The Writer's Life: Film & Book Reviews, Observations, and Stories

Migrating Monarchs
Flitting among wild daisies
With no sense of time.

Autumn’s first cold snap
Leaves me keened and breathless as
A jilted lover.

Since high school, I have been trying to read Henry James’s The Ambassadors after enjoying his much easier novel, The American, on the same theme—the corrupting influence of Europe on Americans. I tried again in college and, after that, as a young man and, then later, as middle-aged one—but always without success. The problem was that The American was written in 1877 and The Ambassadors in 1903. James’s style grew more convoluted with each passing year, until by the turn of the century, his writing resembled an intricately assembled patchwork of refined and intricate observations, not always consistent with the others, which James impudently leaves the reader to work out for himself.

For example, take this sentence that describes Strether’s meeting Waymarsh in Europe for the first time with Miss Gostrey by his side: “He left it to Miss Gostrey to name, with the fine full bravado as it almost struck him, of her “Mr. Waymarsh!” what was to have been, what—he more than ever felt as his short stare of suspended welcome took things in—would have been, but for herself, his doom. It was already upon him even at that distance—Mr. Waymarsh was for HIS part joyless.”

The mind almost chokes on it. But there is a certain beauty as well, if you have the patience to dig it out. Of course, Miss Gostrey does the talking to save Strether the embarrassment of dealing with his own ambivalent feelings toward Waymarsh.

On this current reading (hopefully I’ll get through it this time), I’m struck by the charm and irony of Henry James, even at his stuffy and eccentric worst. He loves his characters, especially the female ones, and lavishes upon them his full, undivided attention, and we must have the patience–and pretend we have the leisure–to fully enjoy them.

This photo found its way to my in-box. It’s a sculpture, of course, done with loving precision and sits in front of a field of Californian grapes. Anyone know who did it?

The song played itself
In a melancholy way
Till the spring wound down.

It’s never a good thing to have your worst enemy write the preface to your novel, but that is precisely what happened when Gore Vidal penned the introduction to the Modern Library’s edition of Somerset Maugham’s Of Human Bondage. It’s funny in a way. The two men never got along—perhaps because each understood the other all too well—and it seems a strange kind of irony that Vidal was allowed to introduce Maugham’s famous novel. Because it’s Vidal, the comments are biting and nasty.

Consider this statement about Maugham’s prose: “…the plain style can help the dishonest, pusillanimous writer get himself off every of ideological or ethical hook. Just the facts, ma’am. In this regard, Hemingway, a literary shadow self to Maugham, was our time’s most artful dodger, all busy advancing verbs and stony nouns. Surfaces coldly rendered. Interiors unexplored. Manner all.” Or, consider this quote from Edmund Wilson, which Vidal throws in for good measure, in case anyone had any doubts about what he thinks of Maugham: “The language is such a tissue of clichés that one’s wonder is finally aroused at the writer’s ability to assemble so many and his unfailing inability to put anything in an individual way.” Truly disparaging stuff.

Of course, this accurately sums up Somerset Maugham’s writing style, but in a rather unflattering way. His prose is unadorned and plain to the point of being flat and ugly. No one is arguing this. Still, I think both Vidal and Wilson secretly admired Maugham because he managed to achieve something neither of them could—he was wildly successful as a writer and, consequently, lived exactly as he pleased.

Naturally, I don’t agree with either Vidal or Wilson. Just because Maugham had limited resources as a writer does not mean he wasn’t good. Quite the contrary. Despite his weaknesses in style and plotting and abundantly self-conscious workmanlike effort, Maugham was brilliant. His portraits of women, in particular, are inspired and complete—better than anything Henry James achieved—and his instinctive knowledge of the limitless capacity of human beings to cause harm (I’m thinking of Vidal and Wilson here) was something he knew his readers must never forgot.

Darkling I listen; and, for many a time
I have been half in love with easeful Death,
Call’d him soft names in many a musèd rhyme,
To take into the air my quiet breath;
Now more than ever seems it rich to die,
To cease upon the midnight with no pain…

This, of course, is an excerpt from John Keats’ famous poem, which I studied in college, and never quite appreciated until now. What a lovely dream…to die without pain at a time of one’s choosing. Unfortunately, this is not how it is in real life. Most of us die in extremis, having lived beyond any facsimile of functionality, heads leaning forward, mouths agape, slumped over in our wheelchairs.

The bluebird boxes
Stand agape, their contents strewn
On late summer grass.

Very amusing article in the Los Angeles Times today about Bob Bradley, the U.S. coach. The theme is “Will he go or will he stay?” The author of the piece, Grahame L. Jones, is very droll. He must be British. Mr. Jones criticizes U.S. Soccer for their misdirection, lack of direction, NSA-like secrecy, arrogance, and incompetence at handling the matter of rehiring Bradley (or not). It’s a fun read and even more fun to read this stuff in an American newspaper. It could as easily have come from The Guardian or the Telegraph. Maybe, soccer really is worming its way into the American consciousness after all.

Keep it moist and clean
Until the fifth day, when it
Will be what it is.