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The Gender of Modernism: A Critical Anthology
"This is the book we've been waiting for: a distinguished collection that demonstrates how revisions of Modernist definitions might proceed.... The Gender of Modernism... will be nothing less than an absolutely necessary text for Modernist studies." --Shari Benstock
"Scott and her contributing editors... effectively brings together the issues of gender and modernism into a volume recommended for reference and classroom use." --James Joyce Literary Supplement
..". a treasure trove for anyone interested in the literature and history of modern times." --Susan Gubar
Authors included are: Djuna Barnes, Willa Cather, Nancy Cunard, H.D., T.S. Eliot, Jessie Redmond Fauset, Zora Neale Hurston, James Joyce, Nella Larsen, D.H. Lawrence, Mina Loy, Rose Macaulay, Hugh MacDiarmid, Katherine Mansfield, Charlotte Mew, Marianne Moore, Ezra Pound, Jean Rhys, Dorothy Richardson, May Sinclair, Gertrude Stein, Sylvia Townsend Warner, Rebecca West, Antonia White, Anna Wickham, and Virginia Woolf
"Scott and her contributing editors... effectively brings together the issues of gender and modernism into a volume recommended for reference and classroom use." --James Joyce Literary Supplement
..". a treasure trove for anyone interested in the literature and history of modern times." --Susan Gubar
Authors included are: Djuna Barnes, Willa Cather, Nancy Cunard, H.D., T.S. Eliot, Jessie Redmond Fauset, Zora Neale Hurston, James Joyce, Nella Larsen, D.H. Lawrence, Mina Loy, Rose Macaulay, Hugh MacDiarmid, Katherine Mansfield, Charlotte Mew, Marianne Moore, Ezra Pound, Jean Rhys, Dorothy Richardson, May Sinclair, Gertrude Stein, Sylvia Townsend Warner, Rebecca West, Antonia White, Anna Wickham, and Virginia Woolf
- GenresNonfiction
718 pages, Paperback
First published November 1, 1990
2 people are currently reading
90 people want to read
About the author
Willa Cather
982 books2,851 followersWilella Sibert Cather was born in Back Creek Valley (Gore), Virginia, in December 7, 1873.
She grew up in Virginia and Nebraska. She then attended the University of Nebraska, initially planning to become a physician, but after writing an article for the Nebraska State Journal, she became a regular contributor to this journal. Because of this, she changed her major and graduated with a bachelor's degree in English.
After graduation in 1894, she worked in Pittsburgh as writer for various publications and as a school teacher for approximately 13 years, thereafter moving to New York City for the remainder of her life.
Her novels on frontier life brought her to national recognition. In 1923 she was awarded the Pulitzer Prize for her novel, 'One of Ours' (1922), set during World War I. She travelled widely and often spent summers in New Brunswick, Canada. In later life, she experienced much negative criticism for her conservative politics and became reclusive, burning some of her letters and personal papers, including her last manuscript.
She was elected a Fellow of the American Academy of Arts and Sciences in 1943. In 1944, Cather received the gold medal for fiction from the National Institute of Arts and Letters, an award given once a decade for an author's total accomplishments.
She died of a cerebral haemorrhage at the age of 73 in New York City.
She grew up in Virginia and Nebraska. She then attended the University of Nebraska, initially planning to become a physician, but after writing an article for the Nebraska State Journal, she became a regular contributor to this journal. Because of this, she changed her major and graduated with a bachelor's degree in English.
After graduation in 1894, she worked in Pittsburgh as writer for various publications and as a school teacher for approximately 13 years, thereafter moving to New York City for the remainder of her life.
Her novels on frontier life brought her to national recognition. In 1923 she was awarded the Pulitzer Prize for her novel, 'One of Ours' (1922), set during World War I. She travelled widely and often spent summers in New Brunswick, Canada. In later life, she experienced much negative criticism for her conservative politics and became reclusive, burning some of her letters and personal papers, including her last manuscript.
She was elected a Fellow of the American Academy of Arts and Sciences in 1943. In 1944, Cather received the gold medal for fiction from the National Institute of Arts and Letters, an award given once a decade for an author's total accomplishments.
She died of a cerebral haemorrhage at the age of 73 in New York City.
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March 8, 2015
An essential collection this - lots of fascinating articles and reviews by many of those unjustly forgotten Modernists - well worth tracking down.
