Showing posts with label Zola. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Zola. Show all posts

Tuesday 12 May 2020

Fustian Sacrifices on the Altar of Love: the Poet Pablo Neruda and the Murderess Mrs Pearcey

I mentioned in an earlier post my attendance at a wedding when we heard from the altar, at the bridegroom’s request, a recitation of Siempre (‘Always’), a characteristic rodomontade by Pablo Neruda.
I am not jealous
of what came before me.

Come with a man
on your shoulders,
come with a hundred men in your hair,

come with a thousand men between your breasts and your feet,

This boast invites a challenge, coming as it does from an arch philanderer and from a husband who in pursuit of other women abandoned an inconvenient wife and their ailing infant daughter, a choice of moral worth little different from that of Rainer Maria Rilke whose daughter was similarly abandoned, before the age of one, to be sacrificed on the altar of art.
See:  https://catherineeisnerfrance.blogspot.com/2014/08/the-irreconcilable-sententiousness-of.html

That Anglo-Saxons shrink from such declarations as too operetta-ish was borne in on me when I read today the love letters of possibly England’s most notorious murderess Mary Pearcey (hanged 1890).


Novelettish professions of  sacrificial love:
the Kentish Town murderess Mary Pearcey and
the Chilean Nobel-Prize-winning poet, Pablo Neruda.
 

Mary killed the wife and baby of her lover in an attack described as a bloodbath after inviting her victim to afternoon tea. The noted English criminologist, Fryniwyd Tennyson Jesse, disdains the ‘fustian emotions’ of the killer and suggests they were fired by the romantic novelettes (shades of Madame Bovary) that were such a feature of railway bookstalls of the period. 

Five Percent Fervency.
Indeed, the emotions are ‘fustian’ – in the sense of overblown declarations of love – should we choose to judge Mary by the melodramatic appeals to her lover found in her letters, but whose fervency can be quantified as no more than five percent in intensity when measured on the Latin scale of Neruda’s vulgar overwrought declamatory promises. Mary wrote, aged twenty-four:
I would see you married fifty times over – yes,
I could bear that far better
than parting with you for ever
and that is what it would be
if you went out of England.

Murder following English afternoon tea seems well-mannered and modest when you consider Mary’s actions as commensurate with the sacrifices she was prepared to make in sustaining her affair with her married lover and, certainly, they are decidedly moderate when compared with the satyriatic effusions of the Nobel Prize winning Neruda, who is regarded as a provocative object of controversy by Chilean feminists.

So . . . two somewhat novelettish  professions of undying sacrificial love . . . from a buffo-sonorous Nobel-winning Chilean poet and a sordid murderess from Kentish Town . . . I leave you to judge the precise gamut of their credibility.
    

Friday 24 November 2017

Killers Slipping Through the Net: Murder in a Paranoid Nanny State . . . Christina James’s Fair of Face.

It will strike discerning readers of Fair of Face that the central problem confronting the major incident team, in Christina James’s new and totally gripping torn-from-the-front-page thriller of a double murder on a Lincolnshire sink estate, is their resigned surrender to compassion fatigue induced by the conduct of any number of unconscionable dependants of Benefits Britain they encounter within today’s dystopian underclass. 

‘Don’t be nesh,’ a suspect cautions an apparent accomplice who’s reluctant to enter the crime scene but, before this compelling account of seemingly motiveless malignancy is ended, the reader may be sure they too will share the cold dread that comes from uncommon knowledge of macabre and incomprehensible crimes . . . the killing of a sleeping infant and mother, and a mindless family massacre.


‘We cannot see into the mind of another,’ a celebrated Scottish judge once concluded before sentencing the accused to be hanged for an unusually inhuman murder. ‘The springs of action are hidden. Human personality is such a mysterious thing that one person can never enter into the personality of another. All we can do is judge them by their acts and conduct and by surrounding circumstance.’

