Inns of Court

I became slightly obsessed with finding out more about that inner sanctum of London that I’ve read about for decades, those amazing bachelor residences of the Temple wherein great works of literature were penned and that are frequently referenced in classic works of Dickens, Thackeray. My latest literary crush, Samuel Butler, spent the last 38 years of his life living at No. 15 Clifford’s Inn, on the 2nd floor, the north side of the staircase, with a sitting room, bedroom, painting room, pantry, and passage with cupboards. Annual rent was £23 in 1864 and raised to £36 by the end, including taxes.

So down the rabbit hole I went, and I have 2 books about the Inns before me. A very dull one I rejected quickly was by Hyacinthe Ringrose, pub’d 1909, aimed at lawyers in US & Canada to explain the history of six centuries of law school in England. The best, most entertaining and delightful one, was by Cecil Headlam with illustrations by Gordon Home, also pub’d 1909. It’s one of those glorious old books with pages as thick as tree trunks. Headlam doesn’t hold back his opinion, calling out buildings for being ugly, as in this sample: “A plain, unpleasing, stuccoed, Early Victorian building now faces Chancery Lane and drops as a screen of ugliness across the old brick buildings within.”

But the Inns! Such fascinating history, dating back to the medieval Knights Templars who guarded pilgrims on the road to Jerusalem starting around the year 1118. Around the year 1180 they acquired a large meadow sloping down to the River Thames, south of Fleet Street, and built a hall and church and had a nearby tilting ground for jousts. Headlam points out that the first mention of the Temple as an abode of lawyers is in Chaucer’s Prologue to the Canterbury Tales (c 1387). Various grants and patents changed hands and eventually the Temple became a law school of sorts where aspirants to the bar co-mingled and shared meals and discussion in the Hall. (“The same system of discipline, celibate life, a common Hall, residence in community, and compulsory attendance at Church, which marked the ordinary life of a medieval University was repeated at the Inns of Court.”) In the 17th century, official instruction disappeared and simply eating dinners there was all you needed to be admitted to the Bar. “The loss of the Law was the gain of Letters. A new class of students, educated in literature and politics, and highly born, were bred up to take their place in the direction of affairs and the criticism of writers.”

They sound a bit like men’s clubs, and there was lots of rowdy festivals. Shakespeare first staged Twelfth Night at the Middle Temple Hall in 1601 (captured by a diary entry of John Manningham on February 1601: “At our feast, Wee had a play called ‘Twelve Night, or What you will,’ much like the ‘Commedy of Errores,’ or ‘Menechmi’ in Plautus, but most like and neere to that in Italian called ‘Inganni.'”). Several fires destroyed various incarnations of the buildings but some parts remain intact.

The apartments were in close quarters with each other and noise complaints weren’t unheard of. When Oliver Goldsmith received £500 for his play, he moved into No 2 Brick Court and threw lots of parties, to the discomfort of his downstairs neighbor Blackstone, who was writing below, finding “good cause to grumble at the racket made by his revelling neighbour.”

Charles Lamb lived at No 16 Crown Office Row and told a friend to “bring his glass” (bincoculars) to view Surrey Hills. His bed faced the river and he could see sails glide by as he lay in bed.

Nathaniel Hawthorne’s quote about Gray’s Inn (I can’t find source yet):

It is very strange to find so much of ancient quietude right in the monster City’s very jaws, which yet the monster shall not eat up—right in its very belly, indeed, which yet, in all these ages, it shall not digest and convert into the same substance as the rest of its bustling streets. Nothing else in London is so like the effect of a spell, as to pass under one of these archways, and find yourself transported from the jumble, rush, tumult, uproar, as of an age of week-days condensed into the present hour, into what seems an eternal Sabbath.

Uncanny Valley: A Memoir

In awe of this book. So great and I’m not even a little bit jealous that I didn’t write it myself. This captured exactly what life in San Francisco has been over the last decade. Beautifully written, scathing, insightful. Life as a non-technical intellectual surrounded by tech, living in the Castro, biking in the fog, trying to square her six-figure salary with the army of homeless sprawled on the streets. The intersection of ravers/Burners who seem to be performing what they thought the 1960s were all about, with the technofuturists. Brilliant, unmissable memoir that restores my faith in first person accounting in the modern age.

