The Emissary by Yoko Tawada

 

Source of book: Audiobook from the library

I’m not even sure what to say about this book. It has its moments. The premise is quite interesting and relevant, and the characters good. But it lacks an actual plot. Very little happens, and when it seems like a promising bit of action or direction is about to take place, the narrative switches to something different. 

 

The end of the book finally seems like it will go somewhere, and then it…just ends. I felt like this book could have been something, could have found a direction, but it never did. The author seemed content to create a world, then tell the back story, but never really found a story she wanted to tell that would have been about something. Because of this, the book feels static, like one is looking at a picture, not seeing a movie, if that makes sense. 

 

The premise of the book is that Japan has undergone some unnamed environmental catastrophe. Since the book was published in 2014, it is natural to assume that the Fukushima nuclear disaster was in the author’s mind. Whatever has happened, both the ocean and the land has been contaminated, and food can only be grown or harvested at the extremes - Okinawa and Hokkaido. 

 

As the result of this disaster, Japan has isolated itself completely from the outside world, going so far as to purge all things foreign, even language itself. This is ostensibly to prevent contamination from spreading, but it also seems to be about shame and xenophobia. 

 

The other result of the disaster is a strange reversal in humankind. The old now live incredibly long and vigorous lives - and it is implied that they may now live forever - while the young are born nearly helpless and die in childhood. Not only that, humans reverse their sex at least once a lifetime, and sometimes more. 

 

Because most of the population has died, cities are empty, and technology is no longer in use. Most animals are extinct, and the children have never seen them. Since the soil is toxic, people are separated from the ground itself and walk on glass plates. And also dandelions are gigantic and the fish have star markings. 

 

Into this weird dystopia (although it is more sad than threatening) are placed Yoshiro, a 107 year old man, and his great-grandson Mumei, who is becoming increasingly frail. Yoshiro devotes his life to caring for Mumei, particularly since he can no longer effectively write novels like he used to, because he knows too many foreign words, and there is nobody to buy his books anyway. 

 

In that paragraph, you pretty much have the plot. Sure, we go back in time and learn about Yoshiro’s marriage, a bit about his estranged wife, some family history. But this is clearly backstory in flashbacks, not really a narrative arc. 

 

The title refers to what could have grown into a plot: a secretive group has decided to send some children outside of the country as “Emissaries” to the outside world, both to break the isolation and, perhaps, so the outside world can assist in a cure for the children. 

 

This was a promising idea, but nothing ever comes of it. Mumei is selected to be an emissary, but we merely hear that he has a memory gap during which time he believes he served in that role. But we learn nothing further. 

 

Whatever the deficiencies in plot, the book does a good job of creating a believable world. And also in metaphorically addressing some issues affecting our world at large and some more specific to Japan. 

 

Most obvious is the environmental destruction and its effect on the future of our species. Yoshiro suffers from a lot of guilt that his generation essentially destroyed the future for his descendants. I have noted before that Japan has a fraught relationship with atomic energy. The Bomb is never far below the surface. Since Japan is the only country who has been nuked, this makes sense. I would compare the fact that Japan continues to process this to the way that the United States has never finished the Civil War. There can be no resolution without a fundamental change to the core issues. 

 

Likewise, Japan has been both a leader in nuclear energy and has had the second worst nuclear disaster in history. This environmental conundrum and the coverup that followed the disaster are definitely found in this book. One could extrapolate to climate change as well - this has changed patterns of food production and left alternate cycles of flood and drought in the book. 

 

A more Japan-specific issue is that of the old and young. It is no secret that Japan’s population is one of the oldest in the world. The elderly continue to live longer lives (which is good) but fewer and fewer children are born, creating a cycle in which people of childbearing and working age bear greater and greater burdens, making children a luxury. 

 

Tawada takes this to an extreme, where it almost seems the elderly have become immortal, while children are unable to survive. This cycle of the old preying on the young seems to be spreading to much of the rest of the developed world. In the one sense, children no longer are economic assets as they were in agrarian societies - instead, they are like pets - they cost money. 

