Today I began reading a small collection of the short stories of Thomas Mann, which includes “Death in Venice.” I am struck, as many have been, not only by the compelling nature of his work, but also by the excellence of his translator, H.T. Lowe-Porter. At one point in “Tonio Kroger,” Ms. Lowe-Porter renders a passage, presumably written in German altered to demonstrate a drunken nasal tone, into one in perfect English which does likewise. As an occasional translator myself I can only marvel at her skill. (Edit: I am indebted to Jared Carter for pointing out that Lowe-Porter was, in fact, female. It is perhaps a telling comment on today’s society that this is a mistake even a woman such as myself will still make without thinking.)
But while I would be happy if reading this encouraged you to go out and acquire Ms. Lowe-Porter’s translations to read yourself, that is not the purpose of these paragraphs. I am more concerned here with the subject matter of much of Mann’s work, which is the peculiar character of artistic genius, and specifically, of the literary geniuses in the two works I have thus read, the afore-mentioned “Death in Venice” and “Tonio Kroger.”
Both stories concern well-known, male writers. The plots are deceptively simple: in “Death in Venice” an older writer, Gustave Aschenbach, who has lived an ascetic life devoted to his work, gets the urge to travel and ends up in Venice, where he falls in unconsummated love with a young boy, and eventually dies during an outbreak of cholera. Tonio Kroger, on the other hand, returns to his part of the world and runs into his two boyhood crushes–one male, one female–now married to each other. In both stories, however, these bones form a skeleton which the main characters flesh out with detailed meditations on the necessities and vicissitudes of leading a literary life.
I agree with much of what Mann propounds through his spokespieces. I have often thought that it is difficult for a brilliant writer to lead a life of ordinary morality. There is also great truth in this nugget:
“Verily it is well for the world that it sees only the beauty of the completed work and not its origins nor the condition whence it sprang.”
Where I find Mann’s work insufficient for me personally is, not unsurprisingly, that it makes no mention of the challenges facing women artists, and specifically those who have also chosen an orthodox lifestyle: husband (1), kids (2), sundry pets (3). (The female artist in “Tonio Kruger,” Lisabeta, is clearly a Bohemian single.)
This is an issue foremost in my mind at this time because of discussions I am having with my current professor at Bennington, a sensitive, articulate poet I admire, and a critic of fine insights. I irritated him in my last letter by stating, in an admitted exaggeration, that female poets who don’t have children tend toward a certain feyness in the poems of their later years. I cited Elizabeth Bishop as an example. Bear in mind that I adore much of EB’s work. Her villanelle “One Art” makes my top ten poems of all time, for example. (The poem I was thinking of specifically as fey was the cycle titled “Rainy Season; Sub-Tropics.”)
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I had a paragraph written in my head which discussed these questions in depth. However, I am going to answer them instead with a description of my last half an hour, and hope that serves for the time being. I will try to return to this at some point. I also hope it gives some indication as to why I would like to read a story featuring a fictional well known, female poet with children, and hear her meditations on the writing life. I wonder if Ms. Lowe-Porter had children?
My nine year old, Becky just got back from gymnastics and promptly burst into tears. When I tried to find out what was wrong I got this garbled story about how her team mate Ashley had a broken nose, and how it was all Becky’s fault. As I wasn’t getting much sense from her I called the gym and spoke to the head coach. It turns out that a couple of weeks ago Becky was messing about (as she has a tendency to do) and did a cartwheel when she shouldn’t have. Her foot hit Ashley’s nose. No one thought anything of it at the time but Ashley didn’t come back to practice for two weeks. She finally returned today with a nose guard and apparently has had surgery in the intervening period. The head coach took Becky aside today and told her she had caused it, primarily as a measure to try and get her to be better behaved at practice. She said she had meant to inform me but had been unable to before Becky came home. We have arranged to have a sit down on Saturday and talk it all over. Meanwhile Becky was in hysterics about the fact that she was about to be arrested, and was an evil child. I sat down with her and had a long chat about evil versus carelessness, covering murder, reckless driving and the Jamie Bulger case from ten years or so back. I managed to calm her down and she is now getting ready for bed.
Not surprisingly, I am now in no shape to meditate on the esoterics of art, and am incapable of writing a fey poem about a giant snail.
But it is frustrating to think how much of my time I spend these ways: shopping for and cooking holiday meals and goodies, shopping for and wrapping gifts, preparing crafts, cleaning the house before people come over.