Dorothy Richardson's review of Finnegans Wake (the reason i tracked down this book in the first place...)
Adventure for Readers - July 1939
Having defined poetry as “the result of passion recollected in tranquillity” (the opening words here are apologetically italicized because, though their absence makes the definition meaningless, they are almost invariably omitted), Wordsworth goes on to describe what happens when the poet, recalling an occurrence that has stirred him to his depths, concentrates thereon the full force of his imaginative consciousness; how there presently returns, together with the circumstances of the experience, something of the emotion that accompanied it, and how, in virtue of this magnetic stream sustained and deepened by continuous concentration, there comes into being a product this poet names, with scientific accuracy, an “effusion”.
In Wordsworth’s own case, the product can itself become the source of further inspiration, and the presence upon the page of offspring set beneath parent and duly entitled “Effusion on Reading the Above”, affords a unique revelation of the subsidiary working of an emotion tranquilly regathered.
And while this enchanted enchanter and his successors (the greatest of whom, dead e’er his prime, produced for our everlasting adoration, effusions inspired by the reading of Lempriere’s Dictionary) sang to the spirit their immortal ditties, our novelists, following the example of their forebears, those wandering minstrels who told for the delight of the untraveled, brave strange tales from far away, wove stories whose power to enthral resided chiefly in their ability to provide both excitement and suspense; uncertainty as to what, in the pages still to be turned, might befall the hero from whom, all too soon, returning to the “world of everyday”, the reader must regretfully take leave.
With vain, prophetic insight, Goethe protested that action and drama are for the theatre, that the novelist’s business is to keep his hero always and everywhere onlooker rather than participant and, “by one device or another”, to slow up the events of the story so that they may be seen through his eyes and modified by his thought.
The first novelist fully to realise his ideal was Henry James and, by the time James had finished his work, something had happened to English poetry.
How, or just why, or exactly when the shift occurred from concentration upon the various aspects of the sublime and beautiful to what may be called the immediate investigation of reality, it is not easy to say, though a poet-novelist, Richard Church, in his recent address to the Royal Society of Literature, made, one feels, some excellent guesses as to the practical reasons for the changeover. Whereunto may be added the widespread application, for some time past, of Pope’s injunction as to the proper study of mankind.
Whatever the combination of incitements, certain of our poets have now, for decades past, produced short stories rather than lyrics and, in place of the epic and foreshadowed by The Ring and the Book, so very nearly a prose epic, have given us, if we exclude The Testament of Beauty, rearing a nobly defiant head in the last ditch of the epic form, the modern novel.
The proof, if proof be needed, of the transference may be found in a quality this new novel, at its worst as well as at its best, shares with poetry and that is conspicuously absent from the story-telling novel of whatever kind. Opening, just anywhere, its pages, the reader is immediately engrossed. Time and place, and the identity of characters, if any happen to appear, are relatively immaterial. Something may be missed. Incidents may fail of their full effect through ignorance of what has gone before. But the reader does not find himself, as inevitably he would in plunging thus carelessly into the midst of the dramatic novel complete with plot, set scenes, beginning, middle, climax, and curtain, completely at sea. He finds himself within a medium whose close texture, like that of poetry, is everywhere significant and although, when the tapestry hangs complete before his eyes, each potion is seen to enhance the rest and the shape and the intention of the whole grows clear, any single strip may be divorced from its fellows without losing everything of its power and of its meaning.
Particularly is this true of the effusions of Marcel Proust and of James Joyce. For while every novel, taken as a whole, shares with every other species of portrayal the necessity of being a signed self-portrait and might well be subtitled Portrait of the Artist at the Age of- where, in the long line of novelist preceding this two, save, perhaps, in Henry James as represented by the work of his maturity, shall we find another whose signature is clearly inscribed across his every sentence?