 

But in another sense, the older generations have, through their political choices over the last 45 or 50 years, created the policies that exacerbate this problem. Younger people are saddled with crushing student debt, unaffordable housing, lower wages with fewer benefits, and as a result, have far less wealth than their ancestors did by their age. (Remember, Millennials are in their 30s and 40s now.) 

 

Yoshiro’s guilt isn’t misplaced, although it is a generational guilt, not a personal one. He himself intended no harm, but the systems his generation put in place have failed their descendants catastrophically. 

 

A final theme is that of turning inward. Japan has isolated itself, in supposed imitation of Edo Period, a previous time of isolation from the outside world. (Although, as a character points out, it wasn’t as isolated as popularly believed.) Like the country, the characters have largely isolated themselves. Yoshiro’s family is all spread out, with none of them communicating much at all. What communication takes place (through letters) contains less and less actual content, becoming a ritual without meaning or connection. 

 

I found this fascinating and true. Whatever causes us to turn inward, to isolate, to restrict ourselves only to people like us - whether this is in the form of xenophobia, or in the way closed groups tend toward extremism - ends up leading to death and disability. For Japan in this book, its society is dying, and part of that is the lack of connection to the outside. Language is shrinking. There are no new ideas or solutions or hope. 

 

For xenophobes in our own country, they have devolved into increasing paranoia, choking on their own hate, afraid of ideas and people different from them, and increasingly isolated from their own children and grandchildren. 

 

So, there are things I liked about the book. I just wish it had taken the ideas and gone somewhere with them, rather than mostly creating a large, sprawling, and directionless picture.  

 

Silas Marner by George Eliot

 

Source of book: I own this

 

Well, this is getting to be an official sort of online book club with my friends K and B - this is our fourth. (List is in footnote below.) 

 

I read Silas Marner for the first time back in high school - it was our full-length novel for 12th grade English, if my memory serves. I loved it then, re-read it in my early 20s, and since then haven’t read it. But I did read The Mill on the Floss in my 20s, and both Daniel Deronda and Middlemarch since starting this blog. I really love George Eliot, and consider her to be up there with Anthony Trollope as the best of the Victorian novelists. 

 

It is always interesting to read a book at different times of life. What strikes you as a teen isn’t always the same as what you see as an adult. This book definitely holds up, though. I may have seen different things this time around, but it is every bit as good as I remember. 

 

For me, I think the biggest change in perspective was that I was better able to appreciate how great of a character Godfrey Cass really is. That the titular character, Silas, is good, was more obvious earlier - but his character is formed by his own naivety and the trauma of betrayal. His ultimate redemption is satisfying, but also a bit of its time - he is redeemed by the love of his adopted child Eppie. 

 

Godfrey, on the other hand, is a flawed man, who eventually works to grow up, to face responsibility, and to do the right thing. His delay, however, means he never can have what he wants. He isn’t a horrible person, but he is weak, impulsive, and unable to fully face his one truly bad decision in his youth. 

 

For a Victorian novel, particularly a British one, Silas Marner is notable for centering the lives of working-class people, and relegating the upper class to a secondary role. This too is disconcerting to Godfrey - as the son of the local squire, he is used to having his way, and being the center of everything. To find that, instead, it is Silas the socially awkward weaver who finds fulfillment, is unexpected for him. 

 

I suppose a bit of a summary might help. Godfrey has made a bad early marriage to a woman who turns out to be an opium addict. They have an infant child together after the split up. Meanwhile, Godfrey would like to move on and marry the beautiful and classy Nancy, but cannot in good conscience do so. And also, his blackguard of a brother, Dunstan, is blackmailing him about the marriage. 

 

Silas, in the meantime, grew up Methodist, but was betrayed by his best friend, who falsely accused him of a theft the friend in fact committed, and stole Silas’ fiancee. He flees the only community he has ever known, and settles in the small town of Raveloe - the setting for the story. He supports himself by weaving, but also gains a reputation for being eccentric and antisocial. His knowledge of herbal remedies also makes him a bit of a suspect. 

