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THE CRITIC AS CRITIC |
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A Portfolio of
Theatre and Book Reviews |
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No 48 : JANUARY / FEBRUARY
2009
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Wilde theatre
reviews appear here; Shaw reviews in Shavings;
all other theatre reviews in . |
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Exhibition reviews
and reviews of books relating to the visual arts now appear in our new
section VISIONS which is reached by clicking its symbol |
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All authors whose
books are reviewed here are invited to respond. This page is edited by D.C. Rose and Anna
Vaninskaya. |
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·
In an article for THE OSCHOLARS which she titled ‘Wilde on Tap’, Patricia Flanagan Behrendt, our American Editor, set out an agenda for our theatre coverage
that we
will try to follow. This article can
be found by clicking . |
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To the Table of Contents of this page | To hub page | To THE OSCHOLARS home page |
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WILDE REVIEWS
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Florina
Tufescu: Oscar Wilde’s Plagiarism. The
Triumph of Art over Ego. Irish Academic Press: Dublin / Portland, Oregon,
2008. ISBN 978 0 7165 2904 0 |
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Florina
Tufescu’s book is a most enjoyable read written with a certain passionate
brilliance, demonstrating the most important talent of good teachers, i.e.
never to bore their audience. I enjoyed reading the book, and I can
wholeheartedly recommend it to all admirers of Oscar Wilde. It is full of the
light-handed wit and spirit of provocation the great Oscar is famous for. |
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And yet,
having been brought up on the sobering diet of German philology myself, I
feel I must suppress my stylistic admiration in order to formulate a serious,
and one or two minor, objection(s). First of all, I object to the use of the
term ‘plagiarism’ in the title of the book. Honestly, I fail to discover one
single case of plagiarism in the legal
sense of the word in Tufescu’s discussion of Wilde’s works. Tufescu talks
about nothing but ‘intertextuality’, as far as I can see. She uses the term ‘plagiarism’
in a metaphorical sense, perhaps
because it sounds so much more sensational than ‘intertextuality’. And ever
since Bakhtin pointed out the polyphony in Dostoevsky’s novels, Tufescu’s
so-called ‘plagiarism’ has become one of the commonest perspectives for
analyzing literature. (So why does Bakhtin not even figure in the
bibliography of this well-documented book?)
At several instances the author reduces her hyperbolic usage of the
legal term ‘plagiarism’ in order to put it back into the context of modern
literary studies, e.g.: ‘Explicit derivativeness – or what would today be
termed ‘hyper/inter/textuality’, ‘palimpsest writing’, ‘writing in the second
degree’, metafiction’ – has become not merely tolerated, but canonical’
(151). On the other hand, Tufescu protests against the legal use of ‘plagiarism’ as a means of protecting the writers’
copyright. Well, I prefer to disagree, and I am sure Oscar Wilde would have
protested if one of his works had been published under another writer’s name,
even if it had been only because of the loss in royalties. So, summing up my
personal opinion, I would say: Tufescu’s book is a valuable study in the
field of intertextuality but brilliant nonsense in its attack against the
legalization of copyright. |
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There are
some minor details I do not appreciate, like Tufescu’s attempt to stylize
Mrs. Cheveley into the role of an ‘agitator’ and ‘agent of progress’ in the
sense used in ‘The Soul of Man under Socialism’ (104). One might blame Oscar
for casting the poor woman in the worn-out role of a kleptomaniac but Mrs.
Cheveley who enjoys a solid reputation in Vienna (according to Robert
Chiltern’s Austrian sources ‘she occupies a rather high position in society’)
does not try to overthrow the social order, far from it. |
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If my
objections to Tufescu’s useful (and often brilliant) book sound a little
blunt this should be attributed to my old-fashioned (or, rather,
pre-Derridan) terminology. I hate to see how everywhere the differences
between metaphorical and literal usage of terms get blurred. And I hope that
Oscar Wilde’s seminal passages on language criticism in ‘The Soul of Man
under Socialism’ shall never be forgotten. |
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·
Professor Dr. phil. habil. Rainer Kohlmayer teaches at the Johannes
Gutenberg-Universität Mainz-Germersheim.
For his writings on Wilde, see our BIBLIOGRAPHIES. |
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Criticism is perhaps ‘the
only civilised form of autobiography’, so it seems fitting that Professor
Kohlmayer’s review should disclose his scepticism towards post-Bakhtinian
trends, his indifference – or is it resistance? – to Derrida and even
something of his intellectual history.
All of this is as remote from the questions raised in my book as
plagiarism from the possibility of legal meaning. |
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The study does not protest
against ‘the legalisation of copyright’, which would indeed be nonsensical
and a few centuries out of date, only against its continued extension in
scope and length (currently author’s lifetime+70 years).[1] It also suggests there is a connection
between the excesses of copyright legislation and litigation and the
plagiarism obsession: both stem from a lack of generosity, from the refusal
to acknowledge the essentially collaborative nature of artistic and indeed of
all intellectual endeavour. |
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Plagiarism, that
disenchanting enchanted word, derives its emotional and imaginative power
from its ambivalence, which means that plagiarism scandals often turn into
debates over artistic and scholarly values. (Intertextuality is a
comparatively polite and uninspiring term that lacks historic resonance and is
used almost exclusively by academics.) The story substantiated in my book is
that ‘Oscar Wilde plagiarised Pater who plagiarised Baudelaire who
plagiarised Poe who plagiarised Coleridge and their thefts begot Joyce, Gide,
Borges et al.’. Counter-romantic writers engaged in
provocative textual games that thwarted the readers’ expectations of
originality and sincerity, re-affirming the significance of tradition and of
artistic restraint. Some
even wrote apologies of plagiarism, a scandalous banner for the nuanced
return to classical values, as apparent, for instance, in Mark Twain’s
definition of plagiarism as ‘the soul…of all human utterances’. |
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In The Portrait of Mr. W.H., Wilde fuses together sentences from a
range of critical texts to produce his thoroughly modern theory of the
sonnets; such creative transformation of sources is polemically modelled on
that of Shakespeare, the arch-plagiarist and the pre-eminent English
playwright. In An Ideal Husband, to turn to the one interpretation which caught
Professor Kohlmayer’s attention, Wilde pays tribute to his own genius through
the creation of Mrs. Cheveley. ‘A work of art, on the whole, but showing
the influence of too many schools’, she is a flamboyant portrait of the
artist as plagiarist who is allowed to leave the stage in triumph, with the
stolen brooch/bracelet still on her arm, looking ‘much better’ than on its
previous owner. Mrs. Cheveley’s high standing in Viennese society should no
more prevent her from becoming a truly subversive character than it prevented
the Czarevitch in Wilde’s Vera from
becoming a Nihilist or Oscar Wilde himself, the autocrat of London dinner
tables, from planting the most dangerous ideas in the minds of listeners past
and present. |
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NOTE (1) |
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Irish Academic Press are offering a 20% special offer
discount available for Oscholars. Postage and packing: Ireland €4.50; UK £2.50; Eurozone €5; RoW £3.50;
North America $5.50. Please contact Toby Harris toby.harris@vmbooks.com; T: +44 (0)20 8952 9526; F: +44 (0)20 8952
9242 and quote OSFT09. Alternatively, please click here to find an order form to print out. Offer lasts until 30/04/2009 |
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Contents |
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Acknowledgments |
5. ‘Plagiarist: A Writer of Plays’: The Spectacle of Criticism in Nineteenth-Century Drama |
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1. Is Oscar Wilde a Plagiarist? Four Answers and a Biased Opinion |
6. Out of ‘The Prison-House of Realism’ and into ‘The Garden of Forking Paths’: The Plagiarists Goethe, Wilde and D.M. Thomas |
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2. Plagiarism: A Decadent Tradition |
7. Let Us Plagiarize Wildely |
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3. The Art of Collage from Wilde to T.S. Eliot and W.B. Yeats. |
Appendix: Annotated List of Likely and Confirmed Sources for The Portrait of Mr. W.H. |
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4. Decadent (and Shakespearean) Versus Romantic Originality: Shaw’s Dark Lady, Wilde’s W.H., Joyce’s Ulysses. |
Bibliography |
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NOTE (2) |
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By kind permission of author and publishers, we are posting Chapter 1 in our LIBRARY. Please click here. |
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Oscar Wilde: The Women of Homer. Edited by Thomas Wright and Donald