How to survive in the North

Luke Healy does a masterful job telling the story of two Arctic expeditions, one in 1912, the other a few years later, interwoven with the story of a professor put on probation for having an affair with a student, so he holes up in the library and researches the expeditions. I loved the colors throughout this, he used different palates to show that you were in a different story line.

Sketch of the Life of Samuel Butler

How delightful to find this brief sketch of Butler’s life from the pen of his pal Henry Festing Jones in 1913. The 40-odd pages are found in the collection of essays Butler’s literary executor put forth as The Humour of Homer and Other Essays. Even better, in Jones’ note at the beginning, he’s hard at work on a full memoir about Butler, which I just tracked down. When SB returned to London in 1864 from his four years in New Zealand (having doubled his capital to £8000) “he took chambers consisting of a sitting-room, a bedroom, a painting-room, and a pantry, at 15 Clifford’s Inn, second floor (north)… [his income from investments] produced more than enough for him to live upon in the very simple way that suited him best, and life in the Inns of Court resembles life at Cambridge in that it reduces the cares of housekeeping to a minimum; it suited him so well that he never changed his rooms, remaining there thirty-eight years till his death.”

In a letter to a friend he’d made in New Zealand, Butler describes his life: “I live almost the life of a recluse, seeing very few people and going nowhere that I can help—I mean in the way of parties and so forth… I find that it is next to impossible to combine what is commonly called society and work.”

In 1886, Butler’s father died and his financial difficulties ended, but he made few changes to his life except to hire a clerk (Alfred Cathie) and buy a new hairbrush and a larger wash-hand basin. Jones says “Any change in his mode of life was an event,” before going on to describe his typical day: up at 6:30a in summer and 7:30a in winter, light a fire and put kettle on for water for his bath, dress, make tea and cook in his Dutch oven something he had bought the day before. Breakfast and read the Times. To the British Museum by 10:30a writing until 1:30p. 3 days a week he dined in a restaurant on the way home, the other 4 days he ate at home whatever his laundress had prepared. Tea, writing letters and attending to accounts with Alfred until 3:45p. At 5:30p he got his evening meal (he called it his tea), usually exactly what he’d had for breakfast. He wrote music until 8p, walked over to Jones’ rooms in Staple Inn, returning to Clifford’s Inn by 10p. After a piece of toast and glass of milk, he paid a game of Patience, prepped his breakfast and things for fire in the morning, smoked his last cigarette of the day and went to bed by 11pm.

On Thursdays he generally went into the country to sketch or walk, and on Sundays he nearly always went into the country walking; “his map of the district for 30 miles round London is covered all over with red lines showing where he had been. He sometimes went out of town from Saturday to Monday, and for over twenty years spent Christmas at Boulogne-sur-Mer.”

Jones met Butler in Italy in 1878 when they were both on the Sacro Monte above Varese, and every year after that they went to Italy together.

****

This bit isn’t in the sketch but in Butler’s essay Quis Desiderio, too delicious to not put in here, a rejoinder I’ve been in need of for years: “I replied with modest pride that I was a Bachelor of Arts. I keep all my other letters inside my name, not outside.”

Poetry & Grammar

This was one of Gertrude Stein’s 1935 lectures in America. At times hilarious, mostly serious, but always requiring a concentrated effort to read—a good thing in today’s world of puff pieces, clickbait, and surface text. She much prefers verbs, adverbs, articles to nouns (“any one can see that verbs and adverbs are more interesting than nouns and adjectives”) and has an outright terror/disdain for commas (“commas are servile and they have no life of their own”). Verbs are “on the move and adverbs move with them and each of them finds themselves not at all annoying…”

Pronouns are not as bad as nouns because in the first place practically they cannot have adjectives go with them. That already makes them better than nouns.

She loathes question marks as the most uninteresting punctuation, unnecessary because everyone knows you’re asking a question by the sentence itself, without the mark. Exclamation points are ugly.  She likes the look of periods and they don’t interrupt the flow of her writing.

So now to come to the real question of punctuation, periods, commas, colons, semi-colons and capitals and small letters.

I have had a long and complicated life with all these.

Since it is February, I leave you with her Valentine to Sherwood Anderson, used as an example in this lecture:

A VERY VALENTINE

Very fine is my valentine.
Very fine and very mine.
Very mine is my valentine very mine and very fine.
Very fine is my valentine and mine, very fine very mine and mine is my valentine.

