STUDIES IN CLASSIC AMERICAN LITERATURE

STUDIES IN CLASSIC AMERICAN LITERATURE BY D.H. Lawrence

In this work, first published in 1923, Lawrence comments on the following American writers: Ben Franklin, Hector St. John de Crèvecoeur, James Fenimore Cooper, Edgar Allan Poe, Nathaniel Hawthorne, Richard Henry Dana, Herman Melville and Walt Whitman.

And he pontificates from front to back. Probably the most famous sentence in the book: “The essential American soul is hard, isolate, stoic and a killer.” Thus the book is more about Lawrence than it is about the writers or works he discusses though his observations are often interesting and inciteful.

Lawrence has a premise which I dare to summarize as follows: a human being is an isolated individual traveling along an open road and while he may and should be in sympathy with other individuals, he should not have sympathy for them. An individual cannot become the other or merge with the other. “Each soul should be alone,” he tells us. Moreover, while physical and emotional love may draw two humans together, if they get too close one or both will be destroyed. He often sees the person and the artist as two separate beings. He reads and comments on the above writers through the prism of this premise and often concludes that while as humans the writers failed, as artists they succeeded.

Franklin. After having great fun mocking Ben Franklin’s list of virtues, Lawrence produces his own list. With some exceptions, I prefer Ben’s.

Crèvecoeur. I was not familiar with St. John de Crèvecoeur who lived from 1735 until 1813. French by birth, for some time he lived on the American frontier and he wrote a series of essays entitled Letters from an American Farmer. The most interesting observation I received from Crèvecoeur, as quoted by Lawrence, concerned white children who had been kidnapped by native Americans. When these children were later rescued they unfailingly did not wish to return to their original families but sought the protection of their captors.

Cooper. Lawrence writes: “Fenimore Cooper has probably done more than any writer to present the Red Man to the white man.” As I did as a young man, Lawrence admires the Leatherstocking novels greatly, especially the hunter, hero Natty Bumppo. “But Natty is a saint with a gun and the Indians are gentlemen through and through, though they may take the occasional scalp.”

Poe. I was not looking forward to the chapter on Edgar Allan Poe but I found it interesting and perceptive. According to Lawrence, it was Poe’s unending desire for union that explains the stories and causes all the horror.  “It is easy to see why each man kills the thing he loves. To know a thing is to kill it…the desirous consciousness, the SPIRIT, is a vampire.”

Hawthorne. There are two chapters on Hawthorne. In the first he writes: “And if a woman doesn’t believe in a man, she believes, essentially in nothing. She becomes, willy-nilly, a devil.” But then in the second we get, “Sin is a queer thing. It isn’t the breaking of divine commandments. It is the breaking of one’s own integrity.”

Dana. Lawrence admires Two Years Before the Mast as I did when I read it many years ago. He includes several paragraphs from the book and I had the opportunity to be moved by them once again. “Dana never forgets, never ceases to watch.” “Dana’s small book is a very great book.” I would add that he was also a concise and eloquent writer.

Melville. There are also two chapters on Melville. “The greatest seer and poet of the sea for me is Melville.” “He was a modern Viking. There is something curious about real blue-eyed people. They are never quite human in the good classic sense…”

Whitman. I gained nothing of interest from the chapter on Whitman.

For all its quirks, I found this book well worth reading. You must wade through paragraphs of blather but what appears between the blather is fascinating. The chapters on Two Years Before the Mast and Moby Dick alone make the book worth the effort.

 

 

 

 

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TROPIC OF CANCER by Henry Miller

I read this novel in 1962 shortly after it got free of the censors and almost thirty years after it was first published in France. Now at 85 I have read it again. Readers who take it on should be prepared to tolerate frequent use of the C word, a few of the N word, occasional commentary that some might consider antisemitic, and a text containing more spiel than narrative. But there is humor, commentary on art, music and literature, some fine descriptions of Paris, some interesting characters and one or two tiresome ones. But mostly it is about Henry Miller, a New Yorker who lived and wrote in Paris in the early 1930s. This time through I found entertaining chapters and others quite wearisome, some powerful sentences and others that to me were trash.  Rather than writing the usual review I have extracted a few sentences for the prospective reader.

 

“I have no money, no resources, no hopes. I am the happiest man alive.”

“This is not a book. This is libel, slander, defamation of character.”

“There are people who cannot resist the desire to get into a cage with wild beasts and be mangled.”

“Everywhere I go people are making a mess of their lives. Everyone has his private tragedy.”

“I am crying for more and more disasters, for bigger calamities, for grander failures.”

“Europe—medieval, grotesque, monstrous: a symphony in B-mol.”

“Little urchins marked with the forceps.”

“… a whore all the way through and that was her virtue!”

“I have been ejected from the world like a cartridge…the earth is smeared with frozen grease.”

The City is palpitating “as if it were a heart just removed from a warm body.”

When “spring comes to Paris the humblest mortal alive must feel he dwells in paradise.”

“I am only spiritually dead. Physically I am alive. Morally I am free.”

“If I am a hyena I am a lean and hungry one. I go forth to fatten myself.”

“I am not an American any more, nor a New Yorker, and even less a European, or a Parisian.”

“…the world is a mad slaughterhouse.”

“The cradles of civilization are the putrid sinks of the world.”

“Drunk with this lecherous eczema of the future…”

“When the sun comes out any spot in Paris can look beautiful.”

“Side by side with the human race there runs another race of beings, the inhuman ones, the race of artists who, goaded by the fever and ferment with which they imbue it turn this soggy dough into bread and the bread into wine and the wine into song.”

“No one to whom I can communicate even a fraction of my feelings….”

“Everything frozen tight as scum, the mind locked and rimed with frost, and through the melancholy bales of chitter-wit the chocking garble of louse eaten saints.”

“The thought of such absolute privacy is enough to drive me mad.”

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THE SNOW LEOPARD by PETER MATTHIESSEN

I read THE SNOW LEOPARD when it first came out in the late 1970’s. I much enjoyed it then and rereading it in 2025 reminded me of what a treasure it is. If you have a shelf in your library reserved for American classics like WALDON and LEAVES OF GRASS this book belongs in the same row. Like most classics it sheds light on many subjects and can be enjoyed in different ways. Anyone who appreciates beautiful writing will find it appealing. While it is but the day-to-day report of a trek into the Himalayas, the richness of detail, the development of character, the underlying tension and emotional depth equals that of great fiction. Interested in the history of Buddhism in India, Nepal and Tibet? You will get your fill in these pages along with the weather, the people, the birds and animals of the region.

But THE SNOW LEEOPARD is also a deeply honest, beautifully observed account of one man’s midlife journey as he works his way through loss and grief toward wisdom and acceptance.

“I go slowly down the mountain, falling well behind the rest, in no hurry to get back to that dark camp.  Despite the hard day that has ended in defeat, despite the loss of three thousand feet of altitude that will have to be so painfully regained, despite the gloomy canyon and uncertain weather and ill humor of my friend, and the very doubtful prospects for tomorrow, I feel at peace among these looming rocks, the cloud swirl and wind-whirled snow, as if the earth had opened up to take me in.”

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THE SUCCESS AND FAILURE OF PICASSO by John Berger

John Berger’s exploration of Pablo Picasso was first published in 1965 when the painter was still alive. The 1989 edition, which I read, contains a short opening chapter and a concluding one both written following the artist’s death. I found it helpful to keep the internet close at hand while reading because the black and white reproductions in the book are dark and dreary while the paintings themselves are often filled with jovial detail and lively color.

