Monday, April 23, 2007

Fragment 2304

Notes on Dickens 5

During his career, in addition to writing the 15 major novels, managing and organizing amateur theatricals for charity, campaigning for political causes, touring the country giving readings and generally just living, Dickens also was involved in four magazines as an occasional writer, and as chief editor and shareholder. These magazines give us a fascinating glimpse into the development of the entrepreneurial side of Dickens the professional writer, his uncanny business sense of what the public wanted; and how he was creative not only in the imaginative space between mind and hand as he wrote at his desk, but also in the public space of the market for literature.

The first of these magazines was Bentley’s Miscellany.

During the summer of 1836, when Dickens was 24, barely out adolescence, flush from the wild successes of The Sketches by Boz and Pickwick especially, he was approached by the 40-year-old experienced publisher Bentley, who exploited Dickens’s youth and inexperience. The terms he agreed with Bentley were these: for £20 a month to produce (edit, manage, arrange contributions) a monthly magazine for one year (with a three year renewable option), including a long piece by him to appear in each issue, for which he was paid an additional £20 per month. He was also contracted to write two three-decker novels. He was forbidden to undertake any other work for any other publisher. Bentley had him tied down.
It’s easy to attribute these unfavorable terms to Dickens’s anxiety over money, an anxiety which stemmed from his childhood experiences, and which was never to leave him, even in his maturity, when he was the biggest selling and richest professional writer in the country. At the same time, we can see his burgeoning business acumen: his awareness of the need to build on his recent success by seizing opportunities as soon as they presented themselves. The unfavourable terms can be attributed to the still uncertain sense of his own worth as a bankable commodity. Moreover, with a wife and new son, the contract gave him what he most needed at that time: a regular salary. The job lasted for roughly 18 months and then Dickens resigned in exasperation at how the terms were tying him down. His writing for this magazine has the easy charm and gently satirical freshness of the Sketches and Pickwick: The Public Life of Mr Tulrumble being a good example.

The second magazine was Master Humphrey’s Clock.

This was a weekly magazine of 16 pages produced by the publishers of Pickwick and Oliver Twist: Chapman and Hall, which started in spring 1840. Dickens was editor, manager and contributor, doing much the same kind of work that previously he had done for Bentley. His motivation for getting involved in this project seems to have been much the same as the reasons why he became involved in Bentley’s project; but this time, the publishers offered him much better terms: in addition to a weekly salary he was given a 50% share of the profits.
The idea was to include stories linked by a framing device of an old man -Master Humphrey- , and his companions, (one of whom is our old friend Pickwick) sitting by the fireside. The stories are culled from manuscripts discovered in the base of an old clock.
A lot of the writing has a padded feel to it. It seems flat and lifeless, without spark or energy. It’s what I suppose we would call ‘puff’: written to fill space in a magazine, not necessarily to be read. But two things are noteworthy about it. First, I find it interesting that at the age of 28, in all the flush of his growing success, with Oliver Twist, and Nicholas Nickleby already under his belt, Dickens takes on the persona of an old man, Gerontion by the fire, withdrawn from the world and living in his imagination only. Secondly, out of this chthonic soup of language occasionally there rise up bubbles of ideas which later become the full blown characters and plots of his great novels: Bred to a profession 
for which he never qualified himself, and reared in the expectation 
of a fortune he has never inherited, he has undergone every vicissitude of which such an existence is capable. (seeds of Richard Carstone’s story in Bleak House) He and his younger brother, both orphans from their childhood, were educated by a wealthy relative, who taught them to expect an equal division 
of his property; but too indolent to court, and too honest to 
flatter, the elder gradually lost ground in the affections of a 
capricious old man, (seeds of the relationship between the Martins in Chuzzlewit) and the younger, who did not fail to improve 
his opportunity, now triumphs in the possession of enormous wealth. 
His triumph is to hoard it in solitary wretchedness, and probably 
to feel with the expenditure of every shilling a greater pang than 
the loss of his whole inheritance ever cost his brother. (Seeds of Scrooge and Jonas Chuzzlewit) Tone and image are also prefigured in this early work:
It is night. Calm and unmoved amidst the scenes that darkness 
favours, the great heart of London throbs in its Giant breast. (It is night in Lincoln's Inn-perplexed and troublous valley of the 
shadow of the law… Bleak House). 
Wealth and beggary, vice and virtue, guilt and innocence, repletion 
and the direst hunger, (It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, 
it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness…, Tale of Two Cities) all treading on each other and crowding together, are gathered round it.
Readers did not respond well to Master Humphrey’s wandering old voice, however, and sales fell rapidly. Dickens responded characteristically swiftly, and developed a short story he had started in the magazine into The Old Curiosity Shop. After the next novel, Barnaby Rudge, the magazine folded.

