The Rusty Man With the Shrivelled Wig

I've written about Samuel Johnson more than once on this blog--numerous times, actually. There is a mystique that surrounds the grand man, and I'm not alone in thinking this. Here is a clip from Boswell's biography of Johnson:

"He received me very courteously; but, it must be confessed that his apartment, and furniture, and morning dress, were sufficiently uncouth. His brown suit of clothes looked very rusty; he had on a little old shriveled unpowdered wig, which was too small for his head; his shirt neck and knees of his breeches were loose; his black worsted stockings ill drawn; and he had a pair of unbuckled shoes by way of slippers. But all these slovenly particularities were forgotten the moment that he began to talk. Some gentlemen, whom I do not recollect, were sitting with him; and when they went away, I also rose; but he said to me,“Nay, don’t go.” “Sir,” said I, “I am afraid that I intrude upon you. It is benevolent to allow me to sit and hear you.” He seemed pleased with this compliment, which I sincerely paid him . . ." (2764)

Boswell paints Johnson as an eccentric, and I've no doubt that this is an honest portrayal. Johnson was famous for his unkempt appearance, yet his words reached legendary status. What really strikes me in this paragraph is the spotlight that Boswell shines on his hero. There might have been others present when he first met the man, but they pale in comparison, and he doesn't remember them. Who would? I suppose it would be the same if I met one of my heroes; they would simply be other admirers, of no consequence compared to the one on one conversation between myself and that person. I really wish I knew a Samuel Johnson, actually.

Who among my favorite authors would fill those unbuckled shoes? As far as living authors, my favorites are Alexancer McCall Smith and Ian McEwan. Ha, wouldn't that be ironic! I needed a laugh. I really did.

p.s. The quote comes from the Norton Anthology of British Literature: the Restoration and the Eighteenth Century.

p.p.s The image is clearly of the gentlemanly Boswell, rather than the slovenly Johnson. It was painted by the esteemed portrait painter, Sir Joshua Reynolds. Elsewhere on this blog, I've posted the Reynolds portrait of Johnson. I was clearly posting very small images at that time. I'm editing in that I've also clearly posted this exact image of Boswell on at least one previous occasion. I'm nothing, if not predictable.

Jane Austen and Self-Publishing

I've lately been reading a fictionalized Jane Austen memoir by Syrie James. This is really something, of course, after giving in and watching Lost in Austen. It seems I've finally fallen for the Jane Austen knock-offs. Actually, Syrie James's novel hits all the right notes. Not only does the author stay true to what we know about Jane, but the text veritably sings with the melancholy and hardship that struggling authors must face. Does she perhaps suspect that her largely female readers are also would-be writers?

The novel has got me thinking about publishing, that's for sure. I've always had a heart for self-publishing, even though it's damned by the mainstream publishing world--it was damned, that is, until they discovered that it was another money-making opportunity. If you haven't been keeping up on publishing news, then I'll inform you: two mainstream publishers, Harlequin and Thomas Nelson, have decided to start up self-pubbed lines of books. Everybody, especially agents, went nuts over this, and I calmly sat back and thought about the possibilities.

What does this have to do with Jane Austen? In essence, the company that published Austen's first book*, Sense and Sensibility, used a self-publishing model. Austen had to put up the capital to publish her first book because she was an unknown; after her work sold well, the company paid her, rather than the other way around. They bought her next novel, Pride and Prejudice, for something like 110 lbs (why my keyboard has no lb symbol, I have no idea, ha, ha).

I do understand that publishing companies are out for what they can get. If they can keep themselves afloat in this economy by making money off of deluded authors, then they're going to do it. Sometimes this kind of capitalism works, though. Think about how terrible life would be without Jane Austen books, Mr. Darcy, Jane Austen movies, Mr. Knightley, Jane Austen action figures, Captain Wentworth, . . . You get the idea.

Jane Austen wasn't the only early female writer to self-publish, either. It was a way for those outside the mainstream to write and publish books and have their say. Women should love self-publishing for that reason alone. And so should anybody else who exists outside the mainstream through no fault of their own (not that women are outside the mainstream publishing world nowadays, though I have heard that men win most of the prestigious literary awards).

*Sense and Sensibility was JA's first published novel. The first novel she wrote was Northanger Abbey, which was published last.

