The much discussed Edwin Reardon in the previous chapters takes the stage: in his miserable, pitiful state, he speaks many true anxieties of writers, loud and clear.
“You can’t afford to hate it… you must write for the market now.”
In one sense, Amy Reardon is so ruthlessly right about the situation. I can’t decide if it feels more horrible or more comforting that the market has always been that shark threatening to devour the souls of writers.
An incompatible marriage: one winces when hearing Amy’s advice to Edwin—“But the plot may be as silly as you like, providing it holds the attention of vulgar readers.” “What does the subject matter? Get this book finished and sold.” And one sighs to hear Edwin’s thought: “Though knowing my work can’t be first-rate—I strive to make it as good as possible.”
Join us on December 13 for a virtual discussion of New Grub Street with Yiyun Li.
The relationship between Amy and Reardon is painful to read. She seems both cold and commited to him. I also was reminded how "sensational plots" have always been part of the distinguishing line between genre and "less vulgar" literary material. And Reardon is literally wandering around in the dark at the end of this chapter looking for characters, motivations, and situations. Anything but "plot."
I sympathize with this pained writer who can't find it in himself to go below his own standards of "art," who seems to be getting in his own way more than the art itself. And then he also totally annoys me.
The arrival of elevators must have made the uppermost floors most expensive everywhere. "Eight flights of stairs, consisting alternately of eight and nine steps. Amy had made the calculation, and wondered what was the cause of this arrangement. The ascent was trying, but then no one could contest the respectability of the abode. In the flat immediately beneath resided a successful musician."