Mead. The Oscar Wilde Society
2008. ISBN 987-0-9560120-05-5. 103pp.
£30.00. Edition limited to 130 copies,
of which 100 are for sale from the Society, www.oscarwildesociety.co.uk. |
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This is a difficult book to review, for, like The Portrait of W.H., it is not one book but many. At the heart of it lies an essay by John Addington Symonds called ‘The Women of Homer’, a survey of the heroines of The Iliad and The Odyssey. This was published in Symonds’ Studies of the Greek Poets (Second Series) in May 1876. The book was taken for review by Wilde, but what Wilde wrote was neither published nor, indeed, completed. It is the history of the fairly substantial fragment, confined to that chapter, that is the substance of this book, elegantly published by the Oscar Wilde Society; together with the fragment itself, reproduced for the first time in both its manuscript and subsequent typescript, and also in edited form, reconstructed from the former. This task, which entailed both a considerable knowledge of previous references and a considerable flair for presentation, has found two editors of great qualifications: Thomas Wright, who has made a speciality of investigating the making of Wilde’s intellect, and Donald Mead, well-known as the scrupulous, not to say fastidious, editor of The Wildean, the journal of the Oscar Wilde Society. |
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What then, is one to review? Not Symonds, for Wilde does that. Not Wilde, for Wright and Mead do that. Not Wright and Mead, for the work is Wilde’s. Yet something must be said, perhaps beginning with admiration for the expertise with which the work and its scholarly apparatus have been assembled. Rarely indeed does Homer nod; what matter that on p.25 the odd word ‘impractical’ has been forged out of ‘unpractical’ and ‘impracticable’, or that on p.61 the phrase ‘may be invented’ should have been ‘may have been invented’? Or that (yet this is more grave) between paragraphs 3 and 4 on page 45, a passage seems to have got lost, and has not been found for the rescension of the same passage on p.87? Or that, alone of those identified in the notes, M. Emile Burnouf should be deprived of his dates? Or that (yet this is more grave still) the editors reproduce Wilde’s (or Symonds’, or Homer’s) Greek shorn of breathing marks and diacriticals? These are but the quibbles of a reviewer who is short of faults to find. |
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What this book does reveal is the breadth of Wilde’s classical sympathies, even though these are cast in a Wardour Street English that seems to be embroidered on pieces of old brocade. ‘And Athens [surely a slip for Athene] grew wrath’, ‘sore peril’, ‘Very wrath is Isocrates’, and many similar phrases, being attempts at the high-sounding, jar on the modern ear – and must surely have jarred on many contemporary ones. But within such language is Wilde himself, evolving an æsthesia that came to fruition in Salome, only to be discarded in the Society plays. |
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There is a further revelation and it is a minatory one. ‘We are too prone nowadays,’ writes Wilde, ‘to look for similes and allegories where all is clear, and for hidden meanings where nothing is hidden’ (p.44). This is faux naïf, for Wilde’s reviewing is itself an act of uncovering; but it is also an affirmation of the autonomy of the art work, an affirmation that lies at the heart of ‘art for art’s sake’, and one that Wilde was to make again. Also, like much in Wilde, one may see even this apparently frank dictum as ambiguous. He does not say that one should not look for meanings, nor that there are no meanings, only that the meanings that may be thought to be hidden are in fact clear – for those with eyes to see, presumably, or mind to understand. Fortunately, Thomas Wright and Donald Mead are thus endowed; and the fragment that they have recovered is a valuable source in showing us Wilde’s progress. |
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· D.C. Rose is editor of THE OSCHOLARS. |
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OTHER REVIEWS OF FIN DE SIÈCLE INTEREST
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David Weir: Decadent Culture in the United States: Art and Literature against the
American Grain,1890-1926. Albany, NY: State University
of New York Press, SUNY Series, Studies in the Long Nineteenth
Century. Hb 2007; pb 2009. 256pp. ISBN 0791472787 |
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In his
compelling Decadent Culture in the
United States: Art and Literature against the American Grain, 1890-1926, David Weir notes, ‘In fin-de-siècle
America, ‘decadence’ refers at once to a period of historical decline, an
aesthetic sensibility, and a cultural movement.’ This analysis might aptly apply to a
European context, but Weir’s contribution to the story is his insistence on a
definite home-grown decadent movement in the United States. Weir argues, for
instance, that, where Continental decadents remained within the orbit of
their social class, American decadents deliberately separated themselves from
many American traditions. This is not to say that American decadent groups
did not follow and introduce European decadents (they did, particularly in
New York through the work of Edgar Saltus, Vance Thompson and James Huneker).
But Weir argues that America had not the fantasy of aristocratic decadence
(so compelling in the figure of Oscar Wilde), as it had an aesthetic movement
more domestic and female-centered than in Europe. |
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If the
contours of a decadent sensibility were in marked contrast in American and
European artists, the problem of historical decline relied heavily in the
United States on ‘The Problem of the West.’ This was an aspect so singular to
American culture that Weir can introduce a host of prophets and causes
(George Miller Beard and neurasthenia or S. Weir Mitchell and cerebral
exhaustion) to counter a closed frontier and the intensity of ‘modern
civilization.’ To many, the fall of Rome became a paradigm for America’s
historical decline. For decadents, the return to the virtues of the High
Middle Ages paralleled their strong aversion to a modern commercial society.
