Woolf – Further Annotations

‘For an anonymous author, Elena Ferrante is not stingy. She has given many interviews, usually through written correspondence, and furnished her critics with ample material to aid in their task of interpretation. She has shared her literary influences, her political views, an account of her process, and her working definition of literary truth. She has also explained ad nauseam her insistence on being “absent” as an author, her refusal to appear in public as Ferrante or publish under her given name. Her initial reason was shyness. “I was frightened at the thought of having to come out of my shell,” she told the Paris Review, a hesitation most writers will understand. (Writing, at least in theory, is the rare type of performance at which the timid, nervous, and physically ungainly can excel.) Over time, she came to embrace the implicit stance against publicity, the “self-promotion obsessively imposed by the media,” and the facile readings that author-worship tends to encourage. The trouble with reading biographically—as anyone who’s tried it can tell you—is how quickly it slips into reading symptomatically: search the author for clues to the novel and soon you’ll be searching the novel for clues to the author. It’s not a crime, to read this way, but it tends to foreclose other interpretive paths. It also mistakes the author for an analysand, the novel for a dream. Ferrante’s absence keeps things open: “Remove that individual [the author] from the public eye,” she said, and “we discover that the text contains more than we imagine.”

…For Ferrante, an author’s absence merely restored the basic conditions of literature to the public: it enabled the writer to write and the reader to read. There would be no time-consuming book tour or demoralizing spreads in the Thursday Styles section, where the women writers often go. (What is Elena Ferrante wearing? Can you imagine?) Nor would there be any irritating authority figure saying this or that character is really X, no obnoxious public presence we would have to square, somehow, with the beautiful things she wrote. The persona of the author is an intrusion on the solitary psychic space of a novel. By protecting her privacy, Ferrante protected ours.

Many attempts have been made to locate the “true” identity of Ferrante, some more aggressive than others. For more than a decade, Italian newspapers have argued that Ferrante was the novelist Domenico Starnone, citing thematic and stylistic resemblances between his fiction and hers. One academic called on researchers to use quantitative analysis, in the style of Franco Moretti, to substantiate the claim. After Ferrante was nominated for the prestigious (and rigged) Strega Prize for literature in 2015, the gossip blog Dagospia wrote, “Even the stones know that Elena Ferrante is Anita Raja,” Starnone’s wife.¹ The prevalence of this rumor hasn’t stopped the latest unmasking from feeling like a fresh discovery. The investigative journalist Claudio Gatti’s “months-long investigation” into public real estate records in Rome makes the compelling case that Ferrante is, as the stones knew, Anita Raja. Gatti’s previous subjects include JP Morgan Chase and Silvio Berlusconi—targets more deserving of his skills. The article was rolled out in multiple languages simultaneously, like the NSA leak: “in English by NYR Daily, in Italian by Il Sole 24 Ore, in German by the Frankfurter Allgemeine Zeitung, and in French on the investigative website, Mediapart,” as the footnote read. Reporting on the reaction to Gatti’s story, the New York Times reached Ferrante’s publisher, Sandra Ozzola Ferri, for comment. “If someone wants to be left alone, leave her alone,” she said. “She’s not a member of the Camorra, or Berlusconi. She’s a writer and isn’t doing anyone any harm.”

Ferrante’s readers were quick to denounce Gatti’s revelation. I myself was irritated. Even the stones know that Ferrante is Ferrante, and that’s the way her readers want it. More than Ferrante herself, her readers have benefited from her choice, spared so much extradiegetic noise. We are as invested in her anonymity—and her autonomy—as she is. It is a compact: she won’t tell us, we won’t ask, and she won’t change her mind and tell us anyway. In exchange, she’ll write books and we’ll read them. The feminist defense of Ferrante’s privacy was especially swift. It’s difficult to read a man’s attempt to “out” a writer who has said she would stop writing if she were ever identified as anything but an attempt to make her stop writing.