 

With no human connection, Silas hoards his small earnings, eventually accumulating a hoard of gold coins. 

 

Dunstan, having stolen the rents, blackmailed Godfrey into selling his horse to cover the debt, then riding recklessly during the hunt causing said horse to be killed before delivery, he decides to steal Silas’ money. He does so, then disappears without a trace. 

 

Silas is devastated by the loss of his money, and puzzled by the lack of evidence as to who took it or where they went. 

 

Meanwhile, Godfrey’s wife decides to show up and demand her rights and those of her child, but she overdoses on opium, freezing in the snow a few yards from Silas’ home. Her toddler girl staggers into Silas’ home (he has left the door open during some sort of an epileptic episode - he comes to and finds a child sleeping by his fire.) 

 

Silas decides that Eppie (short for Hephzibah) is God’s way of returning his gold, and, as Godfrey decides to keep quiet about who the mother was, insists on raising her as his own. 

 

Since it has been over 20 years since I read the book, I had a good knowledge of the plot, remembered many (but not all) of the incidents, but generally had forgotten the really great lines. Eliot is so perceptive of human motives, and gets to the heart of things. 

 

One of the other things I love about Eliot’s writing is that every character, villains included, are thoroughly believable. And strikingly modern. There is a lot less of the dated feel about Eliot’s books, compared to most Victorian - or even Edwardian - literature. Despite the older technology, you feel like you know people like these characters. 

 

I’ll start with the opening lines of the book, describing Silas Marner himself.  

 

In the days when the spinning-wheels hummed busily in the farmhouses - and even great ladies, clothed in silk and thread-lace, had their toy spinning-wheels of polished oak - there might be seen, in districts far away among the lanes, or deep in the bosom of the hills, certain pallid undersized men, who, by the side of the brawny country-folk, looked like the remnants of a disinherited race. 

 

And then, there is the description of the friend who would betray him - in theological terms. 

 

One of the most frequent topics of conversation between the two friends was Assurance of Salvation: Silas confessed that he could never arrive at anything higher than hope mingled with fear, and listened with longing wonder when William declared that he had possessed unshakeable assurance ever since, in the period of his conversion, he had dreamed that he saw the words “calling and election sure” standing by themselves on a white page in the open Bible. 

 

I have mentioned this before, but my experience (and that of other observant people I know) is that Calvinists who have this unshakeable certainty about their salvation are the most unethical people I have ever met. Something about believing you are God’s favorite no matter what you do tends to lead to the abuse of others, just as it did in William’s case in this book. 

 

Here is another astonishing passage, about the abrupt transition for Silas from his small fundamentalist community to a village based around the Church of England. 

 

Even people whose lives have been made various by learning, sometimes find it hard to keep a fast hold on their habitual views of life, on their faith in the Invisible - nay, on the sense that their past joys and sorrows are a real experience, when they are suddenly transported to a new land, where the beings around them know nothing of their history, and share none of their ideas - where their mother earth shows another lap, and human life has other forms than those on which their souls have nourished. Minds that have been unhinged from their old faith and love have perhaps sought this Lethean influence of exile in which the past becomes dreamy because its symbols have vanished, and the present too dreamy because it is linked with no memories.

 

For Silas, who also may be what we today consider autistic, he is unable to make a transition to a new way of being, and instead withdraws inwardly.

 

So, year after year, Silas Marner had lived in this solitude, his guineas rising in the iron pot, and his life narrowing and hardening itself more and more into a mere pulsation of desire and satisfaction that had no relation to any other being. His life had reduced itself to the mere functions of weaving and hoarding, without any contemplation of an end towards which the functions tended. The same sort of process has perhaps been undergone by wiser men, when they have been cut off from faith and love - only, instead of a loom and a heap of guineas, they have some erudite research, some ingenious project, or some well-knit theory.

 

Don’t we all know someone like that? Or maybe even are related to one or more? 

 

Eliot’s witty description of the two families of the minor gentry in town is hilarious. 