The third magazine was Household Words.

This magazine was produced by his new publishers Bradbury and Evans, who were also the owners and producers of Punch. The idea was to produce a sister magazine to Punch, which would be slightly more serious. Dickens was chief editor, commissioning editor, manager and occasional contributor. He had a 50% stake in the magazine’s profits, received an annual salary of £500 for his editing duties, as well as additional payments for his own contributions. The demands of producing his huge novels were overwhelming, but magazine production offered a way to maintain a steady income through writing without the immense strain and concentrated effort of perpetually writing novels to stringent deadlines
A weekly, the first number appeared early in 1850 and it folded in 1859. It had an average circulation of 38,000 which more than doubled during the famous Christmas numbers, in which such classics as A Christmas Carol and The Chimes appeared.
It was to become the chief literary organ of the decade, including literature in the form of poetry and serialized novels by Dickens and his contemporaries, social comment and criticism, of both domestic and foreign issues, investigative reporting, and letters. It soon became a platform for Dickens’s views on some of the most important social problems of the day, including sanitary reform, public education and the bungled mismanagement of the Crimean War. In tune with the socially conscientious tone of the magazine, the only novel that Dickens published in its pages is the didactic and highly allegorical Hard Times, perhaps the weakest of all his novels.
Contributors to the journal included Bulwer-Lytton, John Forster, Wilkie Collins, Coventry Patmore, Elizabeth Barrett Browning, Adelaide Anne Procter, William Blanchard Jerrold, Harriet Martineau, George Meredith, Leigh Hunt, Sheridan Le Fanu, Elizabeth Gaskell, Charles Lever, Eliza Lynn and two well known colonial journalists John Capper and John Lang Linton -in short, a who’s who of Mid-Victorian letters.
Dickens’s right hand man on this project was Mr. Wills, who was in effect the operational manager of the magazine.
At the end of 1859, Dickens, in the process of effecting a separation from his wife, and trying to manage the resulting scandal, had a row with his partners in the magazine, Bradbury and Evans. After a Chancery court case, which Dickens won, he effectively bought up the magazine and closed it down.

The fourth magazine was All The Year Round.