His bleak summing-up can be taken as almost a formula for the psychological police-procedural crime novel, which as a genre withholds moral judgement and shuns an authorial point of view with no glib answers forthcoming in denouements that very often, far from unknotting the narrative, tighten the mystery with a further series of unexpected twists. In short, if we consider the prime suspect in any superior suspense novel as a notional conflicted ‘analysand’ in an unresolved case of psychotherapy, then the crime novelists who emerge as the most distinguished open-minded documentarians of contemporary anomic murder will be found to be adherents of that student of early psychiatry, Dr Chekhov, a literary social scientist who declared he had no ideology and no convictions yet denied he was an indifferentist.

Specifically, the objective yet compassionate Chekhovian crime novelist adheres to this author’s belief that what is obligatory for the writer ‘is not solving a problem, but stating a problem correctly.’ So . . . when the reader is faced with a vicious crime (described relativistically and not by an omniscient narrator), can one be certain of one’s own moral compass to judge?


Self-deception in a speckled mirror.

Such a novelist is Christina James, whose forensically scrupulous prose in her latest DI Yates novel, Fair of Face, the sixth in her crime thrillers, features a methodology that imitates the split-screen effect of diverse testimonies from both the crime team and their suspects and witnesses, all to some degree the depositions of unreliable narrators who are wanting in self knowledge. Even Detective Inspector Tim Yates is revealed as blinkered to his own bad habit of taking the credit for the successes of his loyal Detective Sergeant, Juliet, his ‘unofficial Girl Friday’ cast in ‘the nice tea lady role’, for whom equally there dawns a recognition of damaging character flaws, ‘I stare at my face in the speckled little mirror that hangs over the sink . . . I’m thirty-five years old and I’ve never understood less what I’m doing with my life.’ Loyal readers recognise that James is an astute anatomist of the dynamics of command.

These character flaws not only impede the investigation but are further exemplified by the blundering actions (‘mealy-mouthed do-gooding’) of a number of do-gooders from the Social Services, whose  prickly demarcation disputes between departments compound a bien pensant bureaucratic correctness that amounts to a virtual paranoia consuming the Nanny State. These passages of the novel are social satire of a high order, as if from the pen of a latter-day Zola to skewer petty officialdom’s buck-passing, which in this case fatally sets in motion the final tragedy. The character sketches of a professional child psychologist are the most acute: ‘She’s wearing a mid-calf dirndl skirt and a broderie anglaise blouse with huge puffed sleeves. Her thick blonde hair has been tied back with a piece of embroidered ribbon. She could pass for a very generously-proportioned Coppélia . . .  with an aggressive brand of altruism.’ 

It is to be this fierce self-deluding altruism of the ‘Responsible Adult’ that hinders the investigative interviewing and blinds the investigators in their race to identify the true criminal intent behind the crime.  

Crucially, the DS, Juliet, protests to the child psychologist: ‘You know I’ll have to interview her again. I’d be grateful if you could let me get through it without interrupting. You can see how important it is . . .’
[Child psychologist] ‘My job is to protect her interests.’ She’s gripping the iron bannister rail. Her knuckles are white. ‘If I think the interview is distressing her too much, or causing her to incriminate herself unfairly, I shall insist that you stop.’

(How vivid! The child psychologist ‘was wearing a floor-length red cotton tartan skirt and a jacket with a nipped-in waist (insofar as it was possible to nip in her waist) in a clashing tartan of purple and blue.’ A note to movie producers (and their costume department): the depth and quality of Fair of Face as a suspense drama is positively filmic, as is the intensely sharp focus on its dramatis personae. And for set designers the mise en scène of the death scene is a marvel of concision. ‘There’s not much furniture in the room besides the double bed and a small old wardrobe with an oval mirror set in the door. Otherwise, just a chair with a rounded back that might have started life in a pub. It’s heaped with clothes.’ Started life in a pub. A Jamesian line that fully expresses the desperate hardscrabble times and familial dysfunctionalism of her Provincial Noir milieu. Feckless ‘on-off fathers who wouldn’t take responsibility for their children.’)