 

The greatest man in Raveloe was Squire Cass, who lived in the large red house, with the handsome flight of stone steps in front and the high stables behind it, nearly opposite the church. He was only one among several landed parishioners, but he alone was honored with the title of Squire; for though Mr. Osgood’s family was also understood to be of timeless origin - the Raveloe imagination having never ventured back to that fearful blank when there were no Osgoods - still, he merely owned the farm he occupied; whereas Squire Cass had a tenant or two, who complained of the game to him quite as if he had been a lord.

 

Another favorite line comes when we are introduced, first to Godfrey, and then to the loathsome Dunstan. (Who reminds me in multiple ways of Trump.) 

 

It was Dunsey, and at the sight of him Godfrey’s face parted with some of its gloom to take on the more active expression of hatred.

 

The Cass family has its issues, all of them. Eliot snarks a bit at the old squire as well. 

 

The Squire’s life was quite as idle as his sons’, but it was a fiction kept up by himself and his contemporaries in Raveloe that youth was exclusively the period of folly, and that their aged wisdom was constantly in a state of endurance mitigated by sarcasm. 

 

The generation gap is nothing new, really. The Squire is also described, “whose memory consisted in certain strong impressions unmodified by detail.” That’s a great line. 

 

When Silas’ money is stolen, the way the villagers try to give comfort, while just making things worse, is also perceptive. 

 

I suppose one reason why we are seldom able to comfort our neighbors with our words is, that our goodwill gets adulterated, in spite of ourselves, before it can pass our lips. We can send black puddings and pettitoes without giving them a flavor of our own egoism; but language is a stream that is almost sure to smack of a mingled soil. There was a fair proportion of kindness in Raveloe; but it was often of a beery and bungling sort, and took the shape least allied to the complimentary and hypocritical. 

 

The one exception to this is Dolly Winthrop, who is truly good-hearted in an earthy sort of way, and who becomes Silas’ only real friend in town. She later becomes Eppie’s godmother, and eventually her mother-in-law. 

 

Dolly encourages Silas to come to church, but not in the usual proselytizing way we Evangelicals (or ex-Evangelicals) tend to. One particularly memorable conversation involves the sound of the church bells, and the rhythm they give to life. For Dolly, theology is always secondary to community, and her wish for Silas is not that he convert, but that he become part of the community again. 

 

There is a later conversation, after Silas has finally opened up to Dolly about his tragic past. Dolly insists that the C of E uses the same bible he is used to. But that book is still a source of trauma to him - the casting of lots that got him exiled is in there, after all. 

 

For Dolly, in the end, what it comes down to is that she isn’t really sure of what her theology is in terms of words, but that she feels she lives it when she is out caring for the sick, feeding the hungry, and doing what she can to love her neighbor. She too is puzzled by the seeming lack of justice from the Divine, but finds her balance in living out her faith. 

 

In my opinion, Godfrey is the most fascinating character, though. He is not a villain. But he isn’t a hero either, not even a tragic one. He is a man who grew up entitled, and never truly comes to peace with the reality that the universe doesn’t revolve around him. As my friend B put it, “I've met plenty of dudes like Godfrey--basically well intentioned but not good at actually denying themselves anything.” 

 

There are several lines that I think are just outstanding regarding Godfrey. First up is this one, after he has breathed a sigh of relief that his wife had died, and he has dodged that bullet. 

 

And when events turn out so much better for a man than he has had reason to dread, is it not a proof that his conduct has been less foolish and blameworthy than it might otherwise have appeared? When we are treated well, we naturally begin to think that we are not altogether unmeritorious, and that it is only just we should treat ourselves well, and not mar our own good fortune. 

 

I should also mention Nancy, who is not a central character, but who has a depth and a strength to her which is unusual for a Victorian female character. When things come to light - Dunstan’s body and the gold are discovered, leading Godfrey to reveal Eppie’s identity to Nancy - she shows more moral fiber than he does. He assumes that, had she known, she would have refused to marry him. And maybe so. But he makes the error of assuming that she would have rejected Eppie - which she would not have. 

 

At that moment Godfrey felt all the bitterness of an error that was not simply futile, but had defeated its own end. He had not measured this wife with whom he had lived so long. 