This was started some months before the acrimonious demise of Household Words, and for a while the two magazines were published concurrently, competing in an increasingly competitive market. Taxes on printed matter, paper and advertising had recently been lifted, and the market was suddenly adrift with publications, as publishers and proprietors, many of them inspired by Dickens’s success with Household Words leapt to take advantage of an avidly growing readership. The magazine continued to be published for 20 years after Dickens’s death.
Under Dickens’s guiding hand, micro-managed editorial skills and bankable name, and the astute business management of the indefatigably loyal Wills the magazine had an astonishing circulation: 100,000 for normal numbers, 300,00 for the Christmas numbers. Dickens took 75% of the profits, and Wills 25%. Profits were an immense £2,750 - £3,000 per year on average
Wills was an astute business manager. He used the new company WHSmith, who had outlets all over the country in railway stations, as a distributor. He also employed nifty advertising campaigns, announcing forthcoming numbers. As Dickens’s other career, that of highly emotional public reader of his own works, began to absorb most of the remaining energies of the author, Wills was left more and more in charge of the running of the magazine.
Contents of the journal focused on the serialization of long novels, either by Dickens himself or by other novelists, starting on page one, in double columns of closely spaced writing, with no illustrations. (Can you imagine how well such a venture would do today?) However, it also included more articles on foreign affairs (the unification of Italy and the American Civil War were just two of the burning international issues of the day) but much less commentary on domestic social matters than Household Words had contained. Perhaps the most memorable issue was the one in which Dickens finished A Tale of Two Cities, and Collins began The Woman in White: two Mid-Victorian masterpieces appearing side by side. Among the most famous novels serialized in its pages were Great Expectations, No Name, and The Moonstone.
Contributors included Wilkie Collins, Bulwer-Lytton, Gaskell, and Anthony Trollope, whose contributions were solicited and edited by Dickens. For many of the Christmas numbers, many of these authors worked together to produce stories such as Mrs. Lirriper and The Haunted House.
We can see Dickens the business manager and magazine proprietor at work in the story of his negotiations with George Eliot.
While Collins’s The Woman in White was appearing, Dickens, looking ahead as any good manager should, began to look for another novel to serialise once The Woman in White should end. The aim, as always, was to maintain the current high readership and to increase it, or at least not to allow a lull in story telling cause a decline in sales. He approached George Eliot through his friend and Eliot’s partner, Lewes. Eliot had already completed Scenes From A Clerical Life and Adam Bede, both of which had been highly praised by Dickens. Eliot was hesitant, and despite Dickens’s assurances that money would be no object in her remuneration, she eventually declined. Many reasons have been put forward for this. Perhaps she feared the rigorous demands of weekly serialization. Eliot was not a fast, disciplined professional, writing set numbers of words to exacting editors and deadlines, in the way that Collins and Dickens were. Perhaps she feared the exposure of her unconventional private life that publication in such a highly successful magazine might bring. Perhaps she was also motivated by the faint intellectual snobbery in which she and Lewes held the hugely successful and popular Dickens. In the end, Eliot published her fiction in The Cornhill, a magazine edited by Thackeray, which was the main competitor to All The Year Round. Dickens still had his problem of who to ask to fill the gap after the conclusion of The Woman in White. Gaskell also declined, scared off by the weekly deadlines; a novel provided by Charles Lever failed to spark interest. In the end Dickens decided to fill the space himself and began work on Great Expectations.

In these four magazines, from the early days of Bentley’s Miscellany in the first few decades of the century, a highly risky and almost amateur effort, to the High-Victorian All The Year Round, with its carefully plotted business strategy, immense wealth and status, we see the birth and flourishing of a uniquely Victorian phenomenon: the literary periodical, a phenomenon whose importance and success is greatly attributable to Dickens’s own gifts as artist and entrepreneur. It is Dickens perhaps more than any other writer in the culture who did more in his lifetime to establish the writer of fiction as a respectable professional occupation, a status that it enjoys to this day thanks to his vision and energy.

Inadvertent Obscenity #4

The sound in my ears was not the sound of Mr Creakle giving it to Traddles, but the sound of the coachman touching up the horses.

Charles Dickens David Copperfield

Friday, April 20, 2007

Spurious Quotation #12

The purpose of education should be to teach people (how) to always examine the gap between appearance and reality.
George W. Bush

Monday, April 09, 2007

Emerson on Dickens

I am afraid he has too much talent for his genius; it is a fearful locomotive to which he is bound and can never be free from it or set at rest.

Chavenet on rampant commercialism

There is hardly anything in the world that someone cannot make a little worse and sell a little cheaper, and the people who consider price alone are that person's lawful prey.