Reaching Finnegans Wake we discover its author’s signature not only across each sentence, but upon almost every word. And since, upon the greater number of its pages, nearly every other word is either wholly or partially an improvisation, the would-be reader must pay, in terms of sheer concentration, a tax far higher even than that demanded by Imagist poetry. And be he never so familiar with the author’s earlier work, and in agreement with those who approve his repudiation of the orthodoxies of grammar and syntax, finding, when doubt assails, reassurance in the presence of similar effective and, doubtless, salutary heresies in the practice of the arts other than literature, the heavily-burdened reader of Finnegans Wake, hopefully glissading, upon the first page, down a word of a hundred letters – representing the fall that carried Finnegan to his death – into pathless verbal thickets, may presently find himself weary of struggling from thicket to thicket without a clue, weary of abstruse references that too often appear to be mere displays of erudition, weary of the melange of languages ancient and modern, of regional and class dialects, slangs and catchwords and slogans, puns and nursery rhymes, phrases that are household words phonetically adapted to fresh intentions, usually improper, sometimes side-splitting, often merely facetious, incensed in discovering that these diverse elements, whether standing on their heads or fantastically paraphrased, apparently succeed each other as the sound of one suggests that of the next rather than by any continuity of inward meaning, and are all too frequently interspersed by spontaneous creations recalling those produced by children at a loss, bored to desperation by lack of interest and seeking relief in shouting a single word, repeating it with a change of vowel, with another change and another, striving to outdo themselves until the reach, with terrific emphasis , onomatopoeia precipitating adult interference.
Meanwhile the author, presumably foreseeing the breakdown of even the most faithful Joyceian as likely to occur in the neighbourhood of the hundredth page, comes to the rescue in the name of Anna Livia, invoked by a parody of a well-known prayer (“Annah the Allmaziful, the everliving, Bringer of Plurabilities, haloed be her eve, her singtime sung, her rill be run, un hemmed as it is uneven.”), with a chapter on the allied arts of writing and reading, here and there exceptionally, and most mercifully, explicit, preluded by a list of the hundred and sixty-three names given to Annah’s “untitle mamafesta memorializing the Mosthighest” (including Rockabill Boobu in the Wave Trough, What Jumbo made to Jalice and What Anisette to Him, and I am Older nor the Roges among Whist I Slips and He calls me his Dual of Ayessha), and one day perhaps to be translated, annotated, and issued as a Critique of Pure Literature and an Introduction to the Study of James Joyce.
The impact of this chapter, a fulfilment of the author’s prescription – “Say it with missies, and thus arabesque the page” – is tremendous, its high purpose nothing less than the demand that the novel shall be poetry. A grouped selection of caught missiles and fragments of missiles produces the following relatively coherent mosaic:” About that original hen…the bird in this case was Belinda of the Dorans, a more than quinque-genrarian…and what she was scratching looked like a goodish-sized sheet of letter paper…Well, almost any photoist…will tip anyone asking him the teaser that if a negative of a horse happens to melt enough while drying…what you get is…a positively grotesque distorted macromass of all sorts of horsehappy values…well, this freely is what must have occurred to our missive….by the sagacity of a lookmelittle likemelong hen…Lead, kindly Fowl!...No, assuredly they are not justified these gloompourers who grouse that letters have never been quite their old selves again since Biddy Doran looked ad literature…Who, at all this marvelling, but will press…to see the vaulting feminine libido…sternly controlled…by the uniform matteroffactness of a meandering masculine fist?...To concentrate solely on the literal sense or even the psychological content of any document….is…hurtful to sound sense.”
Quite as far goes Mr.Walter de la Mare, who has recently declared that “When poetry is most poetic, when it sounds, that is, and the utterance of them, and when is rhythms rather than the words themselves are its real if cryptic language, any other meaning, however valuable it may be, is only a secondary matter.”
Primarily, then, are we to listen to Finnegans Wake? Not so much to what Joyce says, as to the lovely way he says it, to the rhythms and undulating cadences of the Irish voice, with its capacity to make of every spoken word a sentence with parentheses and to arouse, in almost every English breast, a responsive emotion?
Consulting once more the author’s elucidatory chapter, we find our instructions:” Closer inspection of the bordereau would reveal a multiplicity of personalities…and some prevision of virtual crime or crimes might be made by anyone unwary enough before any suitable occasion for it or them had so far managed to happen along. In fact…the traits featuring the chiaroscuro coalesce, their contrarieties eliminated, in one stable somebody…” We are urged also to be patient, to avoid “anything like being or becoming out of patience…so holp me Petault, it is not a misaffectual whyacinthinous riot…it only looks like it as damn it…cling to it as with drowning hands, hoping against hope all the while, that by the light of philophosy…things will begin to clear up a bit one way or another within the next quarrel of an hour.”
Thus encouraged, with this easily decipherable chapter’s rich treasure in hand and perceptions exalted and luminous, the reader presses hopefully onward; only to find his feet once more caught in impenetrable undergrowths, and his head assailed by missiles falling thicker and faster than before, hurled by one obviously in silent ecstasies as he watches the flounderings of his victim. Scanning and re-scanning the lines until their rhythm grows apparent, presently acquiring ease in following cadence and intonation as he goes, the reader again finds himself listening to what appears to be no more than the non-stop patter of an erudite cheapjack. Weariness returns. So what? Weeks of searching for the coalescence and the somebody?
Let us take the author at his word. Really release consciousness from the literary preoccupations and prejudices, from the self-imposed task of searching for superficial sequences in stretches of statement regarded horizontally, or of setting these upright and regarding them pictorially, and plunge, provisionally, here and there; enter the text and look innocently about.
The reward is sheer delight, and the promise, for future readings, of inexhaustible entertainment. Inexhaustible, because so very many fragments of this text now show themselves comparable only to the rider who leapt into the saddle and rose off in all directions. The coalescence and the somebody can wait. Already, pursuing our indiscriminate way, we have discovered coherencies, links between forest and forest, and certain looming forms, have anticipated the possibility of setting down upon a “goodish-sized sheet of letter paper” the skeleton of a long argument. For the present, for a first reading, the “meanderings” of the “masculine fist” are a sufficient repayment. Event a tenth reading will leave some still to be followed up; and many to be continuously excused.
Do we find it possible, having thus “read” the whole and reached the end, a long, lyrically wailing, feminine monologue, to name the passion whose result is this tremendous effusion? Finnegan, the master-mason, and his wife Annie and their friends may symbolise life or literature or what you will that occasionally calls for mourning. For their creator they are food for incessant ironic laughter (possibly a screen for love and solicitude), mitigated only here and there by a touch of wistfulness that is to reach at the end a full note. Shall we remind ourselves that most of our male poets have sounded wistful? And the women? Well, there is Emily Bronte, who, by the way, would have delighted, with reservations, in Finnegans Wake.
Dorothy Richardson's review of Finnegans Wake (the reason i tracked down this book in the first place...)
Adventure for Readers - July 1939
Having defined poetry as “the result of passion recollected in tranquillity” (the opening words here are apologetically italicized because, though their absence makes the definition meaningless, they are almost invariably omitted), Wordsworth goes on to describe what happens when the poet, recalling an occurrence that has stirred him to his depths, concentrates thereon the full force of his imaginative consciousness; how there presently returns, together with the circumstances of the experience, something of the emotion that accompanied it, and how, in virtue of this magnetic stream sustained and deepened by continuous concentration, there comes into being a product this poet names, with scientific accuracy, an “effusion”.
In Wordsworth’s own case, the product can itself become the source of further inspiration, and the presence upon the page of offspring set beneath parent and duly entitled “Effusion on Reading the Above”, affords a unique revelation of the subsidiary working of an emotion tranquilly regathered.
And while this enchanted enchanter and his successors (the greatest of whom, dead e’er his prime, produced for our everlasting adoration, effusions inspired by the reading of Lempriere’s Dictionary) sang to the spirit their immortal ditties, our novelists, following the example of their forebears, those wandering minstrels who told for the delight of the untraveled, brave strange tales from far away, wove stories whose power to enthral resided chiefly in their ability to provide both excitement and suspense; uncertainty as to what, in the pages still to be turned, might befall the hero from whom, all too soon, returning to the “world of everyday”, the reader must regretfully take leave.
With vain, prophetic insight, Goethe protested that action and drama are for the theatre, that the novelist’s business is to keep his hero always and everywhere onlooker rather than participant and, “by one device or another”, to slow up the events of the story so that they may be seen through his eyes and modified by his thought.
The first novelist fully to realise his ideal was Henry James and, by the time James had finished his work, something had happened to English poetry.
How, or just why, or exactly when the shift occurred from concentration upon the various aspects of the sublime and beautiful to what may be called the immediate investigation of reality, it is not easy to say, though a poet-novelist, Richard Church, in his recent address to the Royal Society of Literature, made, one feels, some excellent guesses as to the practical reasons for the changeover. Whereunto may be added the widespread application, for some time past, of Pope’s injunction as to the proper study of mankind.
Whatever the combination of incitements, certain of our poets have now, for decades past, produced short stories rather than lyrics and, in place of the epic and foreshadowed by The Ring and the Book, so very nearly a prose epic, have given us, if we exclude The Testament of Beauty, rearing a nobly defiant head in the last ditch of the epic form, the modern novel.
The proof, if proof be needed, of the transference may be found in a quality this new novel, at its worst as well as at its best, shares with poetry and that is conspicuously absent from the story-telling novel of whatever kind. Opening, just anywhere, its pages, the reader is immediately engrossed. Time and place, and the identity of characters, if any happen to appear, are relatively immaterial. Something may be missed. Incidents may fail of their full effect through ignorance of what has gone before. But the reader does not find himself, as inevitably he would in plunging thus carelessly into the midst of the dramatic novel complete with plot, set scenes, beginning, middle, climax, and curtain, completely at sea. He finds himself within a medium whose close texture, like that of poetry, is everywhere significant and although, when the tapestry hangs complete before his eyes, each potion is seen to enhance the rest and the shape and the intention of the whole grows clear, any single strip may be divorced from its fellows without losing everything of its power and of its meaning.
Particularly is this true of the effusions of Marcel Proust and of James Joyce. For while every novel, taken as a whole, shares with every other species of portrayal the necessity of being a signed self-portrait and might well be subtitled Portrait of the Artist at the Age of- where, in the long line of novelist preceding this two, save, perhaps, in Henry James as represented by the work of his maturity, shall we find another whose signature is clearly inscribed across his every sentence?
Reaching Finnegans Wake we discover its author’s signature not only across each sentence, but upon almost every word. And since, upon the greater number of its pages, nearly every other word is either wholly or partially an improvisation, the would-be reader must pay, in terms of sheer concentration, a tax far higher even than that demanded by Imagist poetry. And be he never so familiar with the author’s earlier work, and in agreement with those who approve his repudiation of the orthodoxies of grammar and syntax, finding, when doubt assails, reassurance in the presence of similar effective and, doubtless, salutary heresies in the practice of the arts other than literature, the heavily-burdened reader of Finnegans Wake, hopefully glissading, upon the first page, down a word of a hundred letters – representing the fall that carried Finnegan to his death – into pathless verbal thickets, may presently find himself weary of struggling from thicket to thicket without a clue, weary of abstruse references that too often appear to be mere displays of erudition, weary of the melange of languages ancient and modern, of regional and class dialects, slangs and catchwords and slogans, puns and nursery rhymes, phrases that are household words phonetically adapted to fresh intentions, usually improper, sometimes side-splitting, often merely facetious, incensed in discovering that these diverse elements, whether standing on their heads or fantastically paraphrased, apparently succeed each other as the sound of one suggests that of the next rather than by any continuity of inward meaning, and are all too frequently interspersed by spontaneous creations recalling those produced by children at a loss, bored to desperation by lack of interest and seeking relief in shouting a single word, repeating it with a change of vowel, with another change and another, striving to outdo themselves until the reach, with terrific emphasis , onomatopoeia precipitating adult interference.
Meanwhile the author, presumably foreseeing the breakdown of even the most faithful Joyceian as likely to occur in the neighbourhood of the hundredth page, comes to the rescue in the name of Anna Livia, invoked by a parody of a well-known prayer (“Annah the Allmaziful, the everliving, Bringer of Plurabilities, haloed be her eve, her singtime sung, her rill be run, un hemmed as it is uneven.”), with a chapter on the allied arts of writing and reading, here and there exceptionally, and most mercifully, explicit, preluded by a list of the hundred and sixty-three names given to Annah’s “untitle mamafesta memorializing the Mosthighest” (including Rockabill Boobu in the Wave Trough, What Jumbo made to Jalice and What Anisette to Him, and I am Older nor the Roges among Whist I Slips and He calls me his Dual of Ayessha), and one day perhaps to be translated, annotated, and issued as a Critique of Pure Literature and an Introduction to the Study of James Joyce.
The impact of this chapter, a fulfilment of the author’s prescription – “Say it with missies, and thus arabesque the page” – is tremendous, its high purpose nothing less than the demand that the novel shall be poetry. A grouped selection of caught missiles and fragments of missiles produces the following relatively coherent mosaic:” About that original hen…the bird in this case was Belinda of the Dorans, a more than quinque-genrarian…and what she was scratching looked like a goodish-sized sheet of letter paper…Well, almost any photoist…will tip anyone asking him the teaser that if a negative of a horse happens to melt enough while drying…what you get is…a positively grotesque distorted macromass of all sorts of horsehappy values…well, this freely is what must have occurred to our missive….by the sagacity of a lookmelittle likemelong hen…Lead, kindly Fowl!...No, assuredly they are not justified these gloompourers who grouse that letters have never been quite their old selves again since Biddy Doran looked ad literature…Who, at all this marvelling, but will press…to see the vaulting feminine libido…sternly controlled…by the uniform matteroffactness of a meandering masculine fist?...To concentrate solely on the literal sense or even the psychological content of any document….is…hurtful to sound sense.”
Quite as far goes Mr.Walter de la Mare, who has recently declared that “When poetry is most poetic, when it sounds, that is, and the utterance of them, and when is rhythms rather than the words themselves are its real if cryptic language, any other meaning, however valuable it may be, is only a secondary matter.”
Primarily, then, are we to listen to Finnegans Wake? Not so much to what Joyce says, as to the lovely way he says it, to the rhythms and undulating cadences of the Irish voice, with its capacity to make of every spoken word a sentence with parentheses and to arouse, in almost every English breast, a responsive emotion?
Consulting once more the author’s elucidatory chapter, we find our instructions:” Closer inspection of the bordereau would reveal a multiplicity of personalities…and some prevision of virtual crime or crimes might be made by anyone unwary enough before any suitable occasion for it or them had so far managed to happen along. In fact…the traits featuring the chiaroscuro coalesce, their contrarieties eliminated, in one stable somebody…” We are urged also to be patient, to avoid “anything like being or becoming out of patience…so holp me Petault, it is not a misaffectual whyacinthinous riot…it only looks like it as damn it…cling to it as with drowning hands, hoping against hope all the while, that by the light of philophosy…things will begin to clear up a bit one way or another within the next quarrel of an hour.”
Thus encouraged, with this easily decipherable chapter’s rich treasure in hand and perceptions exalted and luminous, the reader presses hopefully onward; only to find his feet once more caught in impenetrable undergrowths, and his head assailed by missiles falling thicker and faster than before, hurled by one obviously in silent ecstasies as he watches the flounderings of his victim. Scanning and re-scanning the lines until their rhythm grows apparent, presently acquiring ease in following cadence and intonation as he goes, the reader again finds himself listening to what appears to be no more than the non-stop patter of an erudite cheapjack. Weariness returns. So what? Weeks of searching for the coalescence and the somebody?
Let us take the author at his word. Really release consciousness from the literary preoccupations and prejudices, from the self-imposed task of searching for superficial sequences in stretches of statement regarded horizontally, or of setting these upright and regarding them pictorially, and plunge, provisionally, here and there; enter the text and look innocently about.
The reward is sheer delight, and the promise, for future readings, of inexhaustible entertainment. Inexhaustible, because so very many fragments of this text now show themselves comparable only to the rider who leapt into the saddle and rose off in all directions. The coalescence and the somebody can wait. Already, pursuing our indiscriminate way, we have discovered coherencies, links between forest and forest, and certain looming forms, have anticipated the possibility of setting down upon a “goodish-sized sheet of letter paper” the skeleton of a long argument. For the present, for a first reading, the “meanderings” of the “masculine fist” are a sufficient repayment. Event a tenth reading will leave some still to be followed up; and many to be continuously excused.
Do we find it possible, having thus “read” the whole and reached the end, a long, lyrically wailing, feminine monologue, to name the passion whose result is this tremendous effusion? Finnegan, the master-mason, and his wife Annie and their friends may symbolise life or literature or what you will that occasionally calls for mourning. For their creator they are food for incessant ironic laughter (possibly a screen for love and solicitude), mitigated only here and there by a touch of wistfulness that is to reach at the end a full note. Shall we remind ourselves that most of our male poets have sounded wistful? And the women? Well, there is Emily Bronte, who, by the way, would have delighted, with reservations, in Finnegans Wake.
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