 

For Godfrey and Nancy, there is their own tragedy - the death of their infant and her subsequent infertility - and now compounded by the discovery that they misunderstood each other for years. 

 

Godfrey also completely underestimates both Silas and Eppie. When he offers to take responsibility for Eppie as his child, Silas is willing to do whatever is best for her, but Eppie is clear that Silas is her father, and that she has no interest in being upper class. This is devastating to Godfrey, who realizes he has no control over the situation. 

 

Godfrey felt an irritation inevitable to almost all of us when we encounter an unexpected obstacle. He had been full of his own penitence and resolution to retrieve his error as far as the time was left to him; he was possessed with all-important feelings, that were to lead to a predetermined course of action which he had fixed on as the right, and he was not prepared to enter with lively appreciation into other people’s feelings conteracting his virtuous resolves. 

 

Ultimately, though, it is Nancy who sees the way forward. They can’t have what they want, but they can accept what they do have - and embrace each other. After all, Godfrey did get Nancy, and she is an admirable woman. Godfrey has lived his life with her as a decent man, a worthy and kind husband. 

 

One final thought: as these quotes make clear, Eliot is uninterested in simply passing judgment on Godfrey. Rather, she indicts us all, herself included. These are universal human responses, human frailties, and human tragedies. We are all Godfrey, just like we are all Silas, just like we are all Nancy. 

 

And, if we choose, we can also be Dolly. Eliot’s gentle satire is intended to be instructive. As a woman who was judged harshly for her own sexual choices, she encourages us to see things in a different light - the complexities of human relationships and the challenges of mistakes made early in life. 

 

It was, as always, fun to discuss this with literary friends. (And also, to meet K in person last month, after over a decade of online friendship.) 

 

***

 

Other books we have discussed together. 

 

That Hideous Strength by C. S. Lewis

The Shining by Stephen King

The Blithedale Romance by Nathaniel Hawthorne

 

A Woman's Story by Annie Ernaux

 Source of book: Audiobook from the library.

 

I had a house call in another town, and needed a short audiobook for that. This one was on my list, and happened to be available from the Los Angeles Public Library. 

A Woman’s Story was originally written in French, translated by Tanya Leslie, and narrated by Tavia Gilbert. While most of the audiobooks I listen to are fiction, this one is non-fiction. 

 

Ernaux grew up in a working class family, but an upwardly mobile one. Her parents grew up fairly poor, and worked as agricultural laborers as children. However, they were able to open a grocery store, and with the income from that, send young Annie to a Catholic school. Eventually, she would graduate college, and marry above her class. 

 

This is important, because much of the central conflict between the author and her mother involves these class differences. Ernaux both loved her mother, and was frustrated by her. And vice versa. 

 

The book is the story of her mother’s life, but mostly about her aging, decline, and eventual death with dementia. The story is brief, without a lot of extra detail, but told in a tender and perceptive manner. 

 

I have worked with elderly clients for over two decades, and dementia is an issue central to my legal practice. If we have the good fortune to live long enough without something else killing us, every human will eventually develop dementia. Extended lifespans and the fact that we have found treatments for many of the killers of the past means that more and more of us live long enough for our brains to deteriorate with age. 

 

Ernaux’s description of her mother’s descent from an independent and fierce woman to the helpless and confused person she became before death is haunting, but it is also familiar. 

 

I felt that the book captured elements of French society - both the working class culture of the 1940s and 50s, and the later academic culture after the sexual revolution. Ernaux’s experience of being better educated than her parents is something I feel myself, although the difference was greater in her family than in mine. 

 

Overall, the book is a loving portrait of a complex and often difficult woman. Those of us with aging parents will find this book particularly interesting. 

 

Signs Preceding the End of the World by Yuri Herrerra

Source of book: Borrowed from the library

 

This short novella translated from the Spanish is a rather unusual experience. On its surface, it is the story of a young woman, Makina, who travels from her village in rural Mexico, crosses the border into the United States, and seeks out her missing brother. 