Spurious Quotation #11

Let the greatest cause of crime be the law. The conveyance of ones person or goods from one location to another; exotic forms of carnality; the purveyance or enjoyment of intoxication through alcohol or other mind-altering substances; the creation and dissemination of opinion. Let us take these innocent pleasures and harmless rights of existence and make it of them a crime to be without a licence for their commission, so that therewith we may exercise control and provide employment for all the surplus scum of the earth as officers in our factitious systems of bureaucracy, policing, judiciary, and incarceration. Thus will the law make cheats and liars of all men.
Sir Robert Peeel

"The War of the End of the World" Mario Vargas Llosa


This is a fictional account of the Conselheiro uprising in Brazil in 1897 that at the same time manages to be an extended meditation on the nature of history and historiography. The key figure in the wide range of narrators is that of the nearsighted journalist, whose task it is to note and preserve the uprising. Unfortunately, he finds himself trapped in the battle, without his glasses, paralysed by debilitating fits of sneezing, apparently useless, a parasite: the author, reader and historian fumbling around in a fog. Only when the events of the uprising are in the past and he has escaped –one of only seven people out of thirty thousand to do so- does it become clear what his role is. In the discussion with the Baron, one of the other main characters who represents the outdated monarchist party of Brazil, details of the final defeat of the uprising become clear.

The narrative method is deliberately fractured and disjointed, with different characters being chosen as the focalisers: in the first part of the book the mysterious character of the Scottish phrenologist and revolutionary Galileo Gall, in the second part, the journalist himself. The characterisation is excellent, with different characters, both fictional and historical, representing different points of view; at the same time they are never merely ciphers for a historical argument, but real, complex people with fears and motives. The main narrative constantly branches out with mini narratives, giving us glimpses of the characters’ past lives. Only about two thirds in does the structure and theme begin to take shape and one can see the narrative purpose. Time is not linear. There are extensive and disruptive –like the sneezing fits of the nearsighted journalist- analepses. This reflects Benjamin’s view of history as moments of significance, laid out in a pattern of significance for the novel, rather than in a chronological development. This reflects too the mysterious nature of the uprising, with its origin shrouded in confusion, an origin or reason that none of the characters –except for the jaguncos- can really comprehend.

Ostensibly, this is a battle between the poor and the rich, but the issue is complicated by a non-alignment of views. The insurgents are staunchly Monarchist, and Catholic, they do not reject the Church – the Counsellor, as an unordained man, will not celebrate mass, but waits until a priest sympathetic to their cause joins them. Their rebellion is founded in utterly absurd reactionary beliefs such as the denial of the metric system, their refusal to accept civil marriage and their view of the new Brazilian Republic –a political system that ironically has its historical roots in an idealism aimed at bettering the lot of such people as the insurgents- as the Antichrist. The community they establish has all the features of first century Christianity. Their opponents on the other hand, the new rationalists, are intent on stamping out a reactionary political heresy. And yet that is also not the whole story. Galileo Gall, the revolutionary character who yearns to get to Canudos in order to convince them of the error of their religious motivations, is himself misguided by the pseudo religion/science of phrenology, a science used at the end to try to explain the Counsellor’s motivation. Politics enter into it in the arguments between the republican Epaminondas Goncalves and the Baron. All these conflicting ideologies blend together and confuse the issues. Canudos is not a story but a tree of stories.

The book is an exhausting read, with its scenes of battle studded with terrible details of wounds and death, strategic and logistical planning, fatigue and pain. Tolstoy knew the secret of writing about war, to alternate it with scenes of peace and thus to mitigate the strain on the reader and the slightly boring effect that constant struggle can have. However, this aside, Vargas Losa’s control of the narrative is excellent, and his ability to shift from view to view, to alternate vantage points and to give both sides of the story, the Republicans’ as well as the insurgents’, shows at least an attempt at historical objectivity. It’s impossible to tell what side he’s on, and he doesn’t let us take sides: the insurgents religiosity is so absurd and repellent, that one doesn’t really sympathise with them except in so far as they are people with personal histories.