In many ways this mapping of tensions between the individual and a paranoid society reminds one of certain polemical works of fiction by Heinrich Böll, his Brechtian-styled political critiques of governmental dogma and the herd mentality of state functionaries . . . in this instance, a paranoid bureaucracy of exhausted, overworked and often demoralised social workers, a breeding ground, as frequent headlines tell us, for errors to multiply. Certainly James’s austere but muscular prose recalls the calculated intention of Böll’s devastatingly incisive reporting style.

James’s striving for objectivity, with multiple viewpoints, deconstructing events with documentary footage, as it were, brings these societal tensions to life with a naturalism that mirrors the inconclusiveness and mysteriousness of quotidian existence and the violent psychical forces that can be unexpectedly unleashed at an underclass’s Ground Zero. 


Lessons will be learnt?

Mercifully, we do not hear the emollient cliché in this novel so often broadcast after tragedies of the gravity explored in James’s fiction; she, as a social realist disdaining sententiousness, leaves it unsaid. (‘It is better to say not enough than to say too much.’ Chekhov.) In real life, after such failures of the Social Services documented in Fair of Face, we are told that ‘lessons will be learnt’, but James’s ‘mealy-mouthed do-gooder’, in his defence, has this to say:  

‘That’s the problem, isn’t it? Every one of the people you mention was responsible for her physical or mental safety, or her day-to-day care, or some other fragment of her life, but no-one wanted to take on board what she had become.’

In other words, too much altruism makes do-gooders blind. It’s smother love. The Nanny State, in smothering, inadvertently kills. 


Predictive plotting.

Astonishingly, the events of James’s novel all too faithfully mirror certain notorious crimes recorded in the British tabloids (Sussex 1985 and Lincolnshire 2016) in so far as her narrative exhibits a very strange aspect indeed . . . the unexplained manifestation of predictive plotting. How is it, readers are going to ask, how is it that the grim epicentre of James’s crime novel – Spalding in South Lincs – was anticipated as the crime scene for a callow nihilistic murder in 2016 of a mother and child while they slept? Given that the gestation of a complex novel of some 300 pages, one would think, can be no less than eighteen months, never mind its production to publication (October 2017), how were the fictive crimes of Fair of Face foreseen, when the double murderers dubbed the ‘Twilight Killers’ killed in actuality in a remarkably similar manner in Spalding in April 2016? 

They say that you can make your own luck, but – the question remains – can a place make a crime? If this is the case, I would not want to be a denizen of Spalding with Christina James as my bard. Like Chekhov’s world, one enters a dimension of no neat answers.

For a view of the first of Christina James’s crime novels, In the Family (2012), the welcome debut of her Detective Inspector Yates series, see Eisner’s blog-post at:
http://catherineeisnerfrance.blogspot.co.uk/2015/07/christina-james-telling-detail-of-her.html

See also, ‘I am a Serial Killer Diarist’ . . . Unremarked Clues to Two Notorious Crime Sprees (John George Haigh and Colin Ireland) . . .


Catherine Eisner believes passionately in plot-driven suspense fiction, a devotion to literary craft that draws on studies in psychoanalytical criminology and psychoactive pharmacology to explore the dark side of motivation, and ignite plot twists with unexpected outcomes. Within these disciplines Eisner’s fictions seek to explore variant literary forms derived from psychotherapy and criminology to trace the traumas of characters in extremis. Compulsive recurring sub-themes in her narratives examine sibling rivalry, rivalrous cousinhood, pathological imposture, financial chicanery, and the effects of non-familial male pheromones on pubescence, 
and Listen Close to Me (2011)

Thursday 13 October 2011

Hushed Up Chekhov

In the centennial of Chekhov's death, I wrote the following essay (published in the Jewish Chronicle, December 24 2004) in which I identify the suppression of commentary on the anti-Semitic aspects of Chekhov's correspondence and writings and drama.


