be simple like the beasts and yet think and harm nobody.”
I also want to say that Nightwood strikes me, in many ways, as a version of Proust's The Prisoner and the Fugitive, but without the comic irony. I suppose Proust's story of an escaped lover isn't original to him, either. Which is all fine.
“None of us suffers as much as we should, or loves as much as we say. Love is the first lie; wisdom the last.”

*I apologize for the "wake" pun there.

Maybe upstairs

Then, quite soon, the drawing reached its point of crisis.  Which is to say that what I had drawn began to interest me as much as what I could still discover.  There is a stage in every drawing when this happens.  And I call it a point of crisis because at that moment the success or failure of the drawing has really been decided.  One now begins to draw according to the demands, the needs, of the drawing.  If the drawing is already in some small way true, then these demands will probably correspond to what one might still discover by actual searching.  If the drawing is basically false, they will accentuate its wrongness.
Melissa Beck is reading John Berger's Landscapes, and she quotes the passage above, part of an essay titled “The Basis of all Painting and Sculpture is Drawing.” Despite all the art classes I took and having attended art school, I never had the sort of relationship with my own pieces that Berger is describing. And yet, this passage immediately makes sense to me when I think in terms of writing a novel.

Certainly there are many ways to write a piece of fiction (or to write anything, I guess), but I recognize Berger's "point of crisis" as that moment when there is enough of the piece down on the page or assembled into notes that the work has begun to reveal the shape it will have, the directions in which it can be grown. The "crisis" is the question: can this material support its own weight as a novel? And more critical: as I apply myself to this material, will the writing become more lifelike and true, or will I be forced to build a superstructure of lies to support the falseness at the heart of the work? A lot of successful novels are nothing but lies propping up cliches. Those aren't the sort of novels I want to read or write. I suppose I really think of the "point of crisis" in terms of whether or not I'm going to cock up what I'm trying to write. It's easy to ruin a good work.

When I was a painter, I had a bad tendency to overwork portions of my canvas (or Bristol board, more likely), because I did not have a good sense of composition and form, and it was pretty hit or miss as to how well I'd use the space available and manage the elements of informal balance and light/dark values. I was never very good at planning the work as a whole, never discovered a working method to organize the stuff I was rendering. My first novel was a lot like that, all higgledy-piggledy and shapeless mess, with the wrong stuff emphasized because I had no ability to pace things, no control over tension, no rationale for exposition, and no feel for the creation of actual climactic moments. I think I have a good handle on those basic narrative elements now, though the novel I'm currently revising is pretty wooly and keeps getting away from me. I've written 100,000 words of it and I still feel like I'm at the point of crisis with this thing, every time I pick up my pen. Very exciting indeed.

Also, I really need to read Portraits, a 2015 Berger collection that I bought last year and have shelved somewhere. Maybe upstairs.

modern royalty

This is a royalty payment for audiobook editions of The Astrologer. I have no idea how much I'm paid per sale. Maybe a dollar? Maybe less? $29.70 is less than the cost of yesterday's lunch, and by my rough calculations I have made about $500 in royalties from all editions of my poor wee novel in the six years since it was published. I'm not complaining; I am however amused.

and the living is

The mornings have been muggy lately, the sky suspended low like a dirty white curtain. At midday the clouds burn off, the temperature climbs and the heavens are hard blue. It's difficult to dress for these days, bundling in the morning and soaked with sweat on the commute home. This is not much like the springtime I always imagine. This is winter fighting one last losing battle against the advancing forces of summer.

But it must be springtime: the clematis blooms are fading away, the Siberian iris have curled up, and the rats who live in the neighbors' shed have begun doing late afternoon gymnastics in our honeysuckle vine.

Manuscripts don't burn!

Last Friday evening, Mighty Reader and I went to Theater Simple's stage adaptation of Mikhail Bulgakov's wacky novel The Master and Margarita (written between 1928 and 1940, not published until 1966, or twenty-six years after Bulgakov's death). The Master and Margarita is a satirical fantasy of Soviet Russia, lampooning the official writing/artistic apparatus and defending Christianity against the official Soviet atheism. Satan and his minions appear in Moscow and unleash mischief among the art establishment, simultaneously rescuing "the Master" (a novelist who has written a book about Pontius Pilate's meeting with Jesus) from the lunatic asylum in which he was placed after his novel was rejected by the censors, while reuniting the Master with his lover Margarita, and reuniting the actual historical Pilate with the actual historical Jesus so the two can continue their philosophical discussion for eternity. Satan's minions include vampires and a very large black cat named Behemoth, who is quite handy with a pistol. Hilarious stuff.

Somehow the folks at Theater Simple have winnowed this bizarre and sprawling novel down to a mere ninety minutes of mayhem while maintaining the spirit of the novel (though Mighty Reader and I objected to the forced parallel in the stage version where the poet Ponyrev is explicitly made a disciple of the Master, echoing Matthew's discipleship of Christ), while also including songs, a tango danced by Satan and Margarita, and goodness knows what else. It's pretty good. Apparently Theater Simple has been touring this play around the world since 1997. Highly recommended.

I like a theater with a bar, and the Theater Off Jackson's bar was decorated for this performance with reproductions of Stalin-era propaganda posters. This one says something like, "Captain Stalin leads us from victory to victory!"

This one says, approximately, "Women: tear off your religious ways and build socialism!" I think this poster's actually in Ukranian rather than Russian. Bulgakov was born in Kiev, after all.

Theater Off Jackson's entrance, in the alley between Jackson and King Streets. (409 7th Ave S in beautiful Chinatown/International District)

Tonight's entertainment is Shakespeare: the Seattle Shakespeare Company's final production of the season, As You Like It. We've seen this play before, too many times probably, and frankly it's not one of our favorites. But Seattle Shakes has managed to surprise and delight us so often that we expect to be quite pleased with their efforts. The show runs through the 19th, and I believe tickets are still available. So avail yourselves, if you're in the area. Which you likely are not.