Fascinating insight into the lottery of literary fame. Fantastically well-researched. But, in my opinion, desperately over-reaches about LEL's talent, and the importance/interest of the minutiae of her life, making the middle section of the book, sadly, quite a slog, and burying some of the really interesting and important points that Miller has to make.
Rock-star poet of the 1820s, "L.E.L." (Letitia Elizabeth Landon, 1802-1837) is nothing short of a gift to a biographer: so thoroughly forgotten, and alien to modern tastes, that every word about her comes as a revelation. Whirling around so many literary and social circles of her day that you can honestly say that, if LEL didn't know you, then you really weren't worth knowing; and if you didn't have an opinion about LEL (pitying, bitchy, kind, cruel, take your pick) then you really weren't up to much. Surrounded, all of her short and ultimately tragic, life by people who really did do nothing but scribble, scribble, scribble, so the wealth of diaries, letters, newspaper articles and other documentation that survive, and can be used to piece together her life, almost day by day, is quite incredible.
And there's the tragedy (and mystery) of her untimely death at 35: suicide, accident or murder? All so thoroughly documented that it's possible, 180-odd years after the sad events, to feel that Miller is cross-examining the witnesses in real-time, and could easily demand a post-mortem.
But ... is it possible to have too much of a good thing? (Hint: yes.) Miller is, in my opinion, so enchanted by "LEL" (on every level -- by her writing; by the modern-feeling transgressions of her life; by the modern-feeling lessons about the fleeting nature and cost of celebrity; by the "ease" with which she can be summoned back from critical obscurity and even death; and yes, by the drama of that death ... ) that she puts some of her critical judgement on hold, and loses her focus.
I have to be honest here, and admit that I found LEL's poetry excruciating, both in style and subject. (With some notable exceptions ... the final poems she wrote, on her voyage to Africa after her marriage, are actually very touching.) Much of Miller's case for the poetry seems like special pleading: it's good because it's a true expression of LEL's experience, and if it seems bad, you just need to understand LEL better, and then you will see that it's good.
The very badness of the lines is shifty. ... The creaking versification only comes to life if one imagines Letitia speaking the words with coquettishly simulated wide-eyed innocence.
Hmmmm ... I don't think so. Again and again and again, Miller conflates the content of LEL's poetry with what's going on in her life, and LEL's response to those events. Lines about 'a wreath of fragile flowers' are obviously "Letitia ... asking for the return of the virginity that she had traded ... for her career." And "Letitia made her surrogate, L.E.L., threaten suicide, so that she would not have to do so herself." REALLY?
Miller herself admits that this is "one of the knottiest philosophical problems in criticism: that of authorial intentionality," and in my opinion, she completely misses the point. Authors make things up: that's what they do.
Miller admits that Landon's public person was often wildly at odds with the poetic persona of LEL, but ignores the possibility that, in her poetry, Landon was being just as tongue-in-cheek, and over the top as Byron had been in his mock-heroic epics -- that what she wrote as LEL was a fiction, or hyperbole, or marketable nonsense. Miller's thesis is that it was all a coded message, straight from her heart, telling us all we need to know about Letitia Elizabeth Landon.
There is fascinating detail, and much interesting social literary context here: Elizabeth Barrett Browning wrote a poem that uses a refrain from one of LEL's last poems to reflect on the way the literary world treats clever women. And George Eliot telegraphed the moral and intellectual emptiness of one of the characters in Middlemarch by making her a big fan of LEL. Who knew?