Anne Finch's Response to Pope

THE ANSWER.
To Pope's Impromptu

But you our follies gently treat,
And spin so fine the thread,
You need not fear his awkward fate,
The lock wo'n't cost the head.
Our admiration you command
For all that's gone before;
What next we look for at your hand
Can only raise it more.
Yet sooth the Ladies I advise
(As me too pride has wrought,)
We're born to wit, but to be wise
By admonitions taught.

This is the last twelve lines of Anne Finch's response to dear Alexander Pope's mockery of female writers in his Rape of the Lock. Actually, the whole argument started when she had a friend relay a message to Pope, informing him that she was none too happy at his slights; in the defense of women, she passed along the names of female authors that proved (at least to her) that women could, indeed, wield a pen. In response, he mocked her in verse, and her final response was the above poem. You can find the entire poem at this site.

It fascinates me that this exchange took place, mostly, in verse. Why don't poets share such exchanges today? I would like nothing more than to argue with somebody in couplets or quatrains. Is anybody up for such a debate?

I just wanted to give a thank-you to Simone at The Romantic Query Letter and the Happily Ever After for giving me the superior scribbler award. I will post it tomorrow and try to follow all the rules (as long as it's not time sensitive). You see, I am time sensitive, and I haven't been sleeping enough. I love Simone's blog, and I would happily give the award right back to her, if somebody hadn't already bestowed her with said award.

When Despair Sets In, the Cave's the Place to Be

And this, according to Alexander Pope in The Rape of the Lock*:

Not Cynthia when her Manteau’s pinn’d awry,
E’er felt such Rage, Resentment and Despair,
As Thou, sad Virgin! for thy ravish’d Hair . . .
Down to the Central Earth, his proper Scene,
Repair’d to search the gloomy Cave of Spleen . . .
And in a Vapour reach’d the dismal Dome . . .
Here, in a Grotto, sheltred close from Air,
And screen’d in Shades from Day’s detested Glare,
She sighs for ever on her pensive Bed. (ll 8-23)

And Joseph Warton in Ode on the Death of--:

Let me to that deep cave resort,
Where Sorrow keeps her silent court,
For ever wringing her pale hands,
While dumb Misfortune near her stands,
With downcast eyes the Cares around her wait,
And Pity sobbing sits before the gate . . .
A distant, deaf, and hollow sound
Was heard in solemn whispers round --
"Enough, dear Youth! – tho’ wrapt in bliss above,
Well pleas’d I listen to thy lays of love." (find the rest of this on litgothic.com It's a marvelous site.)

Where are these wonderful, gloomy caves to be found, I wonder? Why don't I have a cave to crawl in when I need to hide in a den of despair?

*Unless otherwise noted, all Pope quotes are to be found in Alexander Pope: Selected Poetry and Prose, edited by William K. Wimsatt, Jr. and published by Holt, Rinehart and Winston, 1965.

p.s. The image was done by Aubrey Beardsley specifically for The Rape of the Lock, in 1896.

I'm Finally Lost in Austen

I avoid Jane Austen knock-offs if at all possible because I prefer the real thing, but, but . . . I am Lost in Austen. Oh, how I would adore it if Mr. Darcy hurled insults at me. And I never thought Mr. Wickham would give lessons on manners, which is absurdly brilliant. I love it, I love it, I love it.

I'm sorry, I've got to go finish watching it (I know, behind everybody else as usual).

William Cowper's Peaceful Evening

I'm in a William Cowper mood this evening that has turned into night already, while I've not had any peace, but have grasped the scraps of my day's goals before letting them go. I've lost my evening, but I'll leave you with this, from Cowper's The Task*:

Come, Evening, once again, season of peace;

Return, sweet Evening, and continue long!

Methinks I see thee in the streaky west,

With matron step slow moving, while the Night

Treads on thy sweeping train; one hand employ’d

In letting fall the curtain of repose

On bird and beast, the other charged for man

With sweet oblivion of the cares of day:

Not sumptuously adorn’d, not needing aid,

Like homely featured Night, of clustering gems;

A star or two, just twinkling on thy brow

Suffices thee; save that the moon is thine

No less than hers, not worn indeed on high

With ostentatious pageantry, but set

With modest grandeur in thy purple zone,

Resplendent less, but of an ampler round. (ll 243-258)

*taken from p. 2706-2707 in the Longman Anthology: British Literature, Volume 1c- the Restoration and the Eighteenth Century, C 2003

p.s. The painting is by Abraham Pether, A River Landscape with Children Fishing