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.
Me, too! Edwin is so cowed by Amy - "He drew away, and came to a position once he could see her face, but kept at a distance." Like she might bite! Amy says, "You are much weaker than I imagined." And he admits to it, So she goes on with, "but don’t you feel it’s rather unmanly, the state of things?“
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."
The description of Amy is splendid. The whole scene brings Picasso to my mind. For me, Amy and Reardon are a lot more interesting than the others. "It was a magnificently clear-cut bust; one thought, in looking at her, of the newly-finished head which some honest sculptor has wrought with his own hand from the marble block; there was a suggestion of 'planes' and of the chisel. The atmosphere was cold; ruddiness would have been quite out of place on her cheeks, and a flush must have been the rarest thing there. Her age was not quite two-and-twenty; she had been wedded nearly two years, and had a child ten months old."
Yes, a striking description: "a slight turn of her head showed splendid muscles from the ear downward." I had to stop and think if I have ever noticed that part of the head.
Also: "with short hair and appropriate clothing, she would have passed unquestioned as a handsome boy of seventeen, a spirited boy too, and one much in the habit of giving orders to inferiors." Intriguing. She is not so easily categorized.
This was a tough chapter to read, laying bare for us all the realities of professional writing, of the sad places having to earn a living can take us, and of the pains of marriage before feminism opened up the pathway for women to contribute to family incomes. We may rail at Amy, but she is powerless in this marriage and only has the gift of persuasion to help put food on the table. And poor Reardon, wanting to produce quality when the world demands quantity.
So glaringly true! Amy does not mince words: "I don't mean to speak unkindly, dear. But think what it means, to give up our home and position. That is open confession of failure."
Amy, a name that has come down to the present. Though I know a Jasper and a Maud, (though no Doras), but what's in a name? A seeming mismatch (at least in my mind) with Edwin.
I'm also wondering about what fashionable neighborhood they live in, and what type of author could afford a penthouse in late 19th century England.
I'm assuming Gissing hobnobbed with writers, and the notes in my edition suggest that he was the same age as Edwin (mid-30s), so is this novel, a show of self-recognition, or could he also have been parodying friends?
I certainly hew to reading what has been called "literary" whatever. But I think this line between the "popular" novel that sells and the literary novel that is for its own sake has become blurred. There used to be genres that were banished from the "literary" club, like science fiction. Many years ago I read Stephen King dismissed as the McDonslds of novelists. Now I see him reviewed in the New York Times (I'I've never read him as I prefer realism). Maybe publishers have abetted this as they like to sell more rather than less books in the aggregate. But I think we've come to realize that writing fiction that observes the masses is itself an art not just a trade. Otherwise, it's amazing how little has changed in publishing
I fully support the blurring of lines. I read Skeleton Crew when I was just beginning to write. Observing how King cut scenes when he’d fully hooked his reader, then reinvested that capital in a new scene? It was a master class in managing reader attention for a novice writer.
Is Reardan simply suffering from "the perfect is the enemy of the good"? Is his ego the problem? Is he afraid of being seen as an imposter? At one point he says , "no, that is the unpardonable sin! To make a trade of an art! I am rightly served for attempting such a brutal folly." Yet Edwin admits that there may only be a few people who would make that judgment - "... what ludicrous absurdity to fret myself in the hope that half-a-dozen folks will say I am "above the average"
It's pitiful to watch Edwin suffering in the sway of cold Amy "I am utterly dependent upon you. Your kindness is the breath of life to me. Don't refuse it!" - Edwin is on one elusive path - to simultaneously please Amy and pursue literary worthiness - which has him locked up ("...his brain refused to construct the simplest sentence.") Amy is unconflicted - disappointed but single-minded
To the writers in the group: is writing something that too often begins as a passion or a calling and then becomes just a job, and a very demanding one? Does the commercial success or failure of your early work make that transition more likely? That seems to be the case for poor Reardon. I suppose that in any endeavour keeping the flame alive is a challenge but in the arts, it’s particularly difficult.
I can’t speak for the writers, but the theme of the second novel not coming is common. A really fun version of that trope is "The Information" by Martin Amos.
Love the points made in all of these comments, and loved the up-closeness of this chapter. Edwin asking Amy to share his suffering, a sideways attempt at blame: “If only you will give me more sympathy, dearest.”
Whoops, posted prematurely. Obviously Amy is not responsible for Edwin’s “failure,” but to what extent ARE we responsible for one another, if we purport to care? Some interesting ideas about marriage/companionship/accountability in this chapter.
Agreed! The various takes on this Achillies choice is terrific. What does Reardon want? Recognition/glory on HIS terms. Art is a self expression so rejection is powerfully ego deflating. What price will he pay to be the kind of artist he sees himself as? If he sells out he gets a peaceful family life, if he goes for the glory - recognition he wants (ego) - his family could starve. Of course these are extremes but on some level they are similar choices people make every day. There may come a time that may push him over the edge: i.e. a sick child. Will he sell out or leave them to pursue his dream? Who knows?