 

But there is a lot more to it than that. The book is full of imagery and metaphor, with obvious parallels to Greek mythology concerning the underworld - the scene involving Charon and the Styx is particularly obvious, as are a few references to Inferno. According to the translator, Lisa Dillman, there are also parallels with The Road by Cormac McCarthy. I haven’t read that one, so I will have to take her word for it. 

 

The title itself also gives away another layer: this is about the end of the world, or, perhaps not so much the end of the world, but of the worlds of its characters, who cross over into another place, another reality, much like the journeys of the heroes of old past that river of no return. 

 

The ending is an enigma: what really happens? We never do find out, but are left with the impression that Makina will now be starting a new life, with a new name and identity. 

 

Another layer is the casual exploration of the experience of being an immigrant - an “other” - in an increasingly xenophobic United States, as well as the experience of being a woman in a misogynistic and casually violent society - and by that I really mean two societies, Mexican and American, both of which have significant problems in their treatment of women. 

 

Makina is also an unexpected protagonist. She is young, reasonably attractive, but far from naive. She works the telephone switchboard in the local town, speaks English, Spanish, and the liminal language we might call Spanglish fluently. She is on terms of some familiarity with the local crime bosses; even able to call in favors. She is sexually experienced and frank about it. 

 

Oh, and when a young man tries to grope her on the bus, she breaks his finger. That’s only one of the scenes in the book where she defies expectations and puts herself in the middle of the action, not as a victim, but in aggressive defense of herself and others. 

 

My copy of the book included a note from the translator at the end, which was quite enlightening. Apparently the original book has an unusual style, including neologisms and verbing of nouns and other experimental writing. Dillman tried to preserve some of this feel, while acknowledging that translation was impossible in some cases due to cultural references which were untranslatable. I think overall, she did an excellent job - she captures a certain disorientation and unreality quite well. 

 

For all of these reasons, I think Signs Preceding the End of the World is a book you don’t so much read as experience. If possible, read it in a single sitting (it’s short enough), and let the narrative wash over you and see what feelings remain as the tide recedes. 

 

There are a few passages that stood out to me, and I figure they can at least tease the book, which cannot be captured in a review like this. 

 

Makina agrees to carry two messages to her brother: one from their mother, and one from the mob bosses. She knows the content only of the first. But, just like with her job at the switchboard, she knows she isn’t a gatekeeper.

 

You don’t lift other people’s petticoats…

You don’t stop to wonder about other people’s business…

You don’t decide which messages to deliver and which to let rot…

You are the door, not the one who walks through it.

 

There is this description of Mexico City and the central task of any migrant: don’t get lost.

 

Every time she came to the Big Chilango she trod softly, because that was not the place she wanted to leave her mark, and she told herself repeatedly that she couldn’t get lost, and by get lost she meant not a detour or a sidetrack but lost for real, lost forever in the hills of hills cementing the horizon; or lost in the awe of all the living flesh that had built and paid for palaces.

 

Near the end, Makina finds herself witnessing a group of migrants being threatened by cops. The language barrier and their fear prevents them from giving a coherent answer. When the most bullying of the cops demands a migrant write a poem, since he is clutching a book of poetry, she steps in, and writes the poem instead. In part, it reads as follows:

 

We are to blame for this destruction, we who don’t speak your tongue and don’t know how to keep quiet either. We who didn’t come by boat, who dirty up your doorsteps with our dust, who break your barbed wire. We who came to take your jobs, who dream of wiping your shit, who long to work all hours. We who fill your shiny clean streets with the smell of food, who brought you violence you’d never known, who deliver your dope, who deserve to be chained by neck and feet. We who are happy to die for you, what else could we do? We, the ones who are waiting for who knows what. We, the dark, the short, the greasy, the shifty, the fat, the anemic. We the barbarians.

 

The best, though, is the extended musing on Spanglish and the liminal space between formal languages. I grew up in a place where Spanglish was in common use - and also Taglish and other border languages. These are not a corruption or a mere hybrid, but a new species that arises in the border space - the puns are not fully of either nor a mere combination, but the genesis of a new language. (That’s actually how real languages arose within families and between them too, historically speaking.)