But in the mid-1890s, Teddy Roosevelt signaled a return to a muscular
environment and to the attraction of an imperial empire. This was the impetus
for Weir’s decadent groups to reject, not only modernity and this new
militancy, but also the moral strain so rampant in society at large. In
essence, Weir concludes, decadence became a separate cultural movement within
the United States. |
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As Weir
catalogs the interesting array of individuals within this cultural movement,
he spotlights urban centers: New York, Boston, Chicago and San Francisco. If
this information may be known to many readers, the overlying analysis proves
provocative. For Weir sets these artists as proud advocates of a ‘personal
degeneration’ aimed to set off decadent groups as superior to a bland
American culture. Yet Weir mischievously points out the anomalies within,
say, the New York band. Edgar Saltus, friend and admirer of Oscar Wilde,
adopted a ‘style of decadence’ in his novels (‘jeweled phrases…glittering
surfaces’), yet prosaically came from merchant money and married a banker’s
daughter. Saltus’s ersatz decadence and pessimism (Saltus described
Schopenhauer as ‘this Emerson in black’) never really took. Introducing the
interior monologue and the blurring of literary genres placed Saltus, Weir
concludes, as an avant-garde modernist in spite of his decadent credentials
(Wilde lauded Saltus’s work as both poisonous and perfect). |
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In
describing the Boston circle, Weir centers on Henry Adams, the author; Ralph
Adams Cram, the architect; and F. Holland Day, the photographer. It was easy
for these cohorts to rebel, for Boston was the epitome of New England
tradition and Puritanism. High Church Anglicanism, a flirtation with monarchy
and an Anglophile tradition that celebrated Wilde produced, writes Weir, ‘an
island community of cigarette-smoking, Wilde-reading decadents.’ This connection to Wilde, however, heralded
the suspect charge of homosexuality. Cram’s The Decadent and Black
Spirits and White: A Book of Ghost Stories was regarded in a negative
light by the Boston group (possibly because of the 1895 publication date of
the ghost stories, after the conviction of Wilde for ‘gross indecency’). Day would
refer to The Decadent as a ‘queer’
indiscretion, while the format of Black Spirits and White (green carnation
boards a la Wilde) suggested that decadence in Boston was a ‘euphemism for
‘homosexual.’’ Perhaps F. Holland Day, admirer of Edward Carpenter,
epitomized the decadent homoerotic inspiration among Boston’s aesthetes.
Mainstream critics attacked Copeland and Day, his publishing house, for
issuing The Yellow Book and Wilde’s
Salome (‘Publishers should
discourage authors who bring these wares’).
Even Day’s Study for Crucifixion
(where Day posed as Christ in a loin cloth on a cross) and his Symbolist nude
boy photographs, highly acclaimed artistic works, betrayed a homoerotic
proclivity. Weir concludes that these aesthetes in Boston provided an
alternative to the realism of a William Dean Howells in literary circles and
an American imperialism in politics, alternatives that heralded the pursuit
of the ‘personal degeneration’ of these decadents. |
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The Chicago
scene differed. Weir centers on Henry Blake Fuller, author of The Cliff-Dwellers (1893) and With the Procession (1895), two novels
that spotlighted another dimension to Weir’s analysis of decadent culture in
the United States. These two books, explorations of the expanding commercial
and leisure classes in Chicago, exemplify Weir’s observation that ‘decadence’
in this country can also be linked to business enterprise (‘displays of
culture to indicate social status’). Of course fellow Chicagoan Veblen enters
into this discussion, but these realistic novels bear small resemblance to
two earlier works: Chevalier of
Pensieri-Vani (1890) and The
Chatelaine of La Trinité (1892). Fuller emerged here as the virulent
critic of democracy and modernism, as a misogynist and prophet of doom. And
everywhere a decorous but blatant theme prevailed: the homosexual motif (a
one-act drama, ‘At Saint Judas’s,’ is labeled a ‘closet drama’ by Weir).
Dubbed ‘old Fuller’ in 1895 by the commercially successful journal The Chap-Book, the author slipped into
obscurity. |
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In San
Francisco, Weir warns that aesthetic culture again moved dangerously near to
commercial enterprise. Highlighting Ambrose Bierce, a successful journalist
working for William Randolph Hearst (‘among our three greatest writers,’
proclaimed William Dean Howells), Weir notes Bierce’s diatribe against Wilde
on his 1882 tour, his socialist tendencies, and his disdain for bohemianism – views certainly at odds with other
American decadents. These views, however, did not complicate Bierce’s
trajectory of ‘personal degeneration.’ The journalist, labeled a ‘pessimism
machine,’ admired Schopenhauer, compiled The
Devil’s Dictionary (1906) and wore satanic clothes (dressing in black,
carrying a loaded revolver, and displaying a human skull and box of ashes on
his desk). ‘Nothing matters,’ commented the cynic Bierce (Weir wryly labels
him ‘a bayside Baudelaire’). |
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The
mischievous enterprise that marked the San Francisco clique ends Weir’s
story. Gelett Burgess, writer of verse and parody, parlayed bohemianism into
a light-hearted raffish endeavor. Publisher of ephemeral little magazines (The Lark, Le Petit Journal des Refusées), Burgess targeted Boston decadents
(‘many a silly ass’), Philistine morality, and the publishing establishment.
And George Sterling, one of this gang, dubbed the ‘King of Bohemia’
complicates the ending survey. For Sterling was a member of the prestigious
Bohemian Club, while at the same time composing ‘A Wine of Wizardry,’ a sinister poem that
alludes to Satanism and sadism, a ‘jeweled’ effort to recount a drugged
intoxication. |
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Perhaps the
most interesting part of this book is the coda: ‘The Decadent Revival’ and
the ‘Afterword.’ Decadence made a surprising revival in the 1920s, notes
Weir. Surveying the literary scene at this time, Weir spotlights H. L
Mencken’s retrieval of Wilde as a literary genius, his praise for James
Huneker (‘unearthly,’ ‘unhealthy,’ ‘genuine gusto’) and his virulent
anti-Puritan, masculine agenda (praise of Nietzsche against a ‘feminine’ America).