Fragment 904

Notes on Dickens 4
Dickens’s voice is of course formed on the spoken word. The rolling rhythms of his sentences are oratorical and reflect three influences: the reading of his childhood and youth: Goldsmith, Sheridan and Shakespeare; the theatre during the last golden age of the barnstormers: MacReady and Keane; and his training and experience as a parliamentary reporter during the orotund debates over the reform bills of ’32 and ‘37.
These last in particular, Dickens likes to satirize. Here he is in Sketches abusing one of the standard tricks of political oratory, the rhetorical question:
Why have they been swamped by cabs and omnibuses? …why should people be allowed to ride quickly for eighteenpence a mile…. We pause for a reply, and having no chance of getting one, begin a fresh paragraph. And of course this from Mr Chadband in Bleak House
Now my young friends, what is this Terewth then? Firstly, (in a spirit, of love), what is the common sort of Terewth?- the working clothes –the everyday wear, my young friends? Is it deception?...

Saturday, April 07, 2007

Henry James on Trollope

Our greatest objection to The Belton Estate is that we seem to be reading a work written for children, a work prepared for minds unable to think, a work below the apprehension of the average man or woman. The Belton Estate is a stupid book… essentially, organically stupid. It is without a single idea. It is utterly incompetent to the primary function of a book of whatever nature, to suggest thought.

Friday, April 06, 2007

Spurious Quotation #10

It is a truth universally unacknowledged in the EFL industry that very low level adult learners are always likely to stay that way. After all, they have had the same opportunities for exposure as their higher level colleagues, they've had the same number of years learning English. The reason for their low level, therefore, must be that they have no aptitude for language acquisition, to use professional terms. Or in layman's terms, they're simply stupid.
Mario Rinvolucri

Wednesday, April 04, 2007

Fragment 404

Notes on Dickens 3

Dickens’s first chapters contain much of his best writing. Immediately arresting, full of matter, and almost Joycean in their use of exciting linguistic novelties, they establish at once, in a very short space, the mood of the novel and the voice of its narrator: at once dark, cynical, ironic, and yet fundamentally ludic, irresistibly dragging the reader in to the Dickensian world. In his later more carefully plotted and structured works, they contain the seeds of themes that grow throughout the rest of the book.
Their effect and purpose was to establish the novel firmly in the imagination of his reader, so that they would come back for more, thus ensuring the commercial success of the weekly or monthly serialisation. In their concentration of vision and voice, Dickens’s first chapters demonstrate the skills of a master craftsman who was born to write.
Their potency and power must come surely from the agony of indecision and writer’s block that accompanied the start of every new novel. At first, ideas start to cluster around him, motes of new books in the dirty air, miseries of older growth. Soon, he is in a wandering-unsettled-restless uncontrollable state of being... I sit down to work, do nothing get up, walk about a dozen miles, come back and sit down again next day, again do nothing and get up, go down a Railroad, find a place where I resolve to stay for a month, come home next morning, go strolling about for hours and hours, reject all engagements to have time to myself, get tired of myself and yet can’t come out of myself to be pleasant to anybody else…
Eventually, after all this suppression, like a geyser, the novel arrives in a kind of spurt of language, and he’s at his desk for 9 hours a day writing madly.

Marley was dead: to begin with. There is no doubt whatever about that. The register of his burial was signed by the clergyman, the clerk, the undertaker, and the chief mourner. Scrooge signed it: and Scrooge's name was good upon 'Change, for anything he chose to put his hand to. Old Marley was as dead as a door-nail.

Night is generally my time for walking. In the summer I often leave home early in the morning, and roam about fields and lanes all day, or even escape for days or weeks together; but, saving in the country, I seldom go out until after dark, though, Heaven be thanked, I love its light and feel the cheerfulness it sheds upon the earth, as much as any creature living.

As no lady or gentleman, with any claims to polite breeding, can possibly sympathise with the Chuzzlewit Family without being first assured of the extreme antiquity of the race, it is a great satisfaction to know that it undoubtedly descended in a direct line from Adam and Eve; and was, in the very earliest times, closely connected with the agricultural interest.