 

To understand this passage, “homegrown” and “latin” refers to Mexican Spanish, and “anglo” is American English. If you know, you know. Also, use of lowercase is in the original.

 

They are homegrown and they are anglo and both things with rabid intensity; with restrained fervor they can be the meekest and at the same time the most querulous of citizens, albeit grumbling under their breath. Their gestures and tastes reveal both ancient memory and the wonderment of a new people. And then they speak. They speak an intermediary tongue that Makina instantly warms to because it’s like her: malleable, erasable, permeable; a hinge pivoting between two like but distant souls, and then two more, and then two more, never exactly the same ones; something that serves as a link. 

More than the midpoint between homegrown and anglo their tongue is a nebulous territory between what is dying out and what is not yet born. But not a hecatomb. Makina senses in their tongue not a sudden absence but a shrewd metamorphosis, a self-defensive shift. They might be talking in perfect latin tongue and without warning begin to talk in perfect anglo tongue and keep it up like that, alternating between a thing that believes itself to be perfect, morphing back and forth between two beasts until out of carelessness or clear intent they suddenly stop switching tongues and start speaking that other one. In it brims nostalgia for the land they left or never knew when they use the words with which they name objects; while actions are alluded to with an anglo verb conjugated latin-style, pinning on a sonorous tail from back there.

 

Not only is that an apt description, the language the author uses is gorgeous, a real masterpiece. There is a lot more of this evocative writing in the book, and it feels fresh and unexpected throughout. 

 

If you are looking for an interesting book in translation, modern and surprising, well written and timely, but not too long or difficult, this is a good one. It is also deeper the more closely you examine it, which is something I appreciate in a book. Like most books in translation, this one is not aimed at a white, middle class, middle aged American audience, which means the perspective will be different – and that is a very good thing indeed.

 

Pictures of the Floating World by Amy Lowell

 Source of book: I own this

 

Anytime someone (usually right wing) makes the claim that back in the day, women were sweet and docile and submissive, I want to laugh in their faces. 

 

Because that is one of the biggest piles of bullshit ever - one that never made sense to me even when I tried to believe it as a kid. 

 

Women are human beings, and, just like men, they come in a wide variety of personalities. There have always been strong women who have been called loud, bossy, aggressive, unsubmissive, and all the other slurs that reflect what in men is called virtue. 

 

One of those truly larger than life women was Amy Lowell. Born in 1874, she was, from childhood, the sort that didn’t fit in. She was too “masculine,” she was not pretty, she was loud and assertive, and she was always opinionated. 

 

Her family didn’t let her go to college because they thought it was inappropriate for a woman, but she studied avidly anyway. She took up poetry in her 30s, feuded with Ezra Pound - although they came to admire each other, and is now considered one of the important poets of the Imagist school. Initially, she was forgotten in the aftermath of World War One, but eventually came to have the recognition she deserves. 

 

Lowell was short but had an imposing presence. She had hormonal issues which let to her being overweight her entire life (which unfortunately led to some deeply personal and misogynistic insults by critics and colleagues), she smoked cigars, and had a - shall we say - a reputation. It isn’t easy being a strong personality in the body of a woman. 

 

I love the quote from the obituary by Heywood Broun: “[I]nside everything was molten like the core of the earth ... Given one more gram of emotion, Amy Lowell would have burst into flame and been consumed to cinders.”

 

Oh, and she was also a lesbian, and wrote some rather sexy erotic poems to her partner, Ada Dwyer Russell. 

 

Side note: Ada Dwyer Russell was raised Mormon, although she stopped participating in the religion after her divorce from her husband. (Presumably after she realized she was lesbian.) What is rather fascinating, though, is that her father James, who was a mucky-muck in the LDS church, was forced to resign after he stated that he did not believe that same-sex sexual activity was a sin. So score one for supportive parents over 100 years ago. 

 

I have the selected poems of Amy Lowell in an American Poets Project edition, and chose to read from Pictures of the Floating World, which is probably her best-known work, published in 1919. 