I am not myself an artist or a devoted student of art history but I found much that was interesting and inciteful in these pages. Picasso possessed remarkable energy and he lived, it seems, only to create. In a way the man was a shell through which surged an unrelenting urge to translate passions, obsessions, and traumas into forms and images. Burger uses the Spanish word duende to name this force. Once a painting was complete, he tells us, Picasso lost interest in it as a creation, though not as an object that possessed value. As a result he became enormously rich and celebrated, surrounded by idolizers but also isolated and tormented. What we have left is the artwork and with Berger’s guidance, the opportunity to judge it for ourselves.

Picasso lived a long life and was relentlessly active. He produced art in a variety of media and passed through numerous “styles” or “periods.” Everyone has their favorite and least favorite of these periods, I suppose. Berger dismisses as “absurd,” for example, the painting First Steps which I loved. I personally grow weary of the endlessly disjointed breasts and buttocks. Berger favors Picasso’s cubism period early in his career, while I, being an old man, found particularly poignant his analysis of the drawings Picasso produced at the end of 1953. These drawings feature beautiful young women and the aging artist in various guises such as a clown or an old man hiding behind a mask, often with a monkey mocking him nearby. Berger writes: “Picasso is confessing his horror at the fact that the body ages and the imagination does not.” How true.

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The Posthumous Memoirs of Braz Cubas by Machado de Assis

The story takes place in the early half of the 19th century in Rio de Janeiro and the narrator is a rather spoiled wealthy bachelor who has a love affair with a woman married to his friend. A reader hesitant to take on a story set in South America and published in 1880 need not worry. This novel could have been written yesterday, or maybe tomorrow—after all the narrator claims to be speaking to us from the timeless eternity following his death. The 160 chapters are short and sprightly, the humor fresh and alive, and the setting is not confusing or bogged down with period or geographical detail. We are shocked by the casual mention of slavery but then slavery was not outlawed in Brazil until 1888. It is interesting to note that Machado, while himself not enslaved, had a mixed-race father and a white mother and thus in the US might be considered an African-Brazilian writer.
       Machado was self-educated and obviously well read. There are references to Shakespearian characters such as Lady Macbeth, Hamlet and Coriolanus; the Greek’s poor Prometheus gets mentioned as do historical figures such as Caesar, Napoleon and Cromwell. I found it entertaining to keep my phone at my side so I could quickly search such figures as Seneca to see who they actually were.  Vespasian, anyone? Helvétius?
      An interesting side character is Braz’s “friend” Quincas Borba who during the course of the novel goes through several dramatic transformations as he discovers and then indoctrinates Braz with his philosophy which strongly resembles that of Fredrich Nietzsche. Borba’s sad end predicts that of Nietzsche himself, whose demise happened long after this novel was published.
      You will find desire here, duplicity, politics, a smattering of philosophy, and loss, but you will always be entertained, because as Braz Cubas tells us, he has written this surprisingly modern book with “the pen of Mirth and the ink of Melancholy.”
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EVERYWHERE BUT HERE

I am happy to announce the publication of my new novel EVERYWHERE BUT HERE which will be published on November 1, 2024 as a trade paperback and as an e-book. Reviewers can obtain an advance e-book copy via NetGalley.

Text from the back cover:

With his work selling well through distant urban galleries, the father and twice-divorced painter Robert Turghoff has created an idyllic life for himself. In the rural northern California community where he has lived for two decades, he has his cat, his pool and spa, a few close friends and the privacy he craves. But when the local paper sends a reporter to discuss his proposed mural for the struggling village center, he meets the mysterious Yvonne Curtiss. Yvonne soon proves herself a brilliant promoter of his mural project, a muse who revitalizes his studio work and a mistress he falls in love with. But Yvonne Curtiss is also the mother of a fragile twelve-year-old daughter, the wife of a haunted Iraq-war veteran and a woman desperate to medicate the chronic pain assaulting her. EVERYWHERE BUT HERE provides a vivid, unflinching portrait of life in contemporary rural America.

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