The Note-Books of Samuel Butler

I’m enamored with Sammy Butler and have discovered his notebooks, curated by his pal Henry Festing Jones in 1913 after Butler’s death (1902). The pages in this 100+ year old book are so thick that I would be ashamed to dogear them, so I’ve got post-it notes to lure me back to the hilarious and witty and sage advice he gathers in these pages. Jones’s preface tells us that Butler always carried a notebook to write down anything he wanted to remember, be it something someone said or usually something he himself said. He began to index these in 1874 and worked on organizing them up until his death, in five bound volumes. He wrote the notes in copying ink and gave a pressed copy to Jones for safekeeping in case of fire. Jones has culled these down to a single volume and organized them as he saw fit. Woolf’s comment on reading them: “I have just read a page or two of Samuel Butler’s notebooks… One rather craves brilliance & cantankerousness.”

What life in 1880s London was like

He had rooms in Clifford’s Inn and spent his evenings in his friend Jones’s rooms in Barnard’s Inn then walked home, thinking. He had a camera lucida that he considered using to take a photo of the demolition of Cock Tavern but decided not to (because of “all the trash that had been written about it” by Tennyson, whom he hated). He goes to the dentist and makes jokes about how his dentist always suggested using “the tooth-pick freely” and “the spirit twice a day.” He bought “ready-made boots” that the shopman says are too large for him, but this is how he avoids corns. Fires are events: “I was at one the other night and heard a man say ‘That corner stack is alight now quite nicely.’ People’s sympathies seem generally to be with the fire so long as no one is in danger of being burned.” On Sundays he would go on walks with a friend and then stop by a public-house for beer. The elderly wife of the owner said she hoped she wouldn’t die soon, “You see, I am beginning now to know how to live.” He eavesdrops on a man saying to another, “I went to live there just about the time that beer came down from 5d to 4d a pot. That will give you an idea of when it was.”

His list of humorous ideas for stories

  • The Diseases and Ordinary Causes of Mortality among Friendships.
  • The finding a lot of old photographs at Herculaneum or Thebes; and they should turn out to be of no interest.
  • On the points of resemblance and difference between the dropping off of leaves from a tree and the dropping off of guests from a dinner or a concert.
  • The Complete Drunkard. He would not give money to sober people, he said they would only eat it and send their children to school with it.

Life

  • Life is one long process of getting tired.
  • My days run through me as water through a sieve.
  • The body is but a pair of pincers set over a bellows and a stewpan and the whole fixed upon stilts.
  • Always eat grapes downwards—that is, always eat the best grape first; in this way there will be none better left on the bunch, and each grape will seem good down to the last. If you eat the other way, you will not have a good grape in the lot. Besides, you will be tempting Providence to kill you before you come to the best. This is why autumn seems better than spring: in the autumn we are eating our days downwards, in the spring each day still seems “Very bad.” People should live on this principle more than they do, but they do live on it a good deal; from the age of, say, fifty we eat our days downwards.
  • A man’s style in any art should be like his dress—it should attract as little attention as possible.
  • In addition to all that I inherit from past generations [music, science, art] I receive from my own everything that makes life worth living—London, with its infinite sources of pleasure and amusement, good theatres, concerts, picture galleries, the British Museum Reading-Room, newspapers, a comfortable dwelling, railways and, above all, the society of the friends I value.
  • Every one should keep a mental waste-paper basket and the older he grows the more things he will consign to it—torn up to irrecoverable tatters.

Money

  • Money is the last enemy that shall never be subdued. While there is flesh there is money—or the want of money; but money is always on the brain so long as there is a brain in reasonable order.
  • A man will feel loss of money more keenly than loss of bodily health, so long as he can keep his money. Take his money away and deprive him of the means of earning any more, and his health will soon break up; but leave him his money and, even though his health breaks up and he dies, he does not mind it so much as we think. Money losses are the worst, loss of health is next worst and loss of reputation comes in a bad third. All other things are amusements provided money, health and good name are untouched.