 

I must say, I really enjoyed reading this collection. Lowell’s images are wonderful, and her use of language unique and thrilling. As with so many poetry collections, the difficulty was in narrowing down which ones I would feature. I would strongly recommend reading the rest for yourself. 

 

Let’s start with this tiny gem:

 

Desolation

 

Under the plum-blossoms are nightingales;

But the sea is hidden in an egg-white mist,

And they are silent.

 

To me, this is the power of the short poem: if done well, it can evoke an entire world. It literally enlists the reader’s own brain to paint the rest of the picture. 

 

There are a number of poems like this one. Lowell was fascinated by Chinese poetry, and also wrote adaptations of them. (I will probably read those for a future post.) The influence is clear in many of her poems. 

 

This next one is one of her love poems - not explicitly erotic, but with a few innuendos. I particularly love the way she describes the writing - who thinks of fly’s legs? And also the pain of squeezing love into inkdrops - the frustration of the distance relationship. 

 

The Letter

 

Little cramped words scrawling all over the paper

Like draggled fly’s legs,

What can you tell of the flaring moon

Through the oak leaves? 

Or of my uncurtained window and the bare floor

Spattered with moonlight?

Your silly quirks and twists have nothing in them

Of blossoming hawthorns, 

And this paper is dull, crisp, smooth, virgin of liveliness

Beneath my hand.

 

I am tired, Beloved, of chafing my heart against

The want of you;

Of squeezing it into little inkdrops,

And posting it.

And I scald alone, here, under the fire

Of the great moon.

 

My favorite of the erotic poems in the collection is this next one. As a man who rather enjoys worshiping the female body (so to speak), it very much spoke to my experience. Even for those who swing the other way, the imagery is gorgeous. 

 

The Weather-Cock Points South

 

I put your leaves aside, 

One by one:

The stiff, broad outer leaves;

The smaller ones,

Pleasant to touch, veined with purple;

The glazed inner leaves.

 

One by one

I parted you from your leaves,

Until you stood up like a white flower

Swaying slightly in the evening wind.

 

White flower,

Flower of wax, of jade, of unstreaked agate;

Flower with surfaces of ice,

With shadows faintly crimson.

Where in all the garden is there such a flower?

The stars crowd through the lilac leaves

To look at you. 

The low moon brightens you with silver.

 

The bud is more than the calyx.

There is nothing to equal a white bud,

Of no colour, and of all,

Burnished by moonlight,

Thrust upon by a softly-swinging wind.

 

Perhaps one more erotic poem? This one is about a more mature, companionate love, but one which has not lost its sexual connection. 

 

A Decade

 

When you came, you were like red wine and honey,

And the taste of you burnt my mouth with its sweetness.

Now you are like morning bread,

Smooth and pleasant.

I hardly taste you at all for I know your savour,

But I am completely nourished.

 

There are a number of poems about rain, and it was difficult to choose the best. I went with this one, but it was a coin toss. 

 

A Shower

 

That sputter of rain, flipping the hedge-rows

And making the highways hiss,

How I love it!

And the touch of you upon my arm

As you press against me that my umbrella 

May cover you.

 

Tinkle of drops on stretched silk,

Wet murmur through green branches. 

 

Okay, I have to do one more. 

 

After a Storm

 

You walk under the ice trees.

They sway, and crackle,

And arch themselves splendidly

To deck your going.

The white sun flips them into colour

Before you.

They are blue,

And mauve,

And emerald. 

They are amber,

And jade,

And sardonyx,

They are silver fretted to flame

And startled to stillness,

Bunched, splintered, iridescent.

You walk under the ice trees

And the bright snow creaks as you step upon it.

My dogs leap about you,

And their barking strikes upon the air

Like sharp hammer-strokes on metal.

You walk under the ice trees

But you are more dazzling than the ice flowers,

And the dogs’ barking 

Is not so loud to me as your quietness.

 

You walk under the ice trees

At ten o’clock in the morning.

 

These are just a few of the many delightful poems in this collection. I hadn’t really read Lowell before, and feel like I have discovered another favorite poet.