Amy employs a bit of passive-aggressive feminine wiles, as “her lips … drew in a little” and she proclaims, “You are much weaker than I imagined. Difficulties crush you, instead of rousing you to struggle.” Indeed, Amy with her “face … not of distinctly feminine type” may "pass unquestioned" as a “spirited boy … in the habit of giving orders to inferiors.” It appears it is Amy’s role to “rouse” [her husband] to “struggle.” Indeed, Amy frames the essence of Reardon’s current state in a singular proclamation: “Unmanly!”
Gissling’s “play” with gender is interesting. Reardon’s rejoinder to Amy’s “friendly remonstrance”: “You were proud of me … I had never written a line that was meant to attract the vulgar." Reardon's "wistful" plea for validation, contrasts with the "cold" certitude of Amy's pragmatism. Hmmm.
Gissing’s word pairings envelop Reardon and evocatively capture his tormented soul: “Morbid conscientiousness”/ “unpardonable sin” (to make a trade of art)/ “brutal folly” / “passion of misery”/ “contemptible triviality” / “pained perpetuity” / “vulgar readers” / “anguish of hopelessness." Indeed, Reardon is “at the mercy of [his] brain” yet, sadly “it is dry and powerless.”
"How I envy those clerks who go by to their offices in the morning!" How about the writers who go to offices, like Kafka, Wallace Stevens, and more recently Jeffrey Eugenides writing chunks of Virgin Suicides in a fake email in his nonprofit job. Oh Reardon, even the sometime-snob in me finds very little sympathy for you.
"[W]hy not give yourself a week to invent a sensational plot, and then a fortnight for the writing," says Amy, who has clearly never tried to write a short story. Please. She obviously doesn't know that it can take years to write a decent short story. (Speaking for a friend!)
Amy says: “You are much weaker than I imagined. Difficulties crush you instead of causing you to struggle.” Wow! Brutal. But true.
Pressure, shame, fear, market, production - the enemies of creativity.
Reardon’s suffering in this chapter from writing out of vocation or calling instead of trade seems tragically relatable for any artist. The stakes are much higher.
Amy: “If I had to choose between a glorious reputation with poverty and a contemptible popularity with wealth, I should choose the latter.” That does seem to be the question of the first few chapters.
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.
Me, too! Edwin is so cowed by Amy - "He drew away, and came to a position once he could see her face, but kept at a distance." Like she might bite! Amy says, "You are much weaker than I imagined." And he admits to it, So she goes on with, "but don’t you feel it’s rather unmanly, the state of things?“
I’m enjoying the historical perspective on literary vs genre fiction.
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."
The description of Amy is splendid. The whole scene brings Picasso to my mind. For me, Amy and Reardon are a lot more interesting than the others. "It was a magnificently clear-cut bust; one thought, in looking at her, of the newly-finished head which some honest sculptor has wrought with his own hand from the marble block; there was a suggestion of 'planes' and of the chisel. The atmosphere was cold; ruddiness would have been quite out of place on her cheeks, and a flush must have been the rarest thing there. Her age was not quite two-and-twenty; she had been wedded nearly two years, and had a child ten months old."
I flagged this too. I like the description of the other characters but I though this one so perfectly captured her inner self.
Yes, a striking description: "a slight turn of her head showed splendid muscles from the ear downward." I had to stop and think if I have ever noticed that part of the head.
Also: "with short hair and appropriate clothing, she would have passed unquestioned as a handsome boy of seventeen, a spirited boy too, and one much in the habit of giving orders to inferiors." Intriguing. She is not so easily categorized.
This was a tough chapter to read, laying bare for us all the realities of professional writing, of the sad places having to earn a living can take us, and of the pains of marriage before feminism opened up the pathway for women to contribute to family incomes. We may rail at Amy, but she is powerless in this marriage and only has the gift of persuasion to help put food on the table. And poor Reardon, wanting to produce quality when the world demands quantity.
Yet Amy is in no mood for sacrifice of status
So glaringly true! Amy does not mince words: "I don't mean to speak unkindly, dear. But think what it means, to give up our home and position. That is open confession of failure."
Amy, a name that has come down to the present. Though I know a Jasper and a Maud, (though no Doras), but what's in a name? A seeming mismatch (at least in my mind) with Edwin.
I'm also wondering about what fashionable neighborhood they live in, and what type of author could afford a penthouse in late 19th century England.
I'm assuming Gissing hobnobbed with writers, and the notes in my edition suggest that he was the same age as Edwin (mid-30s), so is this novel, a show of self-recognition, or could he also have been parodying friends?