Words

  • We want words to do more than they can. We try to do with them what comes to very much like trying to mend a watch with a pickaxe or to paint a miniature with a mop; we expect them to help us to grip and dissect that which in ultimate essence is as ungrippable as shadow. Nevertheless there they are; we have got to live with them, and the wise course is to treat them as we do our neighbours, and make the best and not the worst of them. But they are parvenu people as compared with thought and action. What we should read is not the words but the man whom we feel to be behind the words.
  • All words are juggles. To call a thing a juggle of words is often a bigger juggle than the juggle it is intended to complain of. The question is whether it is a greater juggle than is generally considered fair trading.
  • Words are like money; there is nothing so useless, unless when in actual use.
  • Gold and silver coins are only the tokens, symbols, outward and visible signs and sacraments of money. When not in actual process of being applied in purchase they are no more money than words not in use are language. Books are like imprisoned souls until some one takes them down from a shelf and reads them. The coins are potential money as the words are potential language, it is the power and will to apply the counters that make them vibrate with life; when the power and the will are in abeyance the counters lie dead as a log.
  • The arts of the musician, the painter and the writer are essentially the same. In composing a fugue, after you have exposed your subject, which must not be too unwieldy, you introduce an episode or episodes which must arise out of your subject. The great thing is that all shall be new, and yet nothing new, at the same time; the details must minister to the main effect and not obscure it; in other words, you must have a subject, develop it and not wander from it very far. This holds just as true for literature and painting and for art of all kinds. No man should try even to allude to the greater part of what he sees in his subject, and there is hardly a limit to what he may omit. What is required is that he shall say what he elects to say discreetly; that he shall be quick to see the gist of a matter, and give it pithily without either prolixity or stint of words.

Writing

  • Fortunately for me there are no academies for teaching people how to write books, or I should have fallen into them as I did into those for painting and, instead of writing, should have spent my time and money in being told that I was learning how to write. If I had one thing to say to students before I died (I mean, if I had got to die, but might tell students one thing first) I should say: “Don’t learn to do, but learn in doing. Let your falls not be on a prepared ground, but let them be bona fide falls in the rough and tumble of the world; only, of course, let them be on a small scale in the first instance till you feel your feet safe under you. Act more and rehearse less.”
  • Think of and look at your work as though it were done by your enemy. If you look at it to admire it you are lost.
  • I never knew a writer yet who took the smallest pains with his style and was at the same time readable. Plato’s having had seventy shies at one sentence is quite enough to explain to me why I dislike him. A man may, and ought to take a great deal of pains to write clearly, tersely and euphemistically: he will write many a sentence three or four times over—to do much more than this is worse than not rewriting at all: he will be at great pains to see that he does not repeat himself, to arrange his matter in the way that shall best enable the reader to master it, to cut out superfluous words and, even more, to eschew irrelevant matter: but in each case he will be thinking not of his own style but of his reader’s convenience… I should like to put it on record that I never took the smallest pains with my style, have never thought about it, and do not know or want to know whether it is a style at all or whether it is not, as I believe and hope, just common, simple straightforwardness. I cannot conceive how any man can take thought for his style without loss to himself and his readers.

Music & Street Noise

  • I should like to like Schumann’s music better than I do; I dare say I could make myself like it better if I tried; but I do not like having to try to make myself like things; I like things that make me like them at once and no trying at all.
  • People say the generous British public supported Handel.  It did nothing of the kind.  On the contrary, for some 30 years it did its best to ruin him, twice drove him to bankruptcy, badgered him till in 1737 he had a paralytic seizure which was as near as might be the death of him and, if he had died then, we should have no Israel, nor Messiah, nor Samson, nor any of his greatest oratorios.  The British public only relented when he had become old and presently blind.  Handel, by the way, is a rare instance of a man doing his greatest work subsequently to an attack of paralysis.  What kept Handel up was not the public but the court.  It was the pensions given him by George I and George II that enabled him to carry on at all.  So that, in point of fact, it is to these two very prosaic kings that we owe the finest musical poems the world knows anything about.
  • My St. Dunstan’s bells near Clifford’s Inn play doleful hymn tunes which enter in at my window; I not only do not dislike them, but rather like them; they are so silly and the bells are out of tune. I never yet was annoyed by either bells or street music except when a loud piano organ strikes up outside the public-house opposite my bedroom window after I am in bed and when I am just going to sleep.

America

  • America will have her geniuses, as every other country has, in fact she has already had one in Walt Whitman, but I do not think America is a good place in which to be a genius. A genius can never expect to have a good time anywhere, if he is a genuine article, but America is about the last place in which life will be endurable at all for an inspired writer of any kind.