In this, the year's end of Anton Chekhov's centenary [2004], many devotees will be unaware that, within international Russian-speaking Jewry, their hero is often vilified.
    In the West a controversy is raging among emigrant critics who claim there's a strain of anti-Semitism editorially suppressed in Chekhov's letters, and who point to a coded Jew-baiting hidden in his writings.
    Specifically, Jewish critics assert that Chekhov's literary career was advanced by influential mentors who were ideological anti-Semites. Certainly, Chekhov's disquieting character flaw was kept well-hidden in the Soviet epoch thanks to discreet censorship.
    Airbrushed out of Soviet history books were these remarks of Chekhov, "... our critics are almost all Jews, who don't know the core of Russian life, and are alien to it, its spirit, its forms, its humour ..."    
    Recently, an American-Jewish magazine condemned Chekhov's alleged silence during the Tsarist anti-Jewish pogroms.
    This accusation prompted me to search in vain within the new centennial collection (Chekhov: A Life in Letters, Penguin) for his correspondence with a certain Jew.
    But nowhere in this selection will you find Chekhov's notorious letter suppressed equally by his principal British biographer and Soviet guardians of the Chekhov legend.
    In 1881, following the rape and carnage of anti-Semitic pogroms, Chekhov writes to his former schoolmate, Solomon Kramariov, "If you are beaten ... I'll come. I like beating up your brother-exploiters ... Let you see in your dreams, Israeli, your move into the paradise! Let the justifiable anger of Russian citizens frighten and undermine your nerves!!!"
    Gallows humour, indeed, and this particular passage has been likewise sanitised by Donald Rayfield in his exhaustive biography. (Anton Chekhov: A Life.)        
    The Penguin selection claims to be the "first uncensored edition" but its editors are careful to shield readers from any hints of Chekhov's youthful anti-Semitism.
    Young Anton was fond of the Judophobic poet, Nekrasov, whose influence on Chekhov's early drama, Platonov, is evident.
     "A Yid stands in higher esteem ... There are fatal words on his forehead: For Sale at Public Auction!" This remark, by echoing Nekrasov's poem maligning a prostitute, equates Jewry with prostitution.
    Chekhov used "Yid" habitually in correspondence.  Similarly, Chekhov's youthful first novel reveals usage of "Yid" to be the norm.
    Unrecorded in the new Penguin edition is Chekhov's letter condemning this novel's publisher: "There's a new administration (Kurepin and Yids) there, more disgusting than the previous one."
    Early in his career, Chekhov fell under the spell, too, of another Judophobic writer, Leskov.
    The charge against Chekhov by Judophile critics is that both he and Leskov were "birds of a feather" who collaborated with reactionary, anti-Semitic periodicals. The entrenched anti-Semite, Suvorin, editor of the Judophobic New Times was Chekhov's lifelong friend.
    There is a sense of intimately shared mockery; on holiday, Chekhov writes to Suvorin: "The place swarms with Jews, among the mangiest specimens ... Jews are cowardly people ..."
    Yet, paradoxically, many years' later, Chekhov became a staunch defender of a Jew, Captain Dreyfus. (In this celebrated scandal Dreyfus was falsely accused of passing French military secrets to the German embassy in Paris.)
    When Suvorin declared New Times to be virulently anti-Dreyfusard Chekhov's opinions rapidly matured, swayed by Zola's famous campaigning article, J'accuse!
    The severing of Chekhov's friendship with Suvorin can be dated from their acrimonious falling out over Dreyfus. Chekhov writes: "The attitude of New Times to the Zola affair has been simply vile."
    Yet, the previous year, Chekhov can write casually: "To defend myself from gossip is like begging a loan from a [Jew]." The Soviets censored the word "Jew".
    Chekhov also writes: "I'm not going to write for The Northern Herald because I don't get on with their Israelites."
    This periodical was published by a woman Chekhov cursed for her "Jewishness".
    One hundred years' later, another woman critic, Viktoria Levitina, writes: "Chekhov is a wonderful legend of Russian literature: humanity, tolerance, tactfulness. There existed a sacramental formula in Russian law-making - 'except Jews'. All Chekhov's virtues don't concern Jews either." Chekhov's humanity is the myth of "a writer who is just considered to be a classical one."
    Judged by this latest Penguin selection, these darker suspicions colouring Chekhov's character are not given space to intrude, a deficiency which denies us revisionist insights to reassess his reputation.
      Not least among allegations of Chekhov's Judophobia is the innuendo that his intended Jewish bride, Dunya Efros, inspired the spirited Jewess in his short story written supposedly as an act of revenge in the year of his broken engagement; its protagonist has "a prejudice against un-Russian faces in general ..." Chekhov referred to Dunya as "Efros with her nose" and a rich zhidovochka.
    Chekhov's play, Ivanov, affirms, too: "Do not marry a Jewess or a bluestocking ..."
    Chekhov's misogynistic anti-Semitic aphorism echoes in our hearts when we consider that Dunya was arrested in WW2 Vichy and gassed by the Nazis.
    With 20/20 hindsight, any critic risks glibness in being too eager to judge.       
    But four years before his death, as late as 1900, Chekhov can still grumble in exasperation with Tolstoy, "I can't think why he bothers to talk to these Jews."

[See page 39. The Full Collection of Works and Letters in Thirty Volumes. Letters in Twelve Volumes. Letters. Volume 1. 1875-1886. Moscow, 1974. The anti-Semitic passage from the diary of February, 1897 is also included in this collection. Oddly enough, the Collection of the 1960s, in 12 volumes, skipped all the letters of 1880-1882. Incidentally, Chekhov refers to Kramariov as "Kramarov" which sounds more Jewish, i.e. son of Kramer = merchant.]

Footnote: a teleological conundrum.

It’s noticeable that the publishing here of the unedited text of my centennial article from 2004 has prompted certain speculations as to my own personal standpoint in relation to the post-pogrom diaspora at the turn of the last century. You’ll perhaps have noted that I wrote in clarification:
The reality of anti-Jewish pogroms in Tsarist Russia is not unknown to my family. My grandmother very closely witnessed, in the East End of London, the impact of Russian Jewish immigrants on communities in England (a mass influx of some 120,000 in the first waves fleeing the Russian empire’s anti-Semitic persecution). Hence, Londoners of the 1880s through to the early 1900s were, like Chekhov, no strangers to Russian Jewish customs and culture and my grandmother’s understanding of them was no less profound than his. In fact, it’s quite probable that Londoners knew more about displaced Russian Jews than Chekhov's countrymen who banished them. 
In reality, my grandparents were also members of a diaspora of sorts – in their case descendants of expelled Huguenots – so their views as Londoners were not coloured by extreme reactionary anti-alienism prejudices against the immigrant condition and the ghettoization of the East End. I will merely note that a common British perception of the refugee Jew in the East End of my grandparents’ times is best summed up by the eminent British socialist, Beatrice Webb, when observing (1888-1889) Jewish immigrant life for Charles Booth’s Life and Labour of the People in London.

Beatrice Webb writes of the new arrivals, fleeing persecution, as representing a survivalist class of entrepreneur that, due to their historic experience of persecution, had ‘weeded out the inapt and incompetent’ and sharpened their instincts into ‘an instrument for grasping by mental agility the good things withheld from them by the brute force of the Christian peoples’ and who regarded the best exemplar of their own kind as ‘in a fair way to become a tiny capitalist — a maker of profit . . . [who] feels himself the equal of a Montefiore or a Rothschild.’ Beatrice Webb, needless to add, was one of the founders of the Fabian Society; she coined the term ‘collective bargaining’ and wrote The History of Trade Unionism (1894). The stark conflict witnessed by my grandparents in the East End – contemporary movements towards organised labour versus the immigrants’ sweatshop practices that drove down wages – can therefore be better appreciated as the goad behind my grandfather and his becoming a very early member of the Fabian Society, that champion of co-operative endeavour and advocate of a welfare state and a national minimum wage.  