…

“I believe that, today, failing to protect writing by guaranteeing it an autonomous space, far from the demands of the media and the marketplace, is a mistake,” Ferrante told the Financial Times last year. This is an uncontroversial truth. Writers need space to work. One word for this space is room; another is freedom; another is privacy. Each writer finds this space where she can. Woolf pragmatically emphasized the material: “give her a room of her own and five hundred a year, let her speak her mind and leave out half that she now puts in, and she will write a better book one of these days.” (She needed the metaphysical, too: “I need solitude,” Woolf wrote in her diaries. “I need space. I need air. I need the empty fields around me; and my legs pounding along roads; and sleep; and animal existence.”) Kafka found his space at night: “The burning electric light, the silent house, the darkness outside, the last waking moments, they give me the right to write even if it be only the most miserable stuff. And this right I use hurriedly. That’s the person I am.”’

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[“BLA and GB Gabbler” (really just a pen name – singular) are the Editor and Narrator behind THE AUTOMATION, vol. 1 of the Circo del Herrero series. They are on facebook, twitter, tumblr, goodreads, and Vulcan’s shit list.]

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‘The activity of nonreading is something that scholars rarely discuss. When they — or others whose identities are bound up with books — do so, the discussions tend to have a shamefaced quality. Blame “cultural capital” — the sense of superiority associated with laying claim to books that mark one’s high social status….

Consider, however, the fact that, as Matthew Wilkens points out, in 2011 more than 50,000 new novels were published in the United States alone. “The problem of abundance” is a problem for every person who has an internet connection, and it is a professional problem in every corner of literary study. Nonreading, seen in this light, is not a badge of shame, but the way of the future. Franco Moretti has been making this point for years about the literary production of the 18th and 19th centuries, inspiring a few labs-worth of scholars to turn to machine reading — for example, using algorithms to find patterns in a particular era’s literary works. This is a form of not reading that holds tight to the dream that our literary scholarship should be based on the activity of reading as much as humanly or inhumanly possible.

…

As a culture and as a profession, then, we are daily embracing the decision not to read, even as literary scholars continue to read in every spare moment, even as they worry more and more about how they choose what to read, and even as some of them try to outwit the problem of nonreading with the promise of digitized corpora.

If one’s scholarly bailiwick is the present and the recent past, the problem of abundance is acute. If one is inclined to turn to machine reading for help, copyright law immediately sets up a roadblock. And the various aids scholars use apart from digital tools to navigate the problem — mainly, a cadre of other scholars with whom one collectively covers the field, and editors at academic presses or curators of archives who have tended the field over time — are largely unavailable. The Restoration-era scholar considering what to read among Alexander Pope’s complete works is aided by generations of readers who have studied these works, written about them, and produced edited collections of them. In contrast, the scholar of contemporary literature is thrown back on the literary press, on trade editors, and on book buyers for retail outlets. While any given reviewer may be an excellent reader, and any book buyer may have excellent taste, the literary market as a whole is vulnerable to forces that have less to do with literary discernment and more to do with money, class, contemporary pressures on journalism, the geography of cities, and the social networks that circumscribe the reach of editorial attention or a bookstore’s clientele.

These forces have a profound effect on what is celebrated and what remains culturally invisible among the masses of books written and published, and they affect the meanings that particular books come to have as they enter the stream of culture…

… The cultural dynamics of race and gender, the networks that grow up from shared schooling, the vagaries of bankruptcies originating well beyond the publishing business, the flow of venture capital, and the history of literature taught in the academy all work to pull some contemporary writing to the surface while other work goes under, never to be seen again.

Trusting the literary press and the mechanisms of the market to curate the books we read and study is to hand over whole regions of literary curiosity and judgment before one even picks up a book. Because more books are published than ever before, thanks to the birth of desktop publishing software in the 1980s, to make reading a genuine choice, or an informed one, requires research well beyond The New York Times Book Review, The New York Review of Books, or the display shelves of the major chain bookstores or the “recommended for you” titles on Amazon.

The dream of an informed curation of reading is just that — a dream. Even a scholar dedicated to understanding the geography of contemporary publishing would never be able to survey the options fully enough to make decisions that consistently yield productive subjects of study and that are not simply synonymous with the decisions, values, or accidents of the market.

And yet universities are made to be a haven for study that is precisely not driven by such decisions, values, and accidents. Scholars are supported by nonprofit universities, and given tenure, so that they can pursue knowledge under conditions not entirely driven by the market and their culture’s prevailing norms. If we erect these institutional structures, at great cost, to allow for countercultural thinking, how is the literary scholar to make good on that commitment? What can the scholar of contemporary literature do to preserve, and to be responsible to, the independent mission for which universities exist?

Here is why refusal is so important. Sometimes scholars will need not just to silently make their choices without acknowledging the choices forgone, but to refuse, in a reasoned and deliberate way, to read what the literary press and the literary marketplace put forward as worthy of attention. This requires a distinctly nonscholarly form of reasoning: One must decide, without reading a work, whether it is worth the time to read it or not. And a decision not to read must be defended, and received, on the basis of this different standard of evidence.

Why admit to this unscholarly approach, which seems to run against all our intellectual values — the commitment to open-minded reading and exploration, the commitment to gathering a credible body of evidence before making an argument or a judgment? We need to tolerate this shortfall in method because a scarce resource is at stake: the reader’s time, and, by extension, the attention that could be paid to any number of other books among the throngs that will always remain unread.

If scholars do not resist or at least consider critically the call of the market, a cycle begins that extends the impact of the professional reader’s decision to acquiesce. As professional readers, scholars will often write about what they read, and the time-thrifty ones will invent reasons to write about what they have read, whether or not their reading was carefully chosen in the first place. Professional advancement comes from being part of a critical conversation where others share a given interest and are motived to read new work in the field, so that the literary works that receive reviews or whose authors have become literary celebrities are often those that scholars of contemporary literature take up in their articles. Articles beget other articles; the rising generation of scholars making their way as assistant professors knows that writing about a relatively well-known author or work will make it much easier to get their scholarship published. And so the cycle begins.

…

A handful of major canonical authors — Joyce, Woolf, Eliot, Stein, Beckett, etc. — continues to preoccupy the journal’s attention while subjects outside that canon fail to create a similarly shared body of criticism. The top 11 authors cited as subjects claim 41 percent of the articles. Most authors not already canonical appear only once or twice each, never achieving the critical mass of scholarship that motivates further study and writing within the context of scholarly careers, let alone further reading by the general public. Such poorly known and rarely taught works are not reissued as their canonical cousins are — in cute new formats, anniversary editions, or as the object of some fresh backlist marketing effort.

Goldstone’s findings show how this disciplinary formation functions a century or so after these writers were contemporary. If scholars of today’s literature follow the lead of the literary press in deciding what to read, in parsing out their reading hours on the work of the well-promoted literary stars (for the plausibly defensible reason that “everyone is talking about them”), then our students’ students’ students will inherit the sort of narrow archive that still structures modernist studies even in the wake of a field-leading journal’s expansive intentions.

My small act of countercultural scholarly agency has been to refuse to continue reading or assigning the work of David Foster Wallace. The machine of his celebrity masks, I have argued, the limited benefits of spending the time required to read his work. Our time is better spent elsewhere. I make this assessment given the evidence I have so far accumulated — I have read and taught some of his stories and nonfiction, have read some critical essays on Wallace’s work, and have read D.T. Max’s biography of Wallace — and without feeling professionally obligated to spend a month reading Infinite Jest in order to be absolutely sure I’m right. If I did spend a month reading the book, I would be adding my professional investment to the load of others’ investments, which — if we track it back — are the result of a particular marketing campaign that appealed to a Jurassic vision of literary genius.

The book’s marketers were smart. They knew their audience and what kind of dare would provoke them: Are you smart enough and strong enough — indeed, are you man enough — to read a genius’s thousand-page novel? Of course they said yes. Having committed the time, those initial readers had then to prove, in writing, that they had something equally smart to say about it. And those yeses were the first of many in the self-perpetuating machine of literary celebrity. Before “Wallace studies” could take a hold on my field, it seemed worth raising the question: Why should we turn the podium over to this author among so many others, to invite him to stand at the microphone of literary culture for a thousand pages and more if it’s not pretty clear to a moderately well-informed person that his work is worth our attention?

I use here the metaphor for public attention that the Mexican poet and critic Gabriel Zaid uses in his delightful little book, So Many Books: Reading and Publishing in an Age of Abundance (2003). Zaid argues that excessively long books are a form of undemocratic dominance that impoverishes the public discourse by reducing the airtime shared among others…’

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