It's hard to imagine how Reardon can get any writing done. Anyone's imagination would be locked up if they were tortured by the chiming of the hours throughout the night ("...that of the Marylebone parish church, and that of the adjoining workhouse; the latter always sounded several minutes after it's ecclesiastical neighbor...") His schedule intones drudgery. He contemplates suicide down to the details!
We also got to see how Edwin and Amy overreact to each other, even as they are trying to enjoy some intimate time - "He had learnt that Amy was not to be told the whole truth about anything as he himself saw it. It was a pity." And Amy is worried about the reviews and what other people think - "... but other people, our friends, read it. That's the worst." Thus even his imagined success is a source of anxiety. Eek.
Yay, an inspiring chapter title... for a rather mundane, (relatable) chapter. Reminded of how the book trade has changed. Edwin can still believe part of his book collection can be resold profitably, an illusion these days.
“Read some Homer, dear. . . Oh, I like that!” Reardon is not reading translations. He’s so educated. Should be able to teach or tutor for extra funds. But in those times, I think educators were also impoverished.
Love the idea of writing without reading being like a nursing mother unable to nourish herself!
Reardon: “Can’t you console yourself with the thought that I am not contemptible, though I may have been forced to do poor work?”
Amy: “People don’t look at it in that way.”
Ouch! That is a mortal wound to the heart.
I also find it funny that Reardon uses the Odyssey as an example of something that “was not written at so many pages a day...” We know so little about how the Odyssey was composed. I suppose it’s easy to romanticize the past. This book is helping erase some romantic ideas of the 19th century!
We surmise now that the Iliad and Odyssey were passed down through generations in the oral tradition. That’s why there’s so much repetition. Who knows if Homer even authored any part or pulled them together? Yes, musing about poems that probably took hundreds of years to write is a hard act to follow. But Amy and Reardon’s shared love of literature is lovely.
So many versions of writer's block in this chapter-that wanting to run toward other ideas (and not finishing anything); wondering if killing oneself would be more merciful to others; Amy's saying that he was too attached to descriptions of his own despair--difficult indeed to read, but it feels true. (And also feels like Gissing himself trying to fill up this volume to send off to to the publisher! Was he trying to passively-aggressively give some message to his publisher?)
But in the end, the writing process described, that investing of oneself, seems real in a way that is rare to find. This chapter is peculiar and valuable to that end. There are even moments of beauty Reardon and Amy share. She cares that he cares about what he is crafting. But to make a living.....I guess that is part of the overall subject explored so far.
I was also "impressed" with Readon's work schedule. Possibly the best the description of work in the “Culture Industry” ((Adorno/Horkheimer) - and a percent description of how we work today:
The ordering of his day was thus. At nine, after breakfast, he sat down to his desk, and worked till one. Then came dinner, followed by a walk. As a rule he could not allow Amy to walk with him, for he had to think over the remainder of the day’s toil, and companionship would have been fatal. At about half-past three he again seated himself, and wrote until half-past six, when he had a meal. Then once more to work from half-past seven to ten.
That "companionship would have been fatal" part pierced me. It is so true; when I am pulled from my inner world into the outer world, it is almost impossible for me to return until the following morning. And yet, too much isolation can be crippling.
Suddenly back in a MFA program today! Reardon's awkward mouthfuls of phrasings -- 'took a book with a look...' and 'A revision of a decision...' and resorting to dialogue to fill pages and clinging to the Odyssey to show him the way. I think all writers read intensely at some point, if not for all their lives, but reading intensively, thoughtfully, and thoroughly, does not make you a writer.
I found that to be true. Writing my first novel, I realized that all the reading that came before had not taught me how to do it. Only struggling with the process did that, though I did start to notice craft much more when I read. Nor did I really learn to ride the bike with that first one. It's been like learning all over again each time.
i'm working on my second novel (first unpublished, 2 agents were curious enough to read it) and I read quite differently now having written fiction. There's more 'clicking' when I see how something works.
Today, I'm drawn to Gissing's use of repetition: "A sign of exhaustion, it of course made exhaustion more complete." And "It was a fraction of the whole, a fraction, a fraction."