The Odyssey & The Iliad

  • They say no woman could possibly have written the Odyssey.  To me, on the other hand, it seems even less possible that a man could have done so.  As for its being by a practised and elderly writer, nothing but youth and inexperience could produce anything so naïve and so lovely.  That is where the work will suffer by my translation.  I am male, practised and elderly, and the trail of sex, age and experience is certain to be over my translation.  If the poem is ever to be well translated, it must be by some high-spirited English girl who has been brought up at Athens and who, therefore, has not been jaded by academic study of the language.
  • When I returned from Calais last December, after spending Christmas at Boulogne according to my custom, the sea was rough as I crossed to Dover and, having a cold upon me, I went down into the second-class cabin, cleared the railway books off one of the tables, spread out my papers and continued my translation, or rather analysis, of the Iliad.  Several people of all ages and sexes were on the sofas and they soon began to be sea-sick.  There was no steward, so I got them each a basin and placed it for them as well as I could; then I sat down again at my table in the middle and went on with my translation while they were sick all round me.  I had to get the Iliad well into my head before I began my lecture on The Humour of Homer and I could not afford to throw away a couple of hours, but I doubt whether Homer was ever before translated under such circumstances.

Art & Traveling

He got into a discussion about art with some strangers while traveling, and everyone threw names as if they were playing cards. “They played Raffaelle as a safe card…” “Then they played Leonardo Da Vinci. I had not intended saying how cordially I dislike him… As for his caricatures he should not have done them, much less preserved them; the fact of his having set store by them was enough to show that there was a screw loose about him somewhere and that he had no sense of humour. Still, I admitted that I liked him better than I did Michael Angelo.”

I bought my first (and probably last) ebook

Very exciting day here—I finally found a reason to purchase an ebook. The Virginia Woolf listserve parried a question about how best to search for a subject across all of her volumes of essays, diaries, and letters, and the brilliant Stuart Clarke weighed in with a simple answer: “Buy this for a pittance through Kobo.” For $1.99 I now have an electronic, searchable copy of her complete works. Not only the aforementioned diaries, letters, and essays, but also all the novels, biographies, and other works. O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!

Naturally I have no plans of actually attempting to read any of these 15,581 pages on a screen (over 4M words!), but I can search for terms across all volumes and pinpoint which print book to pluck off the shelf to read her opinions of Herman Melville, Montaigne, Gertrude Stein, Samuel Butler, etc. as I myself am rubbing elbows with them. This removes from my list of possible chores the creation of an uber-index that pulls together all of the indexes from the other volumes.

Here are her thoughts about Gertrude Stein:

Monday [24 August 1925]

Sept 16, 1925

June 2, 1926

Addendum I’m not sure where else to put— Stuart’s cautions about the ebook:

I have not used the Kobo very much, but, I find it OK. They have rearranged the essays, so that the rediscovered ones in Vol. 6 have been slotted in where they should have been in earlier vols. I agree with Madelyn that “it is useful for searching and then double checking with a reliable print source”. The main problem I have found is with the diary: it is not always
immediately obvious to which year an entry belongs.

Since it is on my phone, I expect to be using it more and more, and the CD-ROM, which cost so much so many years ago, less.

Tender Buttons

In a letter dated 15 April 1914 Gertrude responded to what the title should be: “Tender Buttons, will be the title of the book. On the title page after the general the three sub titles, Food, Rooms, Objects.” Abstract poems that are meant to be read aloud so you catch the sounds. Cubism in words (don’t forget she’d been palling around with Picasso and his milieu for years by then). Even the quasi sub-table of contents within food is poetic: ROASTBEEF; MUTTON; BREAKFAST; SUGAR; CRANBERRIES; MILK; EGGS; APPLE; TAILS; LUNCH; CUPS; RHUBARB; SINGLE; FISH; CAKE; CUSTARD; POTATOES; ASPARAGUS; BUTTER; END OF SUMMER; SAUSAGES; CELERY; VEAL; VEGETABLE; COOKING; CHICKEN; PASTRY; CREAM; CUCUMBER; DINNER; DINING; EATING; SALAD; SAUCE; SALMON; ORANGE; COCOA; AND CLEAR SOUP AND ORANGES AND OATMEAL; SALAD DRESSING AND AN ARTICHOKE; A CENTRE IN A TABLE.

Words are piled onto each other, spun around, made dizzy to topple and fall exhausted outside their normal meanings. Sounds are favored over logic, although it results in delights like “The sister was not a mister…. Replacing a casual acquaintance with an ordinary daughter does not make a son.”

CHICKEN.