London. Michaelmas term lately over, and the Lord Chancellor 
sitting in Lincoln's Inn Hall. Implacable November weather. As 
much mud in the streets as if the waters had but newly retired from 
the face of the earth, and it would not be wonderful to meet a 
Megalosaurus, forty feet long or so, waddling like an elephantine 
lizard up Holborn Hill. Smoke lowering down from chimney-pots, 
making a soft black drizzle, with flakes of soot in it as big as 
full-grown snowflakes--gone into mourning, one might imagine, for 
the death of the sun. Dogs, undistinguishable in mire. Horses, 
scarcely better; splashed to their very blinkers. Foot passengers, 
jostling one another's umbrellas in a general infection of ill 
temper, and losing their foot-hold at street-corners, where tens of 
thousands of other foot passengers have been slipping and sliding 
since the day broke (if this day ever broke), adding new deposits 
to the crust upon crust of mud, sticking at those points 
tenaciously to the pavement, and accumulating at compound interest.

Thirty years ago, Marseilles lay burning in the sun, one day. 

A blazing sun upon a fierce August day was no greater rarity in 
southern France then, than at any other time, before or since. 
Everything in Marseilles, and about Marseilles, had stared at the 
fervid sky, and been stared at in return, until a staring habit had 
become universal there. Strangers were stared out of countenance 
by staring white houses, staring white walls, staring white 
streets, staring tracts of arid road, staring hills from which 
verdure was burnt away. The only things to be seen not fixedly 
staring and glaring were the vines drooping under their load of 
grapes. These did occasionally wink a little, as the hot air 
barely moved their faint leaves.

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, 
it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, 
it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, 
it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, 
it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, 
we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, 
we were all going direct to Heaven, we were all going direct 
the other way--in short, the period was so far like the present 
period, that some of its noisiest authorities insisted on its 
being received, for good or for evil, in the superlative degree 
of comparison only.

Dombey sat in the corner of the darkened room in the great 
arm-chair by the bedside, and Son lay tucked up warm in a little 
basket bedstead, carefully disposed on a low settee immediately in 
front of the fire and close to it, as if his constitution were analogous to that of a muffin, and it was essential to toast him brown 
while he was very new. 


The first ray of light which illumines the gloom, and converts 
into a dazzling brilliancy that obscurity in which the earlier 
history of the public career of the immortal Pickwick would 
appear to be involved, is derived from the perusal of the following 
entry in the Transactions of the Pickwick Club, which the editor 
of these papers feels the highest pleasure in laying before his 
readers, as a proof of the careful attention, indefatigable assiduity, 
and nice discrimination, with which his search among the multifarious 
documents confided to him has been conducted.

An ancient English Cathedral Tower? How can the ancient English 
Cathedral tower be here! The well-known massive gray square tower 
of its old Cathedral? How can that be here! There is no spike of 
rusty iron in the air, between the eye and it, from any point of 
the real prospect. What is the spike that intervenes, and who has 
set it up? Maybe it is set up by the Sultan's orders for the 
impaling of a horde of Turkish robbers, one by one. It is so, for 
cymbals clash, and the Sultan goes by to his palace in long 
procession. Ten thousand scimitars flash in the sunlight, and 
thrice ten thousand dancing-girls strew flowers. Then, follow 
white elephants caparisoned in countless gorgeous colours, and 
infinite in number and attendants. Still the Cathedral Tower rises 
in the background, where it cannot be, and still no writhing figure 
is on the grim spike. Stay! Is the spike so low a thing as the 
rusty spike on the top of a post of an old bedstead that has 
tumbled all awry? Some vague period of drowsy laughter must be 
devoted to the consideration of this possibility.

Tuesday, April 03, 2007

Mikhail Pletnev on the death of music

Classical music finished in the mid-20th century.