This misogynist support for fin de siècle decadence paralleled the celebrity
of the young Khalil Gibran whose Prophet (1923) eventually became America’s
best selling book. Weir admits that ‘yesterday’s decadence is often today’s
popular commercial culture.’ It seems that the convoluted story of decadence
had a foreseeable end: from the fantasy and role playing of a F. Holland Day
to the slick commercialism of the shallow aphorisms of Khalil Gibran. |
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Yet Weir
surprises us. The ‘Afterword’ ties these disparate stories together in a
surprising locale: Hollywood. A nod to Ben Hecht, the screenwriter, as a
decadent novelist (Fantazius Mallare)
and the craze for Wilde’s Salome which appeared on screen in 1918 heralded
the dissipation of decadence into film and popular culture. No longer
attached to bohemian conclaves, the real decadents of the twentieth century
were the depraved movie celebrities of Hollywood in the 1920s. The literary
aristocratic decadence of the 1890s became the camp, commercial culture of
the present day. Thus ends this fascinating, engaging account. |
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In
summation, Weir’s Decadent Culture in
the United States is a lively narrative, a book of rich academic
resonance, and happily a well written, sometimes amusing story. (Weir shares
such tantalizing quotes as S. Weir Mitchell’s warning on ‘cerebral
exhaustion:’ ‘giddiness, dimness of sight, neuralgia of face or scalp.’ Symptoms, we are told, occur among
manufacturers and certain classes of railway officials (though lawyers are
less susceptible due to their ‘long summer holidays’). Or Max Nordau’s
comment on impressionist artists whose neurotic paintings ‘made their
eyeballs vibrate.’ Or the Adams
brothers on contemplating a visit to Max Nordau : ‘he seems to have had no
degenerates or hysterics of our type – fellows who know all about it but
manage to get a world of fun and some pleasure from it.’ |
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Indeed, this
book is a pleasure to read. Yet there are some obstacles for the reader. The
wealth of material and the array of actors often make a common thread hard to
follow. Weir is at home in his
literary milieu and happiest dissecting the plethora of decadent novels and
artistic cults. Not surprising, as he has a respected and innovative
background. Weir is author of Anarchy
and Culture; The Aesthetic Politics
of Modernism; Brahma in the West;
William Blake and the Oriental
Renaissance and Decadence and the
Making of Modernism, among others.
If Weir can be faulted for a somewhat disjointed analysis at times, he
might be faulted as well for leaving a larger story untold. |
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If one
widens the scope to include the entire social fabric of nineteenth-century
America, a larger and, I believe, less exclusive ‘decadent’ culture appears.
Within a greater lens, one discovers an earlier component of aesthetic
counterculture that existed in the 1870s and 1880s – the aesthetic movement
(Wilde, of course, was dubbed the Apostle of Aestheticism on his 1882
American tour). This counterculture was often peopled by women who, I fear,
receive a minor role in Weir’s analysis at large. |
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Indeed,
Weir’s sub-theme among his decadents is the undercurrent of a homosexual
affinity. But what about the lesbian groups that peopled this same bohemia?
Even a popular nineteenth century writer like Mrs. E.D.E.N. Southworth
featured cross-dressing in How He Won
Her and The Hidden Hand.
Constance Fenimore Woolson, expatriate friend of Henry James, flirted with a
lesbian decadent sensibility in her short stories (‘Filipa,’ and ‘Miss
Grief’). More prominent were women photographers at the turn of the century,
artists like Frances Benjamin Johnston and Alice Austin. Johnston‘s studios
in Washington D.C. and later New York catered to an artistic bohemian crowd.
Johnston, a lesbian, photographed herself in male clothes. She also posed as
a ‘decadent’ Victorian lady with beer mug holding uplifted skirt, and
produced prints of naked models of both sexes. Another photographer, Alice
Austin, shot daring scenes of women in bed, of ‘Trude and I Masked, Short
Skirts,’ a mirrored image of two women smoking (this mirrored image was a
known lesbian icon in turn-of-the-century European paintings). Thus another
story can be told of the women’s groups and female artists that existed in
tandem with Weir’s decadent males. |
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It can be problematic too to label ‘personal
degeneration’ as a ‘point of pride’ among (and here is Weir’s humor again)
the ‘dudes and dandies of the fin de siècle.’
Patricia J. Fanning’s Through an
Uncommon Lens: The Life and Photography of F. Holland Day (2008), for
instance, mutes the obvious degenerate doings of this well-known photographer
to emphasize the social and civic activities of Day. Weir himself understood
this problem. As Fanning might find the model citizen in Day, Weir suggests
that some canonical American artists might be closet decadents. ‘Even authors
and artists who are securely a part of the American grain,’ writes Weir,
‘might very well have the culture of decadence working within them.’ Who will take on this next story? |
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·
Mary
Warner Blanchard is an associate fellow and a member of the advisory
board at the Rutgers Center for Historical Analysis. Her book Oscar
Wilde's America, Counterculture in the
Gilded Age was published by Yale University Press in 1998. |
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Eric
Karpeles: Paintings in Proust: A Visual
Companion to ‘In Search of Lost Time’.
London: Thames & Hudson, 2008. 352 pp, with 206 illustrations,
196 in colour. £25.00. |
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When André Malraux, in 1947,
sketched out his concept of an ‘imaginary museum’, he had in mind, not merely
each person’s reference points, as in their favourite works of art, but also
the network of images which modern technology has made available, through
mass reproduction, to humanity at large. It is this hinterland which the
painter Eric Karpeles, seeks to open up, in offering a Visual Companion to
the reader of Marcel Proust’s In Search
of Lost Time. |
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In this, he has rendered an
invaluable service. The sheer range of Proust’s pictorial references is
astonishing, encompassing paintings from the Middle Ages to the early
twentieth century, not merely in terms of works studied in museums, churches
and private collections, but also as reproduced in books on art. In seeking
to form a picture of one of the major characters in Proust’s work, Charles
Swann, it is fascinating to spot the link between his principal model in real
life, Charles Haas (the standing figure on the far right of James Tissot’s
painting, The Circle of the Rue Royale
(p. 237)) and the ‘striking resemblance’ of Swann to the Magus with an
‘arched nose and fair hair’, in the fresco of The Adoration of the Magi by Bernardino Luini (p. 99). Again, to
see Botticelli’s Madonna of the
Magnificat (p. 103) jolts the reader into a new awareness of the
‘uncontrolled, almost distraught movement of the Virgin who dips her pen into
the inkpot’, to which an involuntary gesture by Swann’s lover, Odette, is
compared. Thus, as Karpeles observes, paintings penetrate into the very life
of Proust’s story (p. 21). They are indeed, for Swann, as dear as friends.