Alas a dirty word, alas a dirty third alas a dirty third, alas a dirty bird.

And this:

South, south which is a wind is not rain, does silence choke speech or does it not.

 

Erewhon

Samuel Butler’s 1872 novel imagines a forgotten civilization tucked away behind a few mountain ranges in New Zealand. Our hero discovers it when trying to find more land to graze sheep on, after a three week camping trip with a native once the sheep-shearing season is over. These are the best parts of the book, the journey to try and discover new lands, and then once he’s discovered by the Erewhonians. But it dulls once he launches into his main theme, which is to skewer social norms by way of this pseudo-utopian society. In this society, if you get sick, you’re a criminal, but embezzling funds is treated as if it were a physical ailment from which you could recover, topsy turvy to our world. Machines have been outlawed, and our hero’s watch is confiscated immediately upon arrival. Banks circulate worthless currency that everyone pretends to believe in. It’s a crime to be born. The college is called the College of Unreason (needless to say, this book was influential on Orwell).

The Way of All Flesh

Is there a better delight than unearthing a book that you’d never heard of but that is considered “one of the summits of human achievement” by Shaw, “one of the time bombs of literature” by V.S. Pritchett, better than “some of the masterpieces of English fiction” by Woolf? (Woolf’s 1916 review of his biography notes that Samuel Butler “is one of those rare spirits among the dead whom we like… as we do the living, so strong is their individuality and so clearly can we make up our minds about their manners and opinions.”) I stumbled onto this book by way of the 1924 Who Would Be Free, where the book made a huge impact on the main character. And lo, it appears to be on a list of the best 100 novels of all time!

Published posthumously in 1903 so as not to offend his family, it’s semi-autobiographical, a tale of a promising young boy thrust into the clergy and eventually estranged from his domineering pastor father. Unbeknownst to him, his aunt has left him a fortune to come to him upon his 28th birthday, and his godfather Overton (the book’s narrator) oversees the funds until then. The writing is a delight, so fresh and modern for having been written in the 1870s. His passage on marriage can’t be left without note:

A man’s friendships are, like his will, invalidated by marriage—but they are also no less invalidated by the marriage of his friends.  The rift in friendship which invariably makes its appearance on the marriage of either of the parties to it was fast widening, as it no less invariably does, into the great gulf which is fixed between the married and the unmarried, and I was beginning to leave my protégé to a fate with which I had neither right nor power to meddle.  In fact I had begun to feel him rather a burden; I did not so much mind this when I could be of use, but I grudged it when I could be of none.  He had made his bed and he must lie upon it.  Ernest had felt all this and had seldom come near me till now, one evening late in 1860, he called on me, and with a very woebegone face told me his troubles.

As soon as I found that he no longer liked his wife I forgave him at once, and was as much interested in him as ever.  There is nothing an old bachelor likes better than to find a young married man who wishes he had not got married—especially when the case is such an extreme one that he need not pretend to hope that matters will come all right again, or encourage his young friend to make the best of it.

 

Fire in the Belly: The Life and Times of David Wojnarowicz

This isn’t the best written biography you’ll ever read, which is why it seems I keep taking it up and discarding it. But I always return because Cynthia Carr’s Wojnarowicz is the most deeply researched by way of interviews with his friends and cohorts.

Of most interest to me in this go-round was the detail surrounding the Rimbaud mask photos. He was visiting JP in Paris in the summer of 1979, a time when French artist Ernest Pignon-Ernest had attached Rimbaud’s photo to a photo of a leather-jacketed young man, lifesize photos plastered on walls, phone booths, billboarrds. “Surely David had seen the cheap newsprint Rimbaud posters plastered everywhere in Paris in 1978-79,” Carr conjectures.

Ernest Pignon-Ernest’s Rimbaud posters in Paris, 1978-79

David had a short-lived minimum wage job in the summer of 1979 for an ad agency that trained him to print photographs and run a photostat machine. This is where he photostated the cover of Illuminations to create the Rimbaud mask, life-sized. From there he put Brian Butterick, John Hall, and JP into the mask and into various NYC-based location shoots. When he got $150 from Soho News to print four of his Rimbaud photos, it was the first payment he got for his art.

Other random factoids: living with Brian Butterick in DUMBO at 59 Hudson Ave., they kept a 3-ring binder that they’d each add an artwork to every day—a poem, drawing, found object, collage.