I certainly hew to reading what has been called "literary" whatever. But I think this line between the "popular" novel that sells and the literary novel that is for its own sake has become blurred. There used to be genres that were banished from the "literary" club, like science fiction. Many years ago I read Stephen King dismissed as the McDonslds of novelists. Now I see him reviewed in the New York Times (I'I've never read him as I prefer realism). Maybe publishers have abetted this as they like to sell more rather than less books in the aggregate. But I think we've come to realize that writing fiction that observes the masses is itself an art not just a trade. Otherwise, it's amazing how little has changed in publishing
I fully support the blurring of lines. I read Skeleton Crew when I was just beginning to write. Observing how King cut scenes when he’d fully hooked his reader, then reinvested that capital in a new scene? It was a master class in managing reader attention for a novice writer.
Yes! I think this division between genre and literary is becoming arbitrary.
Is Reardan simply suffering from "the perfect is the enemy of the good"? Is his ego the problem? Is he afraid of being seen as an imposter? At one point he says , "no, that is the unpardonable sin! To make a trade of an art! I am rightly served for attempting such a brutal folly." Yet Edwin admits that there may only be a few people who would make that judgment - "... what ludicrous absurdity to fret myself in the hope that half-a-dozen folks will say I am "above the average"
It's pitiful to watch Edwin suffering in the sway of cold Amy "I am utterly dependent upon you. Your kindness is the breath of life to me. Don't refuse it!" - Edwin is on one elusive path - to simultaneously please Amy and pursue literary worthiness - which has him locked up ("...his brain refused to construct the simplest sentence.") Amy is unconflicted - disappointed but single-minded
To the writers in the group: is writing something that too often begins as a passion or a calling and then becomes just a job, and a very demanding one? Does the commercial success or failure of your early work make that transition more likely? That seems to be the case for poor Reardon. I suppose that in any endeavour keeping the flame alive is a challenge but in the arts, it’s particularly difficult.
I can’t speak for the writers, but the theme of the second novel not coming is common. A really fun version of that trope is "The Information" by Martin Amos.
Love the points made in all of these comments, and loved the up-closeness of this chapter. Edwin asking Amy to share his suffering, a sideways attempt at blame: “If only you will give me more sympathy, dearest.”
Whoops, posted prematurely. Obviously Amy is not responsible for Edwin’s “failure,” but to what extent ARE we responsible for one another, if we purport to care? Some interesting ideas about marriage/companionship/accountability in this chapter.
Agreed! The various takes on this Achillies choice is terrific. What does Reardon want? Recognition/glory on HIS terms. Art is a self expression so rejection is powerfully ego deflating. What price will he pay to be the kind of artist he sees himself as? If he sells out he gets a peaceful family life, if he goes for the glory - recognition he wants (ego) - his family could starve. Of course these are extremes but on some level they are similar choices people make every day. There may come a time that may push him over the edge: i.e. a sick child. Will he sell out or leave them to pursue his dream? Who knows?
Amy employs a bit of passive-aggressive feminine wiles, as “her lips … drew in a little” and she proclaims, “You are much weaker than I imagined. Difficulties crush you, instead of rousing you to struggle.” Indeed, Amy with her “face … not of distinctly feminine type” may "pass unquestioned" as a “spirited boy … in the habit of giving orders to inferiors.” It appears it is Amy’s role to “rouse” [her husband] to “struggle.” Indeed, Amy frames the essence of Reardon’s current state in a singular proclamation: “Unmanly!”
Gissling’s “play” with gender is interesting. Reardon’s rejoinder to Amy’s “friendly remonstrance”: “You were proud of me … I had never written a line that was meant to attract the vulgar." Reardon's "wistful" plea for validation, contrasts with the "cold" certitude of Amy's pragmatism. Hmmm.
Gissing’s word pairings envelop Reardon and evocatively capture his tormented soul: “Morbid conscientiousness”/ “unpardonable sin” (to make a trade of art)/ “brutal folly” / “passion of misery”/ “contemptible triviality” / “pained perpetuity” / “vulgar readers” / “anguish of hopelessness." Indeed, Reardon is “at the mercy of [his] brain” yet, sadly “it is dry and powerless.”
"How I envy those clerks who go by to their offices in the morning!" How about the writers who go to offices, like Kafka, Wallace Stevens, and more recently Jeffrey Eugenides writing chunks of Virgin Suicides in a fake email in his nonprofit job. Oh Reardon, even the sometime-snob in me finds very little sympathy for you.
"[W]hy not give yourself a week to invent a sensational plot, and then a fortnight for the writing," says Amy, who has clearly never tried to write a short story. Please. She obviously doesn't know that it can take years to write a decent short story. (Speaking for a friend!)
Amy says: “You are much weaker than I imagined. Difficulties crush you instead of causing you to struggle.” Wow! Brutal. But true.
Pressure, shame, fear, market, production - the enemies of creativity.
Reardon’s suffering in this chapter from writing out of vocation or calling instead of trade seems tragically relatable for any artist. The stakes are much higher.
Amy: “If I had to choose between a glorious reputation with poverty and a contemptible popularity with wealth, I should choose the latter.” That does seem to be the question of the first few chapters.