A Word Child
(Iris Murdoch’s novel, pt. 2)
LitCrit General's Warning: This isn’t going anywhere - any of it!*
Dear
Trudy,
A few random thoughts. “Don’t you understand human conversation?” Clifford asks Hilary. It’s a clue. Hilary takes it as such– he is always looking for clues. Which does not mean he has understood Clifford, who is saying something like: We war; then we make peace with one another; and we go on from there even if we are still at cross-purposes. The peace is only a treaty; it is not written in stone from Sinai. No one that reads a poem for its grammar – to diagram the sentences – will truly understand that.
I am reading as a train rattles by only a few blocks away. Then, I stop; in the middle of a sentence, I stop. I stop for the usual reasons: it’s gotten too oppressive – there is too much going on between the words and under the words, in the individual letters. The sun comes out for a moment. (This happens; it isn’t a fiction or a metaphor.) The train continues to rattle by.
My mind turns to sex. The flesh is weak, but the mind is not all that strong either, and the spirit is on a break. The same stuff that interferes with the words clutters the mind. And it stops. The brain goes out of earshot, the sun weakens but remains, the cat comes in mewing, the mind stops.
Bullshit, ay? Ted
A few random thoughts. “Don’t you understand human conversation?” Clifford asks Hilary. It’s a clue. Hilary takes it as such– he is always looking for clues. Which does not mean he has understood Clifford, who is saying something like: We war; then we make peace with one another; and we go on from there even if we are still at cross-purposes. The peace is only a treaty; it is not written in stone from Sinai. No one that reads a poem for its grammar – to diagram the sentences – will truly understand that.
I am reading as a train rattles by only a few blocks away. Then, I stop; in the middle of a sentence, I stop. I stop for the usual reasons: it’s gotten too oppressive – there is too much going on between the words and under the words, in the individual letters. The sun comes out for a moment. (This happens; it isn’t a fiction or a metaphor.) The train continues to rattle by.
My mind turns to sex. The flesh is weak, but the mind is not all that strong either, and the spirit is on a break. The same stuff that interferes with the words clutters the mind. And it stops. The brain goes out of earshot, the sun weakens but remains, the cat comes in mewing, the mind stops.
Bullshit, ay? Ted
__________
Dear Ted,
Not entirely (bullshit). The book does swarm at you, doesn’t it? The words come at you faster than you can comprehend them – or I can anyway. Is all Murdoch like this? I imagine it is, but here! – Such grand intellect, and insight, in the service of gothic, almost tawdry romanticism! At least that’s how I see the book, a psychological Gothic-romance.
The words come at you like winged ticks – they look so full of blood you can’t believe they’ll take a bite out of you, but you can’t be sure, they’re still threatening. And the narrative rushes forward and rushes forward as if saying, “Don’t pay too much attention to what I’m doing just here, but keep up, damnit, keep up!” As if you can keep up with everything that’s happening off the narrow stage of Hilary’s imagination. Perfervid but (very) restricted imagination, I’ll add. Do you trust him at all? I don’t think I do. On the other hand, he can’t be making it all up. But how much is he just . . . missing?
I realize I’m not talking about the story itself, just the “narrative,” the point of view and my attitude toward it. I’m talking about what I’m thinking or feeling. But story is so confusing to me: I’m not sure I could tell it if I tried. I might be able to recount Hilary’s version of it if I went back to the beginning and made an outline, but if I don’t trust him . . . ? Why would I do that?
And I don’t trust him. I can’t trust him. Actually, I don’t/can’t trust any of the characters because their motives are only as he assigns them. I am convinced he has no insight into Crystal with whom he claims to be of one mind and heart. So how could he have any into anyone else? How much less does he understand anyone else? It must be “less than zero.” (Did you ever read that awful, oddly wonderful book?)
So! I’m flailing. I say what I say; then I say in effect I can produce no evidence for it. Or maybe I just don’t want to work so hard. Anyway, that’s this letter, not at all satisfactory. Write me back about forgiveness, not at all possible really, is it? – not as I understand it. (I mean in the book.)
?, Trudy
P.S. Here’s a for-instance (from the book) of something if I’m not quite sure of what: If we can trust his reporting, Laura genuinely believes Hilary has been in love with her. He insists he has not. Does he protest too much? If that thread of the narrative, involving the Impiatts, were told by her, what would we see that is hidden from us now? . . . Or: If Crystal told the story of brother and sister – if it became the story of sister and brother – what would we learn that Hilary has kept from us, negligently or (very) carefully? Tell me. Soon!
Not entirely (bullshit). The book does swarm at you, doesn’t it? The words come at you faster than you can comprehend them – or I can anyway. Is all Murdoch like this? I imagine it is, but here! – Such grand intellect, and insight, in the service of gothic, almost tawdry romanticism! At least that’s how I see the book, a psychological Gothic-romance.
The words come at you like winged ticks – they look so full of blood you can’t believe they’ll take a bite out of you, but you can’t be sure, they’re still threatening. And the narrative rushes forward and rushes forward as if saying, “Don’t pay too much attention to what I’m doing just here, but keep up, damnit, keep up!” As if you can keep up with everything that’s happening off the narrow stage of Hilary’s imagination. Perfervid but (very) restricted imagination, I’ll add. Do you trust him at all? I don’t think I do. On the other hand, he can’t be making it all up. But how much is he just . . . missing?
I realize I’m not talking about the story itself, just the “narrative,” the point of view and my attitude toward it. I’m talking about what I’m thinking or feeling. But story is so confusing to me: I’m not sure I could tell it if I tried. I might be able to recount Hilary’s version of it if I went back to the beginning and made an outline, but if I don’t trust him . . . ? Why would I do that?
And I don’t trust him. I can’t trust him. Actually, I don’t/can’t trust any of the characters because their motives are only as he assigns them. I am convinced he has no insight into Crystal with whom he claims to be of one mind and heart. So how could he have any into anyone else? How much less does he understand anyone else? It must be “less than zero.” (Did you ever read that awful, oddly wonderful book?)
So! I’m flailing. I say what I say; then I say in effect I can produce no evidence for it. Or maybe I just don’t want to work so hard. Anyway, that’s this letter, not at all satisfactory. Write me back about forgiveness, not at all possible really, is it? – not as I understand it. (I mean in the book.)
?, Trudy
P.S. Here’s a for-instance (from the book) of something if I’m not quite sure of what: If we can trust his reporting, Laura genuinely believes Hilary has been in love with her. He insists he has not. Does he protest too much? If that thread of the narrative, involving the Impiatts, were told by her, what would we see that is hidden from us now? . . . Or: If Crystal told the story of brother and sister – if it became the story of sister and brother – what would we learn that Hilary has kept from us, negligently or (very) carefully? Tell me. Soon!
02.24.21
_______________
* LitCrit
General’s Warning – By which the General means: Don’t expect to learn
anything about Iris Murdoch or the novel that you didn’t already know. The
opinions expressed here are those of the uninformed opinionators. They aren’t
going to write in any straightforward fashion either. Add that there’s no good
online plot summary that I have found. But, you could read the book!
We’ll finish this next time, plus Uncle Albert will put an oar in, asking if
either of us knows what “unreliable narrator” means and remembering when he
spent a weekend with Wayne Booth.
** Sketch of
Hilary Burde’s teacher, Mr. Osmand was made by m ball in PAINT JOY by Doodle Joy Studio.
No comments:
Post a Comment