As an aside..."On an average he could write four such slips a day; so here we have fifteen days for the volume, and forty-five for the completed book." Who in the hell writes a book in 45 days?!?!?
interesting, but I just came across a fun fact. If Wikipedia and associated footnotes is to be believed, a contemporary writer, Shuang Xuetao (whose story, "Heart," in the Oct 2, 2023 New Yorker, skillfully translated by Jeremy Tiang) "wrote his first novel, Gargoyle in just 20 days, winning an award". And this was 60,000 words in Chinese!
It's a great phrase and sentence: "At times he was on the border-land of imbecility; his mind looked into a cloudy chaos, a shapeless whirl of nothings."
Agreed. Sometimes I wonder whether it is the "cloudy chaos" and "shapeless whirl of nothings" that opens a space for creativity, art, and novelty - in the ways we see, shape, and engage the world. "Imbecility" feels (at times) like a construct of confusion created to establish conditions of conformity; those that choose - or simply cannot abide by "normalcy" - are often "othered" and/or pushed toward a categorization of "madness."
Gissing captures the pitfalls of the writing process in a few deft phrases: "But scarcely had he done a chapter or two when all the structure fell into flatness... At times he was on the border-land of imbecility; his mind looked into a cloudy chaos... Sometimes three hours' labour of a morning resulted in half a dozen lines, corrected into illegibility." Meanwhile, Amy rightly observes "We can't live in solitude... though really we are not far from it."
The really gutting line, for me, though, was this one: "Even now he did not believe that Amy loved him with the old love, and the suspicion was like a cold weight at his heart that to retain even her wifely sympathy, her wedded tenderness, he must achieve the impossible."
I feel the key to their happiness is Edwin's appeal: "If I try to be cheerful, in spite of natural dumps, wouldn't it be fair for you to put aside thoughts of money?" (and his stature in the world too). And she agrees, leading to their pleasant evening of Homer. I'm not sure either can do it in the long term, though.
Was Reardon translating on the spot for her? Seems so. I think that proficiency was assumed more in Gissing’s time than now. (Sadly.)
"Every now and then Reardon looked up from his translating with a delighted laugh, in which Amy joined."
A beautiful moment between them.....
And those bubbles percolate at night and pop if I wait until morning!
'Edwin, if you find you are unable to do good work, you mustn't do bad. We must think of some other way of making a living.'
Essential advice from a wife to her husband.
It's hard to imagine how Reardon can get any writing done. Anyone's imagination would be locked up if they were tortured by the chiming of the hours throughout the night ("...that of the Marylebone parish church, and that of the adjoining workhouse; the latter always sounded several minutes after it's ecclesiastical neighbor...") His schedule intones drudgery. He contemplates suicide down to the details!
We also got to see how Edwin and Amy overreact to each other, even as they are trying to enjoy some intimate time - "He had learnt that Amy was not to be told the whole truth about anything as he himself saw it. It was a pity." And Amy is worried about the reviews and what other people think - "... but other people, our friends, read it. That's the worst." Thus even his imagined success is a source of anxiety. Eek.
Yay, an inspiring chapter title... for a rather mundane, (relatable) chapter. Reminded of how the book trade has changed. Edwin can still believe part of his book collection can be resold profitably, an illusion these days.
“Read some Homer, dear. . . Oh, I like that!” Reardon is not reading translations. He’s so educated. Should be able to teach or tutor for extra funds. But in those times, I think educators were also impoverished.
Love the idea of writing without reading being like a nursing mother unable to nourish herself!
Reardon: “Can’t you console yourself with the thought that I am not contemptible, though I may have been forced to do poor work?”
Amy: “People don’t look at it in that way.”
Ouch! That is a mortal wound to the heart.
I also find it funny that Reardon uses the Odyssey as an example of something that “was not written at so many pages a day...” We know so little about how the Odyssey was composed. I suppose it’s easy to romanticize the past. This book is helping erase some romantic ideas of the 19th century!
We surmise now that the Iliad and Odyssey were passed down through generations in the oral tradition. That’s why there’s so much repetition. Who knows if Homer even authored any part or pulled them together? Yes, musing about poems that probably took hundreds of years to write is a hard act to follow. But Amy and Reardon’s shared love of literature is lovely.
So many versions of writer's block in this chapter-that wanting to run toward other ideas (and not finishing anything); wondering if killing oneself would be more merciful to others; Amy's saying that he was too attached to descriptions of his own despair--difficult indeed to read, but it feels true. (And also feels like Gissing himself trying to fill up this volume to send off to to the publisher! Was he trying to passively-aggressively give some message to his publisher?)
But in the end, the writing process described, that investing of oneself, seems real in a way that is rare to find. This chapter is peculiar and valuable to that end. There are even moments of beauty Reardon and Amy share. She cares that he cares about what he is crafting. But to make a living.....I guess that is part of the overall subject explored so far.
I was also "impressed" with Readon's work schedule. Possibly the best the description of work in the “Culture Industry” ((Adorno/Horkheimer) - and a percent description of how we work today:
The ordering of his day was thus. At nine, after breakfast, he sat down to his desk, and worked till one. Then came dinner, followed by a walk. As a rule he could not allow Amy to walk with him, for he had to think over the remainder of the day’s toil, and companionship would have been fatal. At about half-past three he again seated himself, and wrote until half-past six, when he had a meal. Then once more to work from half-past seven to ten.
That "companionship would have been fatal" part pierced me. It is so true; when I am pulled from my inner world into the outer world, it is almost impossible for me to return until the following morning. And yet, too much isolation can be crippling.
Suddenly back in a MFA program today! Reardon's awkward mouthfuls of phrasings -- 'took a book with a look...' and 'A revision of a decision...' and resorting to dialogue to fill pages and clinging to the Odyssey to show him the way. I think all writers read intensely at some point, if not for all their lives, but reading intensively, thoughtfully, and thoroughly, does not make you a writer.
I found that to be true. Writing my first novel, I realized that all the reading that came before had not taught me how to do it. Only struggling with the process did that, though I did start to notice craft much more when I read. Nor did I really learn to ride the bike with that first one. It's been like learning all over again each time.
i'm working on my second novel (first unpublished, 2 agents were curious enough to read it) and I read quite differently now having written fiction. There's more 'clicking' when I see how something works.
Today, I'm drawn to Gissing's use of repetition: "A sign of exhaustion, it of course made exhaustion more complete." And "It was a fraction of the whole, a fraction, a fraction."
As an aside..."On an average he could write four such slips a day; so here we have fifteen days for the volume, and forty-five for the completed book." Who in the hell writes a book in 45 days?!?!?
interesting, but I just came across a fun fact. If Wikipedia and associated footnotes is to be believed, a contemporary writer, Shuang Xuetao (whose story, "Heart," in the Oct 2, 2023 New Yorker, skillfully translated by Jeremy Tiang) "wrote his first novel, Gargoyle in just 20 days, winning an award". And this was 60,000 words in Chinese!
Would that I could!
Someone who is desperate for money!
Makes me think of NaNoWriMo.
Captivated by the oddly vivid phrase: "borderland of imbecility." Hmmm. Not sure what that says about me.
It's a great phrase and sentence: "At times he was on the border-land of imbecility; his mind looked into a cloudy chaos, a shapeless whirl of nothings."
Agreed. Sometimes I wonder whether it is the "cloudy chaos" and "shapeless whirl of nothings" that opens a space for creativity, art, and novelty - in the ways we see, shape, and engage the world. "Imbecility" feels (at times) like a construct of confusion created to establish conditions of conformity; those that choose - or simply cannot abide by "normalcy" - are often "othered" and/or pushed toward a categorization of "madness."
Gissing captures the pitfalls of the writing process in a few deft phrases: "But scarcely had he done a chapter or two when all the structure fell into flatness... At times he was on the border-land of imbecility; his mind looked into a cloudy chaos... Sometimes three hours' labour of a morning resulted in half a dozen lines, corrected into illegibility." Meanwhile, Amy rightly observes "We can't live in solitude... though really we are not far from it."
The really gutting line, for me, though, was this one: "Even now he did not believe that Amy loved him with the old love, and the suspicion was like a cold weight at his heart that to retain even her wifely sympathy, her wedded tenderness, he must achieve the impossible."
I feel the key to their happiness is Edwin's appeal: "If I try to be cheerful, in spite of natural dumps, wouldn't it be fair for you to put aside thoughts of money?" (and his stature in the world too). And she agrees, leading to their pleasant evening of Homer. I'm not sure either can do it in the long term, though.