Who Would Be Free

Marian Spitzer’s 1924 book about a young semi-talented artistic Jewish woman who resolutely rejects marriage in order to live by herself, free, was a joy to inhale this morning. She’s beset by traps on all sides. Her mother schemes to get her to marry an acceptable Jewish man, Chester Adelstein, while Eleanor prefers the more bohemian (and unacceptable Jewish) man, Ted Levine (Jew-on-Jew hatred apparently a thing, German Jews looking down on those from Russia?), who encouraged her to go to art school instead of become a teacher. But she knows she wants to escape her parents, the regimented life, and she fights hard to do so. Although in love with Ted, he goes off to war (WW1) and she knows she’ll never see him again. Sure enough, news of his death comes on Armistice Day. She throws herself back into life again and manages to move out of her parents’ apartment, earn a small living as a graphic designer for the theater, and when she turns 21, comes into money from her Grandmother that allows her to get her own attic studio apartment for $60 a month. Another man enters the fray as soon as she becomes successful, and she nearly becomes trapped by him, too. An ultimatum to marry him right before he sails for Europe that she accepts, then spends a sleepless night worrying about. I cheered as I sat alone in my room of my own, as she comes to the decision to back out of the marriage.

The room became suddenly invested with a new value—the room that summed up, really, all that she had fought and worked for, ever. It was there, alone, that she had come into possession of her soul. And now she was giving it up—leaving it behind—sailing for Europe, marrying. It was funny, now that Steve was gone, Europe didn’t seem quite so alluring. After all, just more places, other cities, with different streets and buildings. That was one of the things about belonging just to yourself. You didn’t have to go anywhere. Or do anything. You had wonderful moments, unspoiled by anything. It occurred to her that whatever moments of absolutely unalloyed beauty and happiness she had ever known, had been in solitude—solitude of body and spirit… The peace that had once been so palpably a part of the room slowly gathered again and eveloped her. She and peace were in that room, and the rest of the world was shut outside.    THE END

Our Rimbaud Mask

Anna Vitale’s essay about David Wojnarowicz’s “Arthur Rimbaud in New York” photographic series. She questions identity, suicide, solitude, psychosis.  “The Rimbaud mask, different from the image of Rimbaud, invites us to become compassionate witnesses to those whose lives feel unsurvivable without assuming the experience can be shared.” Surrogate self-portraits.

The reliance on Cynthia Carr’s biography for background info on the masks means I need to dip back into that again. Apparently it was 3 different friends in the mask: Brian Butterick, John Hall, and Jean Pierre. (Most of the other research I’ve read just references Butterick.)

Olive Kitteridge

I’m not a fan of reading books after having seen the screen adaptation, but somehow having Frances McDormand’s face loom up from the pages wasn’t all bad, as long as the writing moved along creamily and pulled me under. Plus there are many more stories and layers in the written work than what could be depicted even in an extended miniseries. Sturdy Olive Kitteridge, retired math teacher with a saint for a husband, speaks her mind and has no love lost from the small Maine town’s citizens. Henry has a stroke, hangs on for years in a nursing home. Her son Christopher leaves town with wife #1 for California, only to get divorced and remarry a woman with a few kids of her own before settling in NYC as a podiatrist. Elizabeth Strout has the gift of weaving a tale out of nothing, making you invested in the characters in this small community, eager for more.

Essays One

Volume one of Lydia Davis’s essays is brimming with thoughts on writers and visual artists (Joan Mitchell, John Ashberry’s translation of Rimbaud’s Illuminations [which I read], Joseph Cornell, Hölderlin, Flaubert, Barthes, Stendhal, Jane Bowles), dissections of plots and writing and style, and writing advice. My favorite piece was the Thirty Recommendations for Good Writing Habits, a clickbait headline befitting the 2013 essay. The first 10 recommendations she recaps here, with major emphasis on taking notes, noting your own activity and feelings along with others’ behavior. I like the push to work from your own interest, which is what I do, pursuing odd investigations into the most random of topics. I definitely agree with being mostly self-taught, reading a lot. She recommends keeping books of writing exercises on hand to do something even when you’re not inspired. Take time in between stopping writing and picking up your next task to let your brain continue to feed you ideas. #17 says to learn as much as you can about the origin of words you’re using, #18 listen to the sound of the words, and #19 read poetry regularly. #20 be curious about as much as possible and #21 let your mind wonder about things without looking them up immediately.

#22 in full: