Choosing the names of a novel’s characters is a task not to be undertaken lightly. As Jane Austen herself was aware, a name is a crucial handle, revealing character, demographics and possibly self-image. Continue reading
A few days ago I was surprised (but pleased) to learn that someone in Germany wants to publish The Jane Austen Project. Although foreign rights are one of the topics a standard publishing contract covers, the idea that this would ever happen had always seemed more hypothetical than real. Perhaps because Jane Austen seems so rooted in Englishness — though I knew, in an abstract way, that she was famous beyond her own language.
There is something so strange about the idea of my own story existing in a form I can’t read myself, that it will go to a place I can’t. I remember thinking about this the last time I read Anna Karenina. Reading his words, I felt so close to Tolstoy’s amazing mind — and yet these words were not his, only some approximation. But then, language is always only an approximation, the cracked kettle on which we beat out tunes for bears to dance to. Everything, ultimately, is lost in translation.
The internet has been all over this, a “dramatic re-appraisal,” as the headline breathlessly puts it. But we never knew just what Darcy looked like in the first place — about all Jane Austen gives us is “fine, tall person, handsome features, noble mien, and the report which was in general circulation within five minutes after his entrance of his having ten thousand pounds a year.” The piece by John Sutherland and Amanda Vickery is great, a thorough exploration of early 19th-century ideas about male desirability, ticking through things like the importance of cravats, of knowing how to move gracefully, and of having a well-turned leg. None of this was news to me, so I personally can’t be too surprised to learn that the first readers of Pride and Prejudice probably did not imagine him as looking like a certain late 20th-century English actor.
What surprises me, instead, is that seems to be seen as surprising. Continue reading
When the idea first seized me of writing a book about time travel and Jane Austen, I realized that despite being a fan of her work, I knew little about her life or her England. There was no way around it: I had to do some research. I joined the Jane Austen Society of North America, impressed that there actually was such a group, and started attending meetings of my local chapter. I got an alumni library card and read my way through the Jane Austen shelves at Barnard. My need for more obscure and specialized knowledge about things like the history of housekeeping and slavery-era Jamaica led me to the New York Public Library reading room and online collection. To great websites like Two Nerdy History Girls, Jane Austen’s World, Jane Austen’s London, and many others. In search of atmosphere, I went to London, Bath, Winchester and Chawton. Also, oddly, Dublin, better than London for trying to imagine 1815 London, with its streets and streets of Georgian terraced houses and the excellent Number 29 house museum. I set up Google alerts so as not to miss any Jane Austen news.
When I look back on all this, I think of a line from John Irving’s weird masterpiece The Hotel New Hampshire: “You’ve got to get obsessed and stay obsessed.” And when I look back on all this, there seems a kind of innocence, an undergraduate assurance that if one could only learn enough about a subject, the rest would fall into place.
Still. Did I over-prepare? Probably. Did I need to read that many biographies? Probably not. There are all kinds of ways of not writing, and research is a great one, because it’s so respectable. There is no possible world in which this amount of time spent on one entertaining but slight novel could make any sense, economically or artistically. Not unless love or its mysterious twin, obsession, enters the picture.
For in the end, it boils down to time. Given varying lifespans — but we don’t know that part ahead of time — we are all equal in our allotment of 24 hours to a day, seven days to a week, 365 days to a year. We are crying babies, curious toddlers, restless teenagers and so on, until we look in the mirror one day, surprised to find ourselves trapped in the body of an old person.
You cannot conquer time. Unless, maybe, to lose yourself in something to such an extent that time ceases to have its usual dominion. It’s passing as always, but you don’t notice. The world just goes on without you, people dying and being born and seeking public office. And that, I see now, was the real gift of my multiyear obsession with Jane Austen. Not the novel I ended up with, but the experience of writing it. Not in the finding, but in the seeking.
At the Christmas market in Bryant Park, my favorite shop is the one with wool goods from the Himalayas. When I saw this hat there, a few Decembers ago, I was smitten. It became my new favorite, my go-to winter hat.
Pink is not a color I wear much, nor do I favor hats with ears. But I love this hat! So silly, so distinctive, it brightens the darkest winter day. Dorkily large, it does not squeeze my head and is lined with non-itchy polar fleece. The earpieces hang down like crazy Regency sideburns or those protective pieces on Viking helmets. I love my hat.
The other night I met up with a friend. “Oh, you’ve got one of those hats!” she said. I looked at her, perplexed “The pussy hats. You know. For the march.” I did not know — and yet. I was aware of the pussy bow kerfuffle. My sense, lately, that people had been looking oddly at my hat — I’d told myself I was imagining things, but maybe I hadn’t been.
“I’ve had this hat for years,” I said. When I got home, I looked it up. She was right of course. First I laughed. My dorky pink hat had become a political statement! Then I paused. Could I keep wearing it? What would Jane Austen do? Continue reading
Here was a woman about the year 1800 writing without hate, without bitterness, without fear, without preaching. That was how Shakespeare wrote, I thought, looking at ‘Antony and Cleopatra,’ and when people compare Shakespeare and Jane Austen, they may mean that the minds of both had consumed all impediments; and for that reason we do not know Jane Austen and we do not know Shakespeare, and for that reason Jane Austen pervades every word she wrote, and so does Shakespeare.
–Virginia Woolf, A Room of One’s Own
Early this morning I walked the dog along the waterfront in the windy darkness, looking at the lights of Manhattan and wondering what Jane Austen would have made of the fact that she’s world-famous and still relevant today, nearly two and half centuries after she was born. I like to think she would have been amused — and not entirely surprised. Does genius recognize itself?
Over at Austenblog, there’s a giveaway of a book of essays that looks to be excellent. Sarah Emsley has a fascinating post about Jane Austen and grandparents. The BBC has a great article by Rebecca Smith about the daily routine at Chawton. And you can still enter the Goodreads giveaway for The Jane Austen Project right here. It runs until next Tuesday.
I have an agent. I wrote a novel that sold to a Big 5 publisher. I belong to two writing critique groups, and I live in Brooklyn. Yet when one of my newer writing critique group members asked me if I’d been to any residencies — not in a judging way, but in a friendly, encouraging tone — I froze, as if this were a trick question; a veiled insult; a failure of tact. But only people like you go to those, I thought but could not say. Real writers. Not only have I not gone to one; it would never occur to me to apply! Not that I wouldn’t want to — just like I’d like to go horse trekking in Mongolia. Equally dreamy, equally improbable.
But later I started to think over this exchange, and to wonder. What would it take for me, like the Velveteen Rabbit, to become real? What does it take for anyone? Continue reading