The old man with polyps on his nose, in Ghirlandaio’s Portrait of an Old Man and a Young Boy (p. 55), resembled the
Marquis du Lau, a distinguished aristocrat whom Swann cultivated in the years
before his marriage. Madame Blatin is said to be ‘the very image of that
portrait of Savonarola by Fra Bartolommeo’ (p. 93). This lavishly illustrated
Visual Companion gives a new dimension to Swann’s tendency ‘to look for
analogies between living people and the portraits in galleries’ (p. 64). |
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The analogies go much further,
however. If a bleak Parisian sky conjures up the menacing backdrop of
Veronese’s Crucifixion (p. 104),
the link between the sky of Padua outdoors and the sky of Giotto’s frescoes
in the Scrovegni Chapel interacts in such a way that ‘it seems as though the
radiant daylight has crossed the threshold with the human visitor in order to
give its pure sky a momentary breather in the coolness and shade, a sky
merely of a deeper blue now that it is rid of the glitter of the sunlight’
(p. 278). Sometimes the references are more general and allow for speculation
— always well informed, under the expert tutelage of Karpeles — in relation
to a billowing cloud over a Poussin landscape (p. 79) or the loop of a
ribbon, in a portrait by Chardin (p. 106). Particularly interesting, among
these suggested visual parallels, are Portrait
of a Woman in a Hat, by Gustave Jacquet (p. 203) and Portrait of a Lady, by Pierre-Auguste Cot (p. 294), both
little-known works of the 1870s. |
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At a broader level, this is the
art of transformation, the art which enables us to see worlds other than our
own. Françoise, in her self-appointed role as moral chaperone, watches the
Narrator’s every move with Albertine, like the figure of Justice in Prud’hon’s
Justice and Divine Vengeance Pursuing
Crime (p. 165). And Vermeer’s celebrated View of Delft (p. 235) constitutes a moment of epiphany, when
Bergotte, the elderly writer, falls ill and dies at an exhibition, while
examining a detail of the painting. There is no consensus as to the precise
identification of the detail — ‘a little patch of yellow wall’ — but Lorenzo
Renzi, in his Proust and Vermeer: An
Apologia of Imprecision (1999), argues convincingly that it is a blend of
past literary experience and direct observation of the painting. Art and life
are so inextricably interwoven in the world of Proust that it is not always
clear which imitates the other. It is for each reader-spectator to
participate in the interplay between the two. |
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While welcoming this Visual
Companion as an outstanding resource, it is important to set it in its own
clearly defined context. It is improbable that Proust expected his readers to
visualise all the references in his work, many of which are so general as to
invite a host of exemplars. More importantly, In Search of Past Time is essentially a visual novel, in which
the author moves like a somnambulist, writing with his eyes closed and
drawing on his fabulously rich ocular memory. Flaubert resisted all overtures
by publishers to bring out an illustrated edition of his Madame Bovary. He wanted each reader to visualise the work in his
or her own mind’s eye. Similarly, for Proust, what mattered was not so much
the iconic sign, in terms of the mimetic representation of the external
world, but rather the plastic sign, in terms of colour, form and material
support. In this way, a painting could, at times, replace the eye of a
spectator. |
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This gradual evolution towards
the autonomy of the image is deeply rooted in the nineteenth century and in
Mallarmé’s call to order, in relation to the materiality of painting, ‘this
art made of unguents and colours’. Whereas synaesthesia drew its strength
from the ‘fraternity of the arts’, so vigorously proclaimed in the 1830s, in
the period following the death of Delacroix in 1863 the specificity of the
different arts was what was emphasised in the reaching across generic
boundaries. Towards the end of the nineteenth century, as Karpeles states,
there was a ‘subtle shift in the balance of artistic power’: ‘visual artists
began to emerge from the tyranny of literary and historical narrative’ (p.
13). What resulted, however, was nothing less than a new world-view, in which
the image received pride of place, where what one appeared to see was as important
as what one saw, where impressions could be transformed in time and place,
and where a succession of fragments afforded a new sense of relative
continuity. On the threshold of our present world, in which the image is
dominant, this excellent Visual Companion to In Search of Lost Time
stands as a potential key to aspects of the past, while fundamentally running
counter to the primacy of subjectivity in the aesthetic universe of Proust’s
masterpiece. |
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·
Barbara Wright is
Professor of French Literature at Trinity College, Dublin. |
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·
Editor’s Note: The book is supported by an impressive website. Other articles on Proust at www.oscholars.com are by Robert Fraser,
Emily
Eells, and Mireille
Naturel. |
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REVISITING THE PAST: G. W. M. REYNOLDS REDUX |
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G. W. M. Reynolds: Nineteenth-Century Fiction,
Politics and the Press, edited by Anne Humpherys
and Louis James (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2008). £60. ISBN: 978 0 7546 5854 2 |
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Although G. W. M. Reynolds (1814–1879)
is not now a widely known name from the nineteenth century, his influence on
that century and indeed on those that followed cannot be underestimated. In
his own time, Reynolds was well known as a Chartist politician, the publisher
of a popular Sunday newspaper, Reynolds’s
Newspaper, a radical journalist and author of the most widely read
bestseller of the century, The
Mysteries of London and its sequel, The
Mysteries of the Court of London. The
Mysteries of London sold over 40,000 copies per week as a penny weekly
and over a million copies before it appeared as a bound volume. When he died,
none other than the future Prime Minister, Ramsay MacDonald, wrote Reynolds’
entry in the Dictionary of National
Biography. |
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In addition to his prodigious
literary and political work, Reynolds was a colourful figure who repeatedly
sought bankruptcy after financial problems. He painted lurid and relatively
sexually explicit views of London in his fiction and there were unsubstantiated
rumours of Reynolds perpetrating fraud. Charles Dickens, a contemporary of
Reynolds, noted in a letter to W.C. Macready in 1849 that ‘I hold his
[Reynolds’] to be a name with which no lady’s, and no gentleman’s, should be
associated.’ Given Reynolds’ background and achievements, it is perhaps
surprising then that he dropped out of view in the early-twentieth century.