See also a variant of this article at:
https://peoples-press.com/index.php/morning-star-online-from-2004/culture/item/8338-chekhov-s-letters


The English View on Pogroms

Today (December 8 2017), astonishingly, I was turning the pages of a little book on East Anglian Dialect (‘Lingual Localisms’), published in London in 1823, and among all the quaint rustic sayings and ‘mitigated oaths’ I found the word, ‘Pogram’

So from almost two hundred years ago, here’s the view of a sophisticated English scholar and etymologist:
POGRAM [original spelling unchanged]: A word that has not been much heard till of late years [i.e. 1821 Odessa pogroms marked the beginning of the 19th century pogroms in Tsarist Russia], though I believe it not to be of recent coinage: indeed I’m pretty sure I have seen it somewhere. It is now generally applied by vulgar churchmen to dissenters of different denominations. Not however to papists, jews, or quakers. The remark that mutual rancour of conflicting sects is inversely as their degree of difference, holds good all the world over. Christians hate each other more than they do Jews or Mahommedans. And the latter, however inveterate against Christians, are yet still more so mutually in regard to sectarian difference: though in fact such difference be unimportant, and comprising no point of faith, beyond who was the fittest man to succeed Mahommed in the Khalifat, or civil and pontifical supremacy. Even the tolerant Hindus, who admit no proselytes, and aver that all mankind are more or less Hindus, have had desolating wars among themselves on points of faith and practice; and hate each other with considerable intensity; greatly exceeding what they feel towards Christians, or Mahommedans. It has been reserved for the Hindus to carry on merciless wars of extermination on a question of physiological function. Yet such are points of history and I believe of fact. The original question was whether their Jupiter or Juno were the most potential in the infancy, or before the infancy, of society?

That last remark, I suspect, teeters very close to iconoclasm yet this writer wrote in the Regency era so it’s not altogether surprising, because this kind of robust opinion was to thrive for over a decade until Victorian stuffiness stifled bluff hearty outbursts like this in the name of good taste.


Silence of the British Press, September 2018.

It should be recorded here that, in the 2018 debates by British mainstream news media on the question of anti-Semitism persisting in the UK Labour Party (September 2018), there was silence on the matter of its enshrinement in the ideological foundations of trade unionism articulated by Fabianism from which the Labour Party sprang. 

Just a further small sample of Beatrice Webb’s writings indicate the source of traditional Labourite/Fabian prejudice.  

In short, the explicit animus levelled by Labourites/Fabians against Jews is defined in Beatrice’s own words: 
‘. . . the immigrant Jew, though possessed of many first-class virtues, is deficient in that highest and latest development of human sentiment – social morality.’ 
Another quote from Beatrice: 
‘In the Jewish inhabitants of East London we see therefore a race of brain-workers competing with a class of manual labourers. The Polish Jew regards manual work as the first rung of the social ladder, to be superseded or supplanted on the first opportunity by the estimates of the profit-maker, the transactions of the dealer, or the calculations of the money-lender . . . ’


Catherine Eisner believes passionately in plot-driven suspense fiction, a devotion to literary craft that draws on studies in psychoanalytical criminology and psychoactive pharmacology to explore the dark side of motivation, and ignite plot twists with unexpected outcomes. Within these disciplines Eisner’s fictions seek to explore variant literary forms derived from psychotherapy and criminology to trace the traumas of characters in extremisCompulsive recurring sub-themes in her narratives examine sibling rivalry, rivalrous cousinhood, pathological imposture, financial chicanery, and the effects of non-familial male pheromones on pubescence, 
see Eisner’s Sister Morphine (2008)
http://catherineeisnerfrance.blogspot.co.uk/2011/09/sister-morphine.html
and Listen Close to Me (2011)
http://catherineeisnerfrance.blogspot.co.uk/2011/09/published-this-autumn-listen-close-to.html