A short chapter of misery, which reminds me of a line from an ancient Chinese poem. A direct translation would mean: a husband and a wife in poverty live with a hundred woes.
Reardon, without real talent, writes with such hatred and contempt. One wishes that he had never thought of becoming a writer. At least nowadays the thought of supporting a family with writing alone is a fairy tale.
If anyone wants to write for money or fame or success, Reardon should be a cautionary tale. The only thing that makes writing a worthwhile pursuit is the joy one gets out of putting words together.
Join us on December 13 for a virtual discussion of New Grub Street with Yiyun Li.
Possible title for this chapter (instead of "Respite" - too cheery): Past Happiness — Reardon's reflections — my reflections — authors making headlines elsewhere. Would I rather read the news of then or of now?
Many years ago I read in the introduction of my now well-worn dog-eared broken-spined Signet Clasics version of War and Peace that that novel is actually more about marriage than anything else. That seems to be true of New Grub Street as well.
"At six o'clock she showed her face in the doorway and asked if he would come to tea. 'Thank you,' he replied, 'I had rather stay here.' 'As you please.' And he sat alone until about nine."
The fool. He should have accepted her bid for kindness and reconciliation rather than wallowing in self-pity for misfortune of his own making.