Perhaps he was just too overshadowed by the ever popular and by comparison,
figure of virtue and measure, Dickens. |
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G. W. M. Reynolds: Nineteenth-Century Fiction, Politics and the
Press seeks to reacquaint a twenty-first century
audience with Reynolds by examining his achievements in politics, journalism
and editing. The book is divided into five sections, each of which takes an
aspect of Reynolds’ life or work. It begins with a biographical sketch of
Reynolds that provides a background framework for the rest of the book. The
first section investigates Reynolds’ engagement with French literature and
culture. He spent time living in France and was fascinated by French
politics, in particular the revolution of 1830 which saw the overthrow of
Charles X. The second section deals with Reynolds’ journalistic achievements
with Reynolds’s Miscellany and Reynolds’s Newspaper. The third
section looks in detail at the mighty Mysteries
of London while section four explores Reynolds’ other, less well-known
fiction, such as that published in Reynolds’
Miscellany. The final section looks interestingly at what the editors
call the ‘afterlife’ of Reynolds’ work with a fascinating essay on Reynolds’
translations and adaptations in Bengali by Sucheta Bhattacharya. |
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The end of the book has a
comprehensive bibliography of Reynolds’ work to give the reader an insight
into his output. This bibliography, compiled by Louis James, also resolves
some of the dating issues associated with Reynolds’ work. Reynolds habitually
published his works without dates of publication ‘so that he could continue
republishing novels without his titles ever appearing out of date.’ A select
secondary bibliography is appended in order to give a starting point for
further reading. |
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What is impressive about this
book is that not only does it do a good job in establishing who Reynolds was
and what his achievements were for the less knowledgeable reader, it also
spends time challenging preconceptions that a more knowledgeable reader might
have about Reynolds. For example, Juliet John’s essay on ‘Reynolds’s Mysteries and Popular Culture’ draws
together the two giants of nineteenth-century fiction, Reynolds and Dickens
and looks at their respective claims to be at one and the same time, popular
writers and writers who spoke on behalf of the people. Both writers aspired
to being the voice of the people by which they meant ‘the dispossessed, the
marginalized and the oppressed.’ |
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Dickens, as John notes, made no
secret of his desire to combine ‘the affectionate regard of my fellow men’
with ‘heaps and mines of gold’. In contrast to Dickens, Reynolds was never
quite able to throw off the suspicion that he viewed the people more as
willing consumers of his fiction than fellow travellers in a political battle
for equality. John takes issue with this view, arguing instead that Reynolds’
work, particularly The Mysteries of
London, is both appealing to and critiquing the new mass cultural
marketplace developing at this point in the nineteenth century. Reynolds was
therefore very aware of the contradictions in his position as popular writer
and radical politician and traded upon them. |
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Michael Shirley’s essay on ‘G. W.
M. Reynolds, Reynolds’s Newspaper
and Popular Politics’ also updates
some outdated views of Reynolds. Shirley looks in detail, but nonetheless
interestingly, at the minutiae of Reynolds’s
Newspaper, examining how Reynolds put it together and used it as a
political organ. Even the book reviews were designed to put forward the
radical agenda of the paper. As Shirley notes, ‘These reviews were not
neutral discussions of the merit of literary works; they most always focused
on politics in context of the work under review.’ The goal of these reviews
was then to alert the ‘working classes to the existence of a helpful book’ or
to warn them about ‘trickery’ such as a propaganda piece about joining the
Navy masquerading as Advice to the
Mariners of England. This way of using reviews to underline the political
motivations of a newspaper was later harnessed by another famous editor of
the nineteenth century, W. T. Stead in his paper, the Pall Mall Gazette. The political content of reviews published by
authors such as Oscar Wilde for the Gazette
fits so neatly with the ideology put forward by the paper that one can only
assume that Stead was using the reviews, like Reynolds, as an another way of
underscoring his political concerns. |
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While the paper traded on its political
stance, Reynolds, again like Stead in the latter part of the nineteenth
century, was not above touting gossip and lurid headlines in order to attract
readers. ‘Salacious goings-on in palaces, country house and the occasional
brothel’ were the stock-in-trade of Reynolds’s
Newspaper alongside of course denunciations of the political systems that
made these things possible. While some critics have seen this as hypocrisy on
Reynolds’ part, Shirley is firm that this is merely an example of Reynolds
doing what newspapermen do, selling newspapers. It did not mean that Reynolds
could not continue ‘to read, to argue and to see injustice’; it simply meant
that he ‘had to earn money to live.’ |
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This book is very successful in
balancing the two aspects of its production. It reaches out effectively to
those who do not know Reynolds and his work but also gratifies those who do
by providing stimulating essays which lay out the current state of play in
research into Reynolds. The quality of this book will surely lead to the
editors’ desire for a ‘new burst of investigation’ into this interesting and
controversial figure. |
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·
Anya Clayworth has been working on Oscar Wilde's
journalism since 1992, and her edition of Wilde's journalism was published by
Oxford World's Classics in 2004. She currently teaches for the Office for
Lifelong Learning at the University of Edinburgh. |
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Graham
Johnson: Social Democratic Politics in
Britain 1881-1911. Lewiston, Queenston and Lampeter: Edwin Mellen Press,
2002. Hardbound, viii + 245 pp. ISBN 978-0-7734-6947-1. £69.95 / $109.95 |
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In his introduction to Social Democratic Politics in Britain
1881-1911, Graham Johnson observes that, |
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the
SDF has usually been studied as part of a process variously described as the
origins, advent, emergence or rise of the Labour Party. Consequently, they
are studied in depth in the 1880s and then abandoned in the 1890s for the more
fruitful ILP. […] While other socialists are found adjusting to their times
and trying to adapt to developments in political theory, the poor old SDF is
left trapped in the 1880s as if stranded in a broken down time machine. (6-7) |
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Thus, Johnson’s study aims to
extend an interest in the SDF beyond its early years, looking at its
continued development in the Edwardian period when, unlike other socialist
groups, it grappled more directly with Marxist theory and reacted to
Continental social democratic discourse, including the debates between
Marxist orthodoxy and the revisionism of Eduard Bernstein. To achieve his
objective, Johnson focuses on such SDF publications as the weekly Justice, the monthly Social-Democrat and books and
pamphlets published by the Federation’s major activists and thinkers. |
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In a chapter entitled
‘Economics’, Johnson discusses a number of SDF debates and especially early
considerations of Marx’s theory of surplus value which was cemented as SDF
dogma by the publication of H. M. Hyndman’s Marx’s Theory of Value (1889). According to Johnson, the SDF
supported Lassalle’s ‘iron law of wages’ even while arguing wage
differentials between workers in different countries. Hyndman included
additional factors, such as competition for work and skills, but saw these as
marginal to the general situation. While Lassalle is often invoked in SDF
debates on economics, Johnson argues that SDFers rejected the Malthusian
basis of Lassalle and so fitted the ‘iron law’ into their Marxism: |
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The
iron law was a concept that cropped up repeatedly in the works of SDF
members; however, although Lassalle was often mentioned in conjunction with
the term, it was not used strictly in his sense. More often than not, it was
qualified and came to mean the action of competition in driving wages down to
subsistence, something that could be modified by custom, tradition, and the
action of trade unionism. (30) |
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Another area of economics Johnson
focuses on is Hyndman’s appraisal of Japan’s transformation from feudalism to
capitalism. Hyndman saw Japan as a model for Europe and for the potential of
socialist change, and he criticised German Social Democracy, the largest
organised working-class movement in Europe at the time, for its timidity. |
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In chapter four, Johnson considers
SDF attitudes towards imperialism, which he claims shifted from an initial
disregard to a general opposition by the mid-1890s. The latter position was
determined by the fact that, according to such thinkers as Hyndman, fresh
markets were sought by imperialism and so it was seen as merely an expansion
of capitalism. This reasoning, not uncommon among socialists of a later
generation, was not unanimous within the Edwardian left, and it predates V.
I. Lenin’s similar observations in Imperialism,
the Highest Stage of Capitalism (1917), as well as those of the liberal,
J. A. Hobson, in his Imperialism
(1902). |
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The SDF’s clear line on
imperialism, cemented by Britain’s aggressive antics in southern Africa
during the Second Boer War, was persuasive enough by 1904 to become the
official policy of the Second International. Not only did Hyndman succeed in
persuading that year’s international socialist congress to pass an
anti-imperialist resolution, but he was also commissioned to elaborate the
SDF’s position in what became his Colonies
and Dependencies (1904) (83-84). |
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Following the Second Boer War,
anti-imperialism became so significant to SDF ideology that it forced the
Federation to alter its electoral strategy. As Johnson points out, ‘Before
the war, their major political enemy had been the Liberals and they had
agreed to give their votes to the Tory where no suitable socialist candidate
was standing. The war had forced them to abandon this position and given the
division in the Liberal ranks they felt able to work side by side with
Liberal anti-imperialists’ (91). |
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A collateral result of the SDF’s
anti-imperialism was its promotion of internationalism. For all the
patriotism of the likes of Hyndman and Harry Quelch, the SDF advocated international
fellowship and was consistently represented at the Second International. To
many SDFers, nationalism and internationalism were not mutually exclusive,
for ‘‘Social-Democrats,’ [Quelch] told the 1910 [SDF] annual conference ‘are
Internationalists, not Anti-Nationalists. We should view with horror the
crushing out of any historical nationality, however small it might be’’
(110). On this basis, the SDF’s internationalism would seem to sit within the
Gladstonian tradition rather than the developing socialist one of the
pre-Great War period. Indeed, as time passed, the SDF’s position, though
never unanimous, leaned more towards national defence as against
international solidarity, and, according to Johnson, ‘although deeply divided
at the time of the Federation’s dissolution in 1911 members had been won over
to the national defence of British interests in the event of an international
conflict. Socialist internationalism thus took second place to the
preservation of British liberty and the food supply when confronted by the
perceived threat of the reactionary ‘German menace’’ (126). |
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The SDF, then, was never pacifist
even while it claimed to be anti-militarist. Indeed, it advocated arming and
training natives for the eventual overthrow of British imperialism (73-74)
and Hyndman and Quelch were ardent supporters of a Citizen Army, not only for
the training of workers for revolution, but also as defenders of the
anticipated labour government which, it was feared, would be vulnerable to
capitalist armed opposition (131-33). |
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In a chapter entitled ‘Reform and
Revolution’, Johnson considers the SDF’s position on armed revolt,
revisionist gradualism and the role of electoral politics in achieving
socialism. In the 1880s British socialism was already divided between the
reformist Fabians and the revolutionary SDF and Socialist League. By the end
of the nineteenth century similar lines were being drawn within Continental
socialism, with Bernstein throwing down theoretical challenges to orthodox
Marxism. In Britain reformism was already deeply rooted by the time the
Bernstein controversy erupted, though the SDF, being the sole remaining
revolutionary party in the country, restated its position. According to
Johnson, |
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When Labour politicians responded
positively to Bernstein’s adaptation of Marx to new circumstances, the SDF
leadership were critical and remained committed, like most of their European
peers, to the unrevised Marxist canon. Where supporters of the ILP saw
socialism as the means whereby class conflict was superseded and the harmony
of interests between employers and workers asserted, supporters of the SDF
continued to preach class hatred. Where the ILP perceived the state as
neutral and capable of being used to benefit working people, the SDF saw it
as an instrument of class domination. Only at the local level were they
willing to see the state as something with potential for socialist
transformation. (195) |
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The revolutionary position
maintained by the SDF led to its being labelled ‘extremist’ and ‘Continental’
by other British socialists, but abroad it was seen as upholding socialist
orthodoxy. Therefore, according to Johnson, ‘The SDF was the true
representative of Second International socialism on British soil. They argued
theoretically, related their ideas to the Marxist tradition, and worked
pragmatically for social improvement, never losing sight of the long-term
goal of socialism’ (199). Unfortunately, for the leaders of the Second
International, the SDF remained a minority grouping within British socialism,
and therefore Britain’s role within the International never matched the size
and organisation of its working class movement. |
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For his detailed use of SDF
publications, and his unravelling of Federation positions on diverse issues,
Johnson deserves a lot of credit. Perhaps his greatest fault, however, is his
claim for SDF ‘policies’ based on writings by various hands throughout the
Federation’s publications. Whilst oft times Johnson uses the writings of SDF
leaders such as Hyndman and Quelch, one must question how far even these
outstanding figures necessarily represented the SDF as a whole. This is
especially the case when considering the place of elections and trade unions
within SDF strategy. Were elections merely opportunistic options before the dawning
revolution for most SDFers, and was trade unionism really seen by most
members as a necessary evil in the forwarding of working-class politics? Or
were the grassroots much more enthusiastic about the potential of elections
and trade unionism than the Federation’s leadership? Because of his focus on
published sources as against conference reports and local activities,
Johnson's picture remains one-sided. While this is inevitable in such a wide
ranging study, Johnson might have cautioned his readers to this in his
introduction. |
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Another, lesser query is
Johnson’s choosing 1911 as an end date for his book. He claims this date as
appropriate due to the SDF’s reformulation in that year as the British
Socialist Party, but one wonders whether 1911 saw so great a break with the
past as Johnson implies. Indeed, the SDF had already changed its name in 1907
to the Social Democratic Party (a fact Johnson acknowledges, but uses ‘SDF’
throughout for convenience), and later still, in 1916, the BSP would fissure
into two groups (the second being the National Socialist Party) over the
party’s attitude to the Great War. When the BSP largely merged into the
Communist Party of Great Britain in 1920 and the NSP again became the SDF in
1919 and affiliated with the Labour Party, the organisation was more marginal
than ever. And while a history of the
SDF to its eventual demise during the Second World War would be interesting,
one cannot help but think that extending his study to 1916 or 1920 would have
rounded off Johnson’s work better than leaving the reader in 1911. In that
year the SDF’s evolution from its origins was still close and relevant and
its new position in the run up to the Great War was already taking shape, but
it is difficult to claim 1911 as a watershed year in the party’s history. |
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These quibbles aside, Johnson’s
book is a major contribution to British socialist history. He gives the SDF
the prominence it deserves as a formative socialist organisation and as a
forum for sophisticated consideration of socialist ideology. The Federation’s
role in the Second International is also of interest, especially as the
international aspect of British socialism in general is a field of study
still requiring much greater research. |
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·
John S. Partington is editor of The Wellsian: Selected Essays on H.G. Wells. Equilibris 2003. |
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Review by Annabel Rutherford |
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L. E. Butler: Relief. Nederland: Regal Crest 2008. 168pp. |
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The year is
1912 and the setting for L. E. Butler’s lesbian romance, Relief, is Venice. |
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As two young
women’s lives weave together, the novel explores the bohemian lifestyle of
impoverished artists and dancers in a city pulsating with artistic
energy. Katie Larkin, newly arrived
from Boston, is attempting to distance herself from a traumatic event back
home and begin afresh as a painter. As she winds her way through a maze of
Venetian alleys in search of a model to sketch, Katie encounters Rusala, a
dancing girl at La Fenice Theatre. Rusala, too, has a murky past, which adds
necessary tension to a slow-paced plot. Although technically not a künstlerroman, Relief is a novel about the awakening of a young female artist. |
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The novel
comprises a series of fleeting impressions – sometimes crystal-clear,
sometimes distorted and hazy – seen through the eyes of the artist, Katie. As
narrator and protagonist, Katie sculpts and etches the tale, using, as the
novel’s title might suggest, a mixture of high
relief, bas-relief, and intaglio to guide the reader through
the highs and lows of the world of art: from the depths of artistic despair
to the heady heights of success, from the struggling artist to the elite
patron. In this way, the author cleverly blends the pictorial with the verbal
art form. Indeed, the tone is set in the opening
paragraph with Katie recollecting how, as a child, she used to imagine
‘slipping into the scene [of a painting] and moving about undisturbed,
pushing gently at the spattered green branches, crossing a path of
multicolored brushstrokes, wading into a river of oily indigo’ (1). And this
is also how the author portrays Venice: ‘static and airless as a painting’
(1), a painted canvas upon which characters drift in and out of focus as
Katie explores the ‘many hidden spaces’ (36). |
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Symmetrical in
structure, the novel begins and ends with a journey; the first initiated by
the tragic events of Katie’s past and the second brought about through events
linked with Rusala’s secret past. The plot balances upon two memorable key
scenes. The first, early on in the novel, occurs in the same setting as the
second, towards the end of the novel: a spectacular art gallery, Seagroves
Gallery. Both scenes depict decadent parties of the grandest style, in
keeping with the novel’s setting as early modernist. While the first party
is, in part, by way of introducing Katie to future patrons and fellow
artists, the second is to display her work and, thus, launch her career. As
the party progresses, champagne flows freely and hashish and other such
powder are used abundantly. The hot rooms are noisy with idle gossip among the
European wealthy elite and political comments from smaller groups of the
intelligentsia. Overheard are mutterings about firearms and a few isolated
arguments about the possibilities of war as a leashed tiger cub, collared in
jewels, snarls at Katie, who pushes her way through the crowd to see dancers
from Theatre Slav perform an exotic, erotic ballet in full Ballets Russes
style. Surprised to see Rusala dancing the lead in a performance of Tarquis and the Slave, Katie watches
her, riveted. Captivated by Rusala’s eroticism, she becomes infatuated with
the young woman and shortly after this event, their love affair between Katie
and Rusala blossoms. |
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The magical
effect of the first party is fully shattered during the second, which is also
the dénouement. Nonetheless, with its cast of characters emitting an
‘unmistakable scent of wealth’ (132), the event is every bit as glitzy and
opulent as the first. However, what promises to be a celebratory evening for
Katie, whose work is being exhibited and sold, becomes her ugly awakening
into the world of agents and art dealers. And just as the first stirrings of
romance between Rusala and Katie are ignited shortly after the first party,
so the flame is extinguished shortly after the second. Duped by her lover and
her agent, Katie once more sets out on a journey, this time to Istria. |
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The strength
of this novel lies in the author’s ability to blend the verbal with the
pictorial. Barely a scene occurs without
a canvas somewhere in the background. Even the dancers are viewed, in large
part, through Katie’s sketches as she watches them in daily class. As the
reader views each scene through the eyes of Katie, varying shades and hues of
the tale become visible as morphine, valerian powders and other such
substances she depends upon cloud or brighten, dull or sharpen, her vision of
the world around her. And it is through her drug-enhanced dreams that the
reader is able to trespass onto the deeper recesses of Katie’s mind and
discover the lingering, dark secret haunting her. Every so often, in welcome
contrast to these darker areas, a vivid colour dominates a scene: as Katie
moves through the gallery during the first party, her rich, scarlet gown
glisters upon the novel’s canvas. Such moments permit the reader a rare
glimpse of the protagonist from afar, farther enriching a memorable
character. Interestingly, the author’s deliberate blurring of the boundary
between different art forms reflects the style of early modernist writers who
were searching for new forms and experimenting with new styles through which
to express their art. Indeed, there is much in this impressionistic evocation
of a young woman’s life that is reminiscent of works by Kate Chopin or
Katherine Mansfield. |
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Arguably, one
of the weaker aspects of the plot is the romance between the two women.
Although in keeping with the hazy mood of the work, the generalized, tame
descriptions of their sexual activities lack genuine emotion and are
unconvincing. Overall, the novel could benefit from a slightly speedier pace,
which would also help tighten the plot in places. Although the author
successfully evokes the gentle mood associated with impressionism, she
occasionally runs the risk of marring the atmosphere through sentence use top
heavy with ornate adjectives. Nonetheless, for a first novel, L. E. Butler
shows strong promise. While she captures the sparkle and dazzle of the early
modernist years and those thoroughly decadent ‘bright young things’ attending
the party, she is also able to evoke a more profound, ephemeral quality
through Katie and Rusala that reflects their fleeting inhabitance of an
ancient city. As the canvas is completed, a carefully crafted portrait of
Katie emerges that is hauntingly beautiful. |
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·
Annabel Rutherford is Dance Editor of THE OSCHOLARS. |
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[1] For a
discussion of the difficulties faced by contemporary artists and scholars, see
Lawrence Lessig’s book Free Culture: How Big Media Uses Technology and the
Law to Lock Down Culture and Control Creativity (New York: Penguin, 2004),
which is also freely available on his website http://www.lessig.org/. For a succinct and entertaining introduction,
see Bound by Law by James Boyle et.
al. (Center for the Study of the Public Domain, Duke University, 2006), freely
available at http://www.law.duke.edu/cspd/comics/digital.php.