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On the surface, Sun would seem to be about male bonding promoted by such activities as bullfighting, fishing, and heavy drinking. Brett Ashely, a woman, is able to join in these activities because she does not behave like a conventional woman of her time (I think that’s fair to say). She cross dresses, is promiscuous, and is a heavy drinker. And she’s a card-carrying member of the lost generation. Oh, but she doesn’t fish. Actually, in a realist sense, I’m not sure she is all that atypical. People of both (all) genders have been heavy drinkers and promiscuous, and the “flapper” fashion styles for women of the 1920s featured short “bobbed” hair like Brett is described as having, as well as clothing appropriated from men. However, Sun makes a point of showing Brett to be a different “kind of woman.” There are two other somewhat developed female characters in Sun. Robert Cohn’s wife, Frances, is depicted in a negative light by Jake, who finds her grasping and controlling. Georgette, the prostitute Jake picks up and who accompanies him to the dance hall where he sees Brett, is perhaps more sympathetically portrayed, but still one-dimensional. Early on, she disappears from the book’s view—as does Frances. Lady Brett Ashley remains as the central female character. We know that Hemingway often wrote negatively about women (witness Frances), and had deep resentments against his own mother, who dressed him like a girl when he was a child. The character of Brett might seem to be an expression of this hostility. She certainly can be seen as a destructive force in the novel, making the fellas miserable. However, a closer reading reveals her to be a much more complex and troubled character—created by Hemingway. We get some snippets about her from other characters’ reported dialogue. Mike and Roy Gorton tell Jake and the reader, that she was a nurse in WWI (lost generation candidate), that her true love died of diphtheria, and that she married Lord Ashley, a nutcase who suffered from PTSD and often threatened to murder her with a “loaded revolver.” She left him, but he apparently continues to provide her with an allowance, and so she remains dependent on an unstable person—as she does with Jake. It should be stressed that outside of these snippets, what we learn about Brett is filtered through Jake Barnes’ perspective, and Jake has strong feelings about Brett—at least, as strong as his feelings ever get. He claims to love her, is certainly attracted to her. He calls her “damned good looking,” although he says the same about Pedro Romero. The evidence for him caring about her is that he acts protectively, particularly at the end when he responds immediately to her plea for help in Madrid. Let’s just say he is not an objective reporter about Brett. He is, however, dependent on her and she dependent on him. They may be the only couple in the novel who are truly in love (what is love?) but cannot be together because of Jake’s nasty war wound. Even though Jake does not have a sexual relationship with Brett, he is probably the man most used by her as well as the one who suffers the most since his feelings towards her are true. He blames his miserableness on Brett, showing her in a bad light: “To hell with Brett. To hell with you, Lady Ashley.” Jake claims that Brett is the source of his unhappiness, whereas it is actually his wound which is his major problem. Hemingway’s style, the iceberg theory, prevents the reader from seeing “the submerged facets of her character.” (I think it’s more intentional, that Jake does this on purpose because of his ambivalent feelings about her). Brett comes more into focus over the course of the book. As we’ve noted, she first appears in the third chapter in a one-dimensional way but at the end of that chapter, finally alone with Jake, she says, “Oh darling, I’ve been so miserable.” In the next chapter, the scene continues: “Brett’s hat was off. Her head was back. I saw her face in the light from the open shops, then it was dark, then I saw her face clearly as we came out on the Avenue des Gobelins.” I quote this passage because I think it’s a quite brilliant way to show how Jake (the narrator) finds Brett hard to understand from moment to moment. Things continue: “And there’s not a damned things we could do,” I (Jake) said. (This is apparently a reference to Jake’s inability to have sexual intercourse due to his war wound.) “I don’t know,” she said. “I don’t want to go through that hell again.” “We’d better keep away from each other.” “But, darling, I have to see you. It isn’t all that you know.” “No, but it always gets to be.” “That’s my fault. Don’t we pay for all the things we do, though?” A curious exchange, no? I believe it refers to Jake and Brett’s history when they tried to be lovers and failed. Also, Brett says she has to see Jake, she needs him for reasons he doesn’t know about. He is bitter (I think) stating that her problems are his fault (because he’s unable to have sex). She counters by saying rather dramatically (well, it is drama, after all), that we pay (a price) for all that we do. This scene reveals a lot about Brett and catapults her well past the other female characters in terms of depth. Yet, the iceberg method demands that the text