I've thrown all my books away.
We've been reading The Alexandria Quartet (Lawrence Durrell) - Justine, Balthazar, Mountolive and Clea. We first read it when we were sixteen. Reading it again is a fabulous contrast to the memory of first reading and the experience is compelling for many reasons; some to do with the book itself, some to do with our having a greater understanding of the historical and cultural context having recently read the Cairo Trilogy (Naguib Mahfouz), and some to do with our life at sixteen and the development of our different identities. In those days we didn't know ourselves by the names we use now - we used other names: it seems dangerous to say them aloud or to write them here. Still I recognise them in this epic novel of Durrell's. Similarites. Especially to me, Pia and Thea.
Reading it now we are looking for clues, as we do, as to how we all became so many in one life. Despite the confidence we have in the possibility of natural multiplicity, which we do believe to be our situation - that we really were just born this way, born with a neurological difference that meant we formed several personalities rather than one, and that these personalities are as real as anyone's personality is. Which is perhaps not particularly real. We don't know. I feel real. And seperate from my sisters. I being just jo. But I still look for clues. Synchronicities.
And one theory/fear we've always had, lurking about, is that it all happenned because we read too much literature. Too much existentialism. Too many Russians. Too much "Blood of Others" and stream of consciousness. We were so voracious in our teens - reading just everything we could find - whatever orange spined penguins we could find in Dad's library, lots of books given to us by adult friends - I particularly remember parcel arriving from an adult friend - a pile of books; Anthony Burgess "Nothing Like the Sun", Albert Camus, Celine, Satre, Turgenev; wrapped in brown paper; creating in me - to this day! - an erotic association. With square parcels wrapped that sharp-cornered and secretive way. James Joyce, most of the French existentialists, lots of the Russians, Brontes, Dickens, Austen of course, though I think she was relatively soothing compared to her bedfellows,
Looking for clues as to how we became who we are we find ourselves and each other in the literature that we read in our teens.
Chicken. Egg. Omelette.
(says Trouble, and considers the subject 'buried'.)
And Mannie!
Reading Saki again (his menacing short stories) I see her birthplace so clearly. England, of the Edwardian era. There's her society, perfectly described. Mannie came to us when we were sixteen, and claimed to be 40 years old at the time, but had been dead for quite some time by then. I'd always assumed her to be about 10 or so years older than boomers - perhaps born in the thirties, but reading Saki again - I think she might be from further again. She might know. She doesn't like me talking about it here, especially not about the fact that she's dead.
*gasp*
(It's just so common.)
Dead or no, Sassy's gift of a silver napkin ring has awoken some longings in Ms Mannie. She is doing a lot of grumbling about things we ought to have and things we ought not to have. Here's some of the things she feels ~ought~ to be in her life - class indicators? - that she identifies with and holds dear. I wonder if a class analysis based on these might pinpoint Ms Mannie a bit better in time?
(Note the complete absence of interest in electronic goods, laptops, tv, etc.)
1. well... there's having a piano at home.
she's very happy about that.
2. and there's her obsession with linen napkins, silver napkin rings, silverware in general.
she won't stop at one...
And, oh god, fish knives!
I think she can live without fishknives.
3. carrying a handkerchief (cloth!) at all times.
we tend to steal them from our men rather than own our own.
4. an umbrella
we do not own an umbrella and really would rather not own an umbrella.
Nevertheless, Mannie never manages to contain her mild outrage about the lack of an umbrella in our life and the reckless way we leave the house without it.
She's Mary Poppins, isn't she?
I just conjured her up out of literature and stuck her in my head, didn't I?
"I am not." says Mannie.
5. Barley sugar.
but I've seen her succumb to Butter Menthol as a substitute
6. Making own jam, quince cheese, lemon butter etc.
she gets to do this sometimes
Whatever she is, she's ours. And she's as real as me.
Reading it now we are looking for clues, as we do, as to how we all became so many in one life. Despite the confidence we have in the possibility of natural multiplicity, which we do believe to be our situation - that we really were just born this way, born with a neurological difference that meant we formed several personalities rather than one, and that these personalities are as real as anyone's personality is. Which is perhaps not particularly real. We don't know. I feel real. And seperate from my sisters. I being just jo. But I still look for clues. Synchronicities.
And one theory/fear we've always had, lurking about, is that it all happenned because we read too much literature. Too much existentialism. Too many Russians. Too much "Blood of Others" and stream of consciousness. We were so voracious in our teens - reading just everything we could find - whatever orange spined penguins we could find in Dad's library, lots of books given to us by adult friends - I particularly remember parcel arriving from an adult friend - a pile of books; Anthony Burgess "Nothing Like the Sun", Albert Camus, Celine, Satre, Turgenev; wrapped in brown paper; creating in me - to this day! - an erotic association. With square parcels wrapped that sharp-cornered and secretive way. James Joyce, most of the French existentialists, lots of the Russians, Brontes, Dickens, Austen of course, though I think she was relatively soothing compared to her bedfellows,
Looking for clues as to how we became who we are we find ourselves and each other in the literature that we read in our teens.
Chicken. Egg. Omelette.
(says Trouble, and considers the subject 'buried'.)
And Mannie!
Reading Saki again (his menacing short stories) I see her birthplace so clearly. England, of the Edwardian era. There's her society, perfectly described. Mannie came to us when we were sixteen, and claimed to be 40 years old at the time, but had been dead for quite some time by then. I'd always assumed her to be about 10 or so years older than boomers - perhaps born in the thirties, but reading Saki again - I think she might be from further again. She might know. She doesn't like me talking about it here, especially not about the fact that she's dead.
*gasp*
(It's just so common.)
Dead or no, Sassy's gift of a silver napkin ring has awoken some longings in Ms Mannie. She is doing a lot of grumbling about things we ought to have and things we ought not to have. Here's some of the things she feels ~ought~ to be in her life - class indicators? - that she identifies with and holds dear. I wonder if a class analysis based on these might pinpoint Ms Mannie a bit better in time?
(Note the complete absence of interest in electronic goods, laptops, tv, etc.)
1. well... there's having a piano at home.
she's very happy about that.
2. and there's her obsession with linen napkins, silver napkin rings, silverware in general.
she won't stop at one...
And, oh god, fish knives!
I think she can live without fishknives.
3. carrying a handkerchief (cloth!) at all times.
we tend to steal them from our men rather than own our own.
4. an umbrella
we do not own an umbrella and really would rather not own an umbrella.
Nevertheless, Mannie never manages to contain her mild outrage about the lack of an umbrella in our life and the reckless way we leave the house without it.
She's Mary Poppins, isn't she?
I just conjured her up out of literature and stuck her in my head, didn't I?
"I am not." says Mannie.
5. Barley sugar.
but I've seen her succumb to Butter Menthol as a substitute
6. Making own jam, quince cheese, lemon butter etc.
she gets to do this sometimes
Whatever she is, she's ours. And she's as real as me.
posted by Polysemous at 8:17 AM
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