not elaborate. It is open and subject to the reader’s interpretation. Let’s see, what can we make of this? Do Jake and Brett have a history together? Yup. Have they tried and failed to be lovers? Yup. Is Brett unhappy and seeing Jake as a safe person to be with? Yup. At least, these are all my interpretations. Again, Hemingway shows his genius in the way he reveals so much in a brief scene consisting of (mostly) dialogue. These kind of exchanges continue right to the final page. Again and again, Brett is shown to be not a self-involved kook, but a very troubled person who acts out her problems and relies on Jake to help. She, like Jake, is a member of the lost generation, best beloved. Once the concealed aspects are revealed (by the reader), Brett emerges as a fully developed character engaged, like Jake, in learning how to live in a world where the rules have changed. And this is the world of the lost generation, those survivors who cope with loss by avoiding commitment and numbing themselves with alcohol. But, as I’ve said, despite Hemingway’s avowed wish to show these folks as being able to change and have more meaningful lives, Jake and Brett remain miserable and self-destructive wretches. ‘Kay. Maybe the book should have been entitled The Sun Doesn’t Rise. It is about the destructive effects of war on human lives. This is deservingly regarded as a great novel, and it rewards close reading. But I think the clock on the clubhouse wall says it’s time to move on next week to a new one. Till then. #TheSunAlsoRises #ErnestHemingway #AlanBray

Of all the male characters in The Sun Also Rises, Robert Cohn is conspicuous for having not fought in WW1, and so, is not technically a member of the “lost generation.” He is a successful writer, trained as a boxer, and Jewish, which, as mentioned, is made a big deal of in the story. Robert Cohn is mentioned straight off in the book’s opening: “Robert Cohn was once middle-weight boxing campion of Princeton. Do not think that I am very much impressed by that as a boxing title, but it meant a lot to Cohn…Robert Cohn was a member, through his father, of one of the richest Jewish families in New York, and through his mother of one of the oldest.” In fact, the first twenty-one pages of Sun concern Robert Cohn, seen through the eyes of Jake Barnes. Robert is a successful novelist, Jake is not. Robert is independently wealthy, Jake is not. Robert is popular with the ladies, and Jake has that nasty war wound that leaves him unable to have sex. Robert is mentioned continuously throughout the book, up to the point near the end when he leaves town. Now, the discerning reader might wonder: if this book is about Jake Barnes and the lost generation, then why the heck does it devote so much space to a different character who did not fight in WW1?. It seems to be all about how Jake knows a lot about Robert’s life and resents him. Hmmm. Is the story about Jake’s (ahem) envy? At no place in Sun, does Jake say he’s jealous of Robert. He says a lot about how he doesn’t like him. But given the iceberg theory of there being a huge amount going on beneath the story’s surface, let’s consider my idea that for Jake, Robert is a kind of symbol of all Jake wants to be but isn’t. As things develop, we learn about that human racing yacht, Brett Ashley, and the love between she and Jake. Robert seems smitten with Brett, and then we learn that the two of them went off to San Sebastian and lived together as lovers. Here, this is revealed as Brett and Jake discuss the upcoming trip to Pamplona. “Brett looked up at me. ‘I say,’ she said. ‘Is Robert Cohn going on this trip?’ ‘Yes, why?’ ‘Don’t you think it will be a bit rough on him?’ ‘Why should it?’ “Who do you think I went down to San Sebastian with?’ ‘Kay. So that rascal Brett is now with Mike whom she plans to marry and claims to love Jake. She’s concerned that Robert Cohn will be jealous—he is. So is Jake, I think, although in true iceberg style, he doesn’t let on. Robert Cohn joins the group as they go to Spain, mopes around staring at Brett and sighing in puppy-dog fashion. Mike and Jake are both cruel to him. He beats both of them up. Brett becomes smitten with Pedro Romero, the young bullfighter, and seduces him. Mike and Jake deal with this by staying drunk most of the time. Robert Cohn on the other hand, bursts into Pedro and Brett’s bedroom and beats the tar out of Pedro and tells Brett he still loves her. When Brett tells him to get lost, he does, tearfully. The conversation between Jake and Brett at the end of the novel seems, on the surface, to be about Brett’s affair with Pedro Romero. However, careful reading shows it may be equally about Brett’s affair with Robert Cohn. The context is that Jake has arrived at the Hotel Montana in Madrid after receiving a telegram from Brett saying she needed his help. Jake says: “You ought to feel set up.” (In the vernacular of the times, I believe this means, feeling good that Brett is free of Romero). “I do. I’m all right again. He’s wiped out that damned Cohn.” “Good.” “You know I’d have lived with him if I hadn’t seen it was bad for him. We got along damned well.” “Outside of your personal appearance.” “Oh, he’d have gotten used to that.” She put out the cigarette. “I’m thirty-four, you know. I’m not going to be one of those bitches that ruins children.” “Good.” She looked away. I thought she was looking for another cigarette. Then I saw she was crying… “Don’t let’s ever talk about it. Please don’t lets ever talk about it.” They leave the hotel together and drink heavily. Jake becomes very drunk, and the book ends with his saying that the idea of he and Brett being a couple was “a pretty idea,” the implication being that it’s never going to happen. So, Brett says that Romero has “wiped out” the memory of her affair with Robert Cohn. Hmmm. That’s kind of an acknowledgement that it was significant, no? Jake grunts a monosyllabic “Good.” Then Brett says, apparently referring to Romero, that she’d have lived with him. “We got along damned well.” But it’s really unclear whether she’s referring to Romero or Cohn. Jake mentions Brett’s personal appearance, a reference to Romero wanting her to have longer hair. In other words, Jake tries to clearly establish they are talking about Romero, not Cohn. Then, Brett says that she had no intention of “ruining children.” Now, Pedro Romero has no children, Robert Cohn has three. It could be that she’s saying Romero wanted children and that she’d make a poor mother, but it’s ambiguous. Then she starts crying and says she doesn’t want them to talk anymore about it. And Jake is only too happy to go along with not talking about “it.” He gets supremely drunk. My theory is that Jake, lacking a penis, knows Robert Cohn was attracted to Brett and maybe she to him and was jealous. He was stunned when he learns that Brett and Robert have been living together. And then Robert refuses to “play by the rules.” He pursues Brett to Pamplona and confronts her, only leaving when she clearly rejects him. But then Jake is called in to bail Brett out of trouble and must endure Brett’s talking ambiguously about her affair with Robert. Jake reacts by getting snookered. He doesn’t want to face the truth. Brett, the woman he claims to love, was involved with the guy he’s been jealous of for months, the guy who seems to have all he lacks. Robert is a somewhat one-dimensional character who acts as a symbol of what Jake desires. And at the end, Jake remains unchanged. He’s unable to commit to anything and is an alcoholic, drowning his troubles. If the question posed by Sun is can Jake transform into a better person, the answer is no. The iceberg style, which cuts a lot away, creates both an openness in the text that invites the reader’s participation as well as complex, multi-layered scenes. In the above example, we have Brett and Jake talking about one relationship on the surface but referring to a different one without naming names. In a relatively simple passage, Hemingway shows Brett’s feelings about Pedro Romero and about Robert Cohn, and he shows that Jake is jealous of both. Next time, let’s consider the portrayal of women in Sun. ‘Kay? Till then. #TheSunAlsoRises #ErnestHemingway #AlanBray

Well. Last week’s post caused quite a stir. It did say that the characters in Sun are largely static, that Sun lacks the transformational characteristics of a novel, and that Hemingway seemed to portray the lost generation as lost, instead of redeemed, as he claimed he wanted to. There was the hate mail, of course, but most troubling was being followed by the burly bearded fellow with the large-bore hunting rifle who kept shouting that I was an illiterate scoundrel. Hemingway himself, you ask? How could that be, Hemingway died sixty-two years ago. A ghost perhaps. Re-enactor? I will press on. This week, it’s time to look at the style of Sun. Style in literature is the literary element that describes the ways that the author uses words — the author's word choice, sentence structure, figurative language, and sentence arrangement all work together to establish mood, images, and meaning in the text. The Sun style, based on Hemingway’s experience as a newspaper reporter and short story writer, is to show, not tell, and to employ what he called the “iceberg” method. Let us quote him. “If a writer of prose knows enough of what he is writing about he may omit things that he knows and the reader, if the writer is writing truly enough, will have a feeling of those things as strongly as though the writer had stated them. The dignity of movement of an iceberg is due to only one-eighth of it being above water. A writer who omits things because he does not know them only makes hollow places in his writing.” We know that Hemingway knew the characters and events in Sun intimately. Most things—unlike Jake Barnes, he did have a penis). So he deliberately omitted things that he knew, leaving the reader to make sense of the text. After all, this is what any writer does, it would be impossible and tedious to attempt to describe experience moment to moment. Please remember our reference to Umberto Eco’s comment that this moment-to-moment focus characterizes pornography, not literature. But Hemingway took this “iceberg-ness” to an extreme. The first appearance of Brett is a fine example. The fellas are at a Parisian dance hall. “Hello, you chaps.” “Hello, Brett,” I said. “Why aren’t you tight?” “Never going to get tight anymore. I say, give a chap a brandy and soda.” She stood holding the glass and I saw Robert Cohn looking at her…” Now, the reader might think that Brett is not a terribly significant character. Jake Barnes is one, given his prominence in narrating the story. Robert Cohn as well, as he appears straight off in the first paragraph. But Brett—there’s been no previous mention of her. There are a number of other characters shown in the story so far, and the reader is trying to decide who is important, who is not. At this point, based on whose gotten the most attention, it would not be unreasonable to think Sun will be a story about Jake and Robert and his wife Frances. If one intuits that Brett is significant and tries to pry apart these quoted lines to make meaning of what’s being shown, there’s little help. The fact is, one must read further and struggle to make sense of the story, in order to grasp that Brett and Jake have known each other a while and are in love. Perhaps there’s a possibility that Jake is jealous of Robert Cohn’s eyeing Brett—we shall see later that this possibility is developed. But these threads are all below the surface. A different writer might do it this way: (a different style). “Hello you chaps.” Brett Ashley and I had known each other for some time, in fact she and I were in love, an unfulfilled love due to my nasty war wound that had left me unable to have sexual intercourse. “Hello Brett,” I said. “Why aren’t you tight?” Brett was a notorious alcoholic—we all were. My question to her was meant as a joke, because from her demeanor I could see that she was already drunk. I saw Robert Cohn looking at her and wanted to strangle him because I could imagine the two of them having an affair. I could imagine all kinds of things—kissing, caressing, all the sexual behavior that was denied to me because of my nasty war wound.” Or a different writer might start the novel by writing something like this: “The war left me with a nasty wound that rendered me unable to have sexual intercourse, and this led to considerable frustration between me and Lady Brett Ashley—who had more curves than a racing yacht. We were in love, but I could only love her vicariously through other men. Like Robert Cohn and that bullfighter chap.” ‘Kay, you probably get the idea. This kind of exposition would mean less work for the reader, but perhaps less satisfaction because the writer would be providing most of the answers to most of the questions. The answer to the question how much to take out is a judgement call, no? Take out too much and the reader won’t understand the story. The author-ship hits the iceberg. Ha ha! Of course, there are other aspects to Hemingway’s style, including the use of a lot of dialogue, active verbs, and short sentences. The passage below shows how he wrote many simple sentences to good effect, sentences with the same structure: subject – verb – object: “As a matter of fact, supper was a pleasant meal. Brett wore a black, sleeveless evening dress. She looked quite beautiful. Mike acted as though nothing had happened. I had to go up and bring Robert Cohn down. He was reserved and formal, and his face was still taut and sallow, but he cheered up finally. He could not stop looking at Brett…” Yes, Robert Cohn. Let’s pick this up next time and look more closely at Mr. Cohn’s role and the effect it creates. Till then. #TheSunAlsoRises #ErnestHemingway #AlanBray

Some critics say The Sun Also Rises is Hemingway’s best novel. The writing, the style—something we will delve into more deeply—is powerful. The prose is a joy to read. But, best beloved, is the story a novel? The definition of a novel is “a fictitious prose narrative of considerable length and complexity, portraying characters and usually presenting a sequential organization of action and scenes.” Sequential organization implies some order, and a novel’s order typically involves the transformation of major characters (protagonists) over the course of things, so that at the beginning, the protagonist is perhaps stuck in her/his life, and over the course of three hundred or so pages, gets unstuck. Well, maestro, how about it? Do the characters in Sun transform? Don’t just ‘splain it to us, dog, Show us. Did you call me dog? Better than Tatie, I guess. Sun begins rather curiously with a story about Robert Cohn, an associate of Jake Barnes. He is a novelist, an ex-boxer. Wealthy and divorced with three children. The story is told by Jake Barnes, however, it includes, I think, information about Robert that Jake the character probably wouldn’t know—details of Robert’s sojourn at Princeton, of his two marriages. It’s a bit like gossipy newspaper reporting. As the action shifts to Paris and a scene of Robert and his second wife dining with Jake, Jake becomes more of a character. What we learn at this point is that Jake is Robert’s tennis partner, that he “rather liked Robert,” and thought that he was controlled by his wife. Jake says, “I mistrust all frank and simple people, especially when their stories hold together, and I always had a suspicion that perhaps Robert Cohn had never been a middle-weight boxing champion, and that perhaps a horse had stepped on his face, or that maybe his mother had been frightened…” Jake drinks a lot too. And he seems antisemitic, being keen on identifying Robert Cohn as Jewish, as if this explains something. To modern sensibilities, it’s jarring. Robert Cohn is shown asking Jake to go on a trip to South America with him, a trip Jake declines. Jake then picks up a prostitute and they go to a dance hall where the notorious Lady Brett Ashley appears. “Hello, you chaps.” “Brett was dammed good-looking…She was built with curves like the hull of a racing yacht, and you missed none of it with that woolen jersey.” ‘Kay, a different time, but I think it’s easy to see why Hemingway might not only be accused of antisemitism but also sexism. I am an admirer of female beauty but have never compared a woman to a boat. In fact, despite having an excellent imagination, I don’t really see how a woman could be like a boat or that this could be attractive. I’m no sailor. Jake and Brett are finally alone in a taxi, and Brett says: “Oh, darling, I’ve been so miserable.” There is kissing. “Don’t you love me?” “Love you? I simply turn all to jelly when you touch me.” “Isn’t there anything we can do about it?” Well. There is minimal explanation in this scene but what the reader may infer is that Jake and Brett know each other, are in love, and that, further, Jake has a traumatic war injury that prevents him from being able to have sexual intercourse. (He has no penis). ‘Kay. What I want to convey here is that Jake and Brett are shown in the beginning of the story as being kind of drunken lost souls in Paris. Jake has this horrible condition and seems to manage it by moping and drinking. Brett is also a drunkard and, for the times, promiscuous. Both characters seem empty and try to fill that emptiness with fleeting sensation. As discussed last time, they are members of the lost generation of people after the war who cannot find meaning. So, given that, one might think—aha, surely by the end, they will both find meaning and serenity. Or, perhaps they will tragically fail and wind up worse off than ever. And either way, the journey will make a good story. After a lengthy trip to Spain during which Jake goes fishing, and Brett seduces a bullfighter (?), Jake receives a telegram from Brett asking him to go to Madrid to help her. He goes. Here are some examples of how Jake is shown at the end: “I drank a coffee and after a while Bill came over. I watched him come walking across the square. He sat down and ordered a coffee. “Well,” he said. “It’s all over.” “Yes,” I said. “When do you go?” … “Hello,” said Brett. “Is it you Jake?” “It’s me.” “Come in. Come in.” … “Darling!” Brett said. I went over to the bed and put my arms around her. She kissed me, and while she kissed me I could feel she was thinking of something else. She was trembling in my arms. She felt very small. “Darling! I’ve had such a hell of a time.” … “Brett was smoking. “You like to eat, don’t you?” she said. “Yes,” I said. “I like to do a lot of things.” “What do you like to do?” “Oh,” I said. “I like to do a lot of things. Don’t you want a dessert?” “You asked me that once,” Brett said. “Yes,” I said. “So I did. Let’s have another bottle of rioja alta.” … “Don’t get drunk, Jake,” she said. “You don’t have to.” “How do you know?” “Don’t,” she said. “You’ll be all right.” “I’m not getting drunk,” I said. “I’m just drinking a little wine. I like to drink wine.” “Don’t get drunk,” she said. “Jake, don’t get drunk.” Finally, they get a cab, intending to see Madrid. “…Brett moved close to me. We sat close against each other. I put my arm around her and she rested against me comfortably. It was very hot and bright, and the houses looked sharply white. We turned out onto the Grand Via. “Oh, Jake,” Brett said. ‘We could have had such a dammed good time together.” … “Yes,” I said. “Isn’t it pretty to think so?” That’s the last line of the novel, my friends. I’m going out on a limb here, with apologies to all, to say I don’t think the characters in Sun transform. Jake and Brett remain pretty much the same as they were at the beginning. They run away from commitment. They drink too much. Throughout much of the story, Jake pursues hyper-masculine activities like fishing and bullfighting—perhaps as a compensation for not having a penis. However, he pursues the same activities at the beginning. He’s consistent. Static. In fact, I want to say I don’t see how Sun expresses what Hemingway said it did—that the lost generation could find itself, find commitment and love. I think Jake and Brett seem pretty lost. The characters who do not seem lost, Montoya the bullfighter who is smitten with Brett, and Robert Cohn, disappear from the story. Don’t get me wrong, I believe Sun is a fine book but perhaps less a novel and more a memoir. It should be mentioned that, as noted in last week’s blog, Hemingway was harshly criticized by several associates who believed he had “stolen” parts of their lives and made them into loosely disguised characters. Duff Twysden, for instance. (a fun name to write and say. Try it). Hemingway famously dismissed these objections. But it does raise the question, is a text a novel if it is essentially a showing of real people and events that actually occurred? Or is that memoir? If a piece of cloth is colored blue but you say it’s red, what color is it? Hmmm. Next time, let’s look more closely at the book’s style. Till then. #TheSunAlsoRises #ErnestHemingway #AlanBray

“Kay, this week a new story, Ernest Hemingway’s 1926 novel, The Sun Also Rises. Whoa. Yes, best beloved, Hemingway’s first novel, highly acclaimed and in continuous print since its publication. Continuing the theme of exile, which we saw in much of Mavis Gallant’s work, Sun concerns a group of expatriates living in Paris. The narrator, a first-person narrator who is the central character in the story, is Jacob “Jake” Barnes, a guy who suffered a traumatic groin injury in World War 1, which has left him impotent (in later years, Hemingway said he thought of Jake’s injury as the amputation of his penis—ow!). Another central character is Brett, Lady Ashley, an Englishwoman whom Jake is in love with, as she is with him, although they are unable to physically consummate their desire for one another. Desire—yes, an important concept in this book. Wanting what you can’t have. We’ll be diving into desire, I promise you. The cover image above is the original cover for the first edition and emphasizes ancient Greece and sex, which gives you a sense of how the novel was marketed. Sun is a roman a clef (did he speak French to you?) meaning the characters and story are based on real people and events known by Hemingway. Roman a clef refers to a novel with a key. We’ll be talking about the story’s style, but at this point, let’s note that Hemingway was a journalist, a newspaper writer who admired tough, direct prose. After a riotous weekend spent in Spain at the bullfights, he planned to write a non-fiction book on bullfighting but decided he had enough material for a novel. It should also be noted that some of the real people the book’s characters were based on, were displeased. Donald Stewart, who appeared in the book's pages as "Bill Gorton," was astonished that Hemingway was calling the book fiction: it was, in Stewart's opinion, "nothing but a report on what happened … [it was] journalism." The character of Brett was based on the real-life Duff Twysden (?) who was reportedly aghast by her portrait. In the years that followed, she called the novel "cruel" and added that Hemingway had played a nasty trick on her and the others. In her opinion, it was nothing more than an example of "cheap reporting." For her and the other people whose lives and misfortunes had been co-opted in the book, life could now be divided into two categories: "B.S." (Before Sun.) and "A.S." (After Sun). ‘Kay. I guess they stopped exchanging holiday cards. The story begins after the title page with a dedication to Hemingway’s then ex-wife Hadley and their son John. Now, if you’ll indulge a little more gossip, during the writing of Sun, Hemingway left his wife and infant son to take up with a different gal. However, one can infer he felt some guilt over this as he insisted that Hadley receive a share of the royalties from the book and also, later, from the film version. But no, Hadley is not a character in the book, Jake, the Hemingway surrogate, is unmarried. Then we have two epigrams, the first from Gertrude Stein, “You are all a lost generation,” and the second a quotation from the book of Ecclesiastes in the Bible, concerning the circular nature of life—the sun also ariseth, the sun also goeth down—that kind of thing. Hemingway originally wanted to call the novel Fiesta but switched to The Sun Also Rises to emphasize the theme of the recovery of the so-called lost generation, something he believed in. He did not believe the “lost generation” was lost. Lost generation in this context refers to the "disoriented, wandering, directionless" spirit of many of the war's survivors in the early postwar period. Some of the idea here is that young people who survived the horrors of World War 1 were adrift, unable to recommit to “normal” life. They were writers, poets, exiles with commitment issues. The characters in Sun certainly seem to suffer from an aversion to commitment, but Hemingway believed there was a way out of this (I’m not sure he ever found it, though), that the so-called lost generation was actually resilient and strong. In his memoir of living in Paris in the 1920s, A Moveable Feast, Hemingway expands on this theme: “That’s what you are. That’s what you all are,” Miss Stein said. “All of you young people who served in the war. You are a lost generation.” “Really?” I said. “You are,” she insisted. “You have no respect for anything. You drink yourselves to death…” … “Have you ever seen me drunk?” “No. But your friends are drunk.” “I’ve been drunk,” I said. “But I don’t come here drunk.” “Don’t argue with me, Hemingway,” Miss Stein said. “It does no good at all…” “Later when I wrote my first novel, I tried to balance Miss Stein’s quotation…with one from Ecclesiastes. But that night walking home…I thought of Miss Stein…and egotism and mental laziness versus discipline and I thought, who is calling who a lost generation?…the hell with her lost generation talk and all the dirty, easy labels. When I got home and into the courtyard and upstairs and saw my wife and my son and his cat, F. Puss, all of them happy and a fire in the fireplace, I said to my wife, “You know, Gertrude is nice anyway.” “Of course, Tatie.” “But she does talk a lot of rot sometimes.” “I never hear her,” my wife said. “I’m a wife. It’s her friend that talks to me.” ‘Kay Not only a clear rejection by Hemingway of the lost generation concept, but a revealing glimpse chez Hemingway. Does anyone else think it’s odd that Hadley called her husband “Tatie?” Tatie is English slang for potato, but in French, it means auntie. I’ll just say, I’m glad Dena doesn’t call me ‘Auntie.” There’s plenty to get into in Sun. We’ll pick it up next time. Till then. #TheSunAlsoRises #ErnestHemingway #AlanBray

As described last time, Mavis Gallant’s Forain begins with the funeral of Adam Tremski, an eastern European author whose writing Blaise Forain has published. And it’s clear right away that Forain has organized the event. We can assume that this story has some meaning, that it is planned, not random. One thing that stands out, that may provide a clue to the story’s meaning, is the quantity of oppositions that can be found. In the first sentence, we have snow opposed to rain—an opposition not terribly significant in itself but that foreshadows what is to come. The big opposition as I see it, is between Forain and Adam Tremski. Tremski is shown to have been a rather self-centered person, perhaps irresponsible, who invites caretaking by others, certainly his wife, Barbara, but most definitely Forain. “A new desire to sort out the past, put its artifacts in order, had occupied Tremski’s conversation on his wedding day. His friends had soon grown bored, although his wife seemed to be listening. Tremski, married at last, was off on an oblique course, preaching the need for discipline and a thought-out future. It didn’t last.” “He (Forain) felt paternal, wise, rid of mistaken ideals. He would become Tremski’s guide and father. He thought, (of Barbara), this is the sort of woman I should have married—although most probably he never should have married anyone.” Forain enables Tremski’s eccentric behavior. He loans him money, he publishes his obscure writing, during the publishing process, he makes excuses for Tremski’s delays and difficulties. Most significantly, he assists in the funeral arrangements for, first Barbara, and then for Tremski himself. Perhaps, it could be said that the two characters need each other, that they have a symbiotic relationship of “user/enabler.” Prrhps. There are other oppositions, enough to make one conclude their appearance is intentional. Cartesian order/Slavic frenzy – this is mentioned early on and is related to Forain enabling Tremski’s chaos. Exile/Native – we discussed this one last time. It is central in the story, the idea of non-Parisians living in Paris and struggling to hold onto their culture. Jewish/Christian – Tremski was Jewish, Forain is not. This distinction is related to the exile/native one, and there is considerable blurring of these boundaries—Tremski is Jewish, yet his funeral is in a Catholic church. Daughter/absent daughter – Tremski has a stepdaughter, Halina; Forain has a daughter he doesn’t see who is being raised by his ex-wife. His daughter is absent, just as Halina’s biological father is absent (dead). Life/Death – And this leads us to the following opposition: Tremski is absent in the present of the story although very present through Forain’s recollections. Forain is present throughout. It’s of note that, although Tremski and Forain have many opposite characteristics, the end of the story involves Forain being shown to act like Tremski. In a scene involving a cab ride, Forain acts in an unconventional way, breaking the rules of hailing a cab and taking advantage of the driver—an emigrant, “probably Portuguese”—by stiffing him on the fare.”Forain could not decide what to do about the tip, whether to give the man something extra…In the end, he made a Tremski-like gesture, waving aside change that must have amounted to 35% of the fare…It was not until after the man had driven away that Forain saw he had not included the tip in the total sum. No Tremski flourish was ever likely to carry a reward. That was another lesson of the day.” So, after Forain loses Tremski, on the way from the funeral, he makes an attempt at behaving like his old friend. The narrator states it was a lesson learned—maybe by Forain, we don’t know. Then, at the very end—a year later—Forain is publishing one of Tremski’s novels posthumously. The last chapter had been left unfinished, and Forain finishes it, “knitted up from fragments he had left trailing.” In effect, he creates two final chapters and decides to publish both. “The new girl, (a secretary) gifted in languages, compared the two versions and said he (Tremski) would have approved, and when Forain showed a moment of doubt and hesitation she was able to remind him how, in the long run, Tremski had never known what he wanted.” Thus, their relationship is brought back to its original dynamic of Forain helping Tremski. Is the story about Forain or Tremski? Both, I think but it is all about blurring boundaries and grieving the loss of a (sometimes bad) friend. Very well, best beloved, Next week, we’ll examine a new story, Ernest Hemingway’s “The Sun Also Rises.” Till then. #Forain #MavisGallant #AlanBray

This week, let’s continue our exploration of the stories of Mavis Gallant, focusing on Forain, her June 1991 piece published in the New Yorker and available in her collection, Paris Stories. Is it about people living in Paris? Yes. Forain begins with both a funeral and a mishap. “About an hour before the funeral service for Adam Tremski, snow mixed with rain began to fall and by the time the first of the mourners arrived the stone steps of the church were dangerously wet.” Blaise Forain is the publisher of and literary executor for the deceased, Adam Tremski. When another mourner slips and hurts herself, he feels obliged to call an ambulance and must accompany the mourner to the hospital where he has to “fork over” a deposit, as the woman has no health insurance. Thus, a story about loss and accident begins with both, as well as a scene showing how the protagonist, Forain, feels responsible. A theme of exile runs through most of Mavis Gallant’s work, and Forain is no exception. Although Blaise Forain is a Frenchman living in Paris, most of the other characters are Poles who keep a separate life. “Tremski’s friends sat with their shoes in puddles. They kept their gloves on and pulled their knitted scarves tight. Some had spent all these years in France without social security or health insurance, either for want of means or because they had never found their feet in the right sort of employment. Possibly they believed that a long life was in itself full payment for a safe old age. Should the end turn out to be costly and prolonged then please, allow us to dream and float in the thickest, deepest darkness, unaware of the inconvenience and clerical work we may cause. So, Forain guessed, ran their prayers.” This passage also illustrates the author’s humorous and ironic style. Another theme that carries much comedy has to do with the writing and publishing world. Forain runs Blaise Editions, a small and barely afloat publishing house. “Season after season, his stomach eaten up with anxiety, his heart pounding out hope, hope, hope, he produced a satirical novella set in Odessa; a dense, sober, private journal, translated from the Rumanian, best understood by the author and his friends; or another wry glance at the harebrained makers of history…At least once a year he committed the near suicide of short stories and poetry. There were rewards, none financial.” Layers of irony lie here: a short story contains references to how commercially unsuccessful short stories can be. Self-reflexive, indeed. “If the firm went into deeper decline, if it took the slide from shaky to foundering, he would turn to writing. Why not? At least he knew what he wanted to publish. It would get rid of any further need of dealing with living authors: their rent, their divorces, their abscessed teeth, not to speak of that new craze in the East—their psychiatrists. His first novel—what should he call it? He allowed a title to arise from his dormant unconscious imagination…He could not all of a sudden start to publish poems about North Sea pollution and the threat to the herring catch.” All of this is quite funny—particularly to a writer. The story—till the final scene a year later—occurs during the funeral service for Adam Tremski and keeps returning to its action amidst lengthy digressions that show Forain’s thoughts and memories of who Tremski was, and that reveal who Forain is. There is a minimum of dialogue; the story is told by an unnamed narrator who is able to show Forain’s perspective, using Mavis Gallant’s distinctive style. It is a somewhat impersonal style—as we’ve said—breezy and sarcastic. “Four months before, Forain had been present for the last blessing of Barabra, Tremski’s wife, at the Polish church on the Rue St. Honore. The church, a chapel really, was round in shape, with no fixed pews—just rows of chairs pushed together. The dome was a mistake—too imposing for the squat structure—but it had stood for centuries, and only the very nervous could consider it a threat. Here, Forain had noticed, tears came easily, not only for the lost friend but for all the broken ties and old, unwilling journeys.” The passage continues with Forain reflecting on Tremski and on Barbara and the funeral. Thus, it must be noted that although Forain is in the present at Tremski’s funeral, he is lost in reverie about the past—of course, this is not an unusual state at a funeral. Another thing worth noting is the distance between Forain and the narrator. The narrator shows Forain with all (or many) of his foibles, negative characteristics he would probably not wish to reveal. Let’s stop here and pick up next weeks, dear friends. Till then. #Forain #MavisGallant #AlanBray

Let’s continue our exploration of the work of Mavis Gallant, in particular her 1963 story, The Ice Wagon Coming Down The Street. Okay. Last time, I talked about how the story expresses a certain emotional tone. Peter Frazier and his wife Sheila are Canadian ex-pats effectively exiled back to Canada after unsuccessful attempts to garner appreciation for their greatness. Peter ruminates over an encounter he had with another Canadian, Agnes Brusen, in Geneva, an encounter that made him confront the failure in his life. A sense of failure, of shame and denial of failure pervades the story. So, how does Ms. Gallant convey this complex emotion? Well, if ya read last week’s post, you’d know something, right? Ms. Gallant deployed a powerful metaphor—Agnes’ memory of the ice wagon coming down the street—to show a sense of childish wonder and personal agency that Peter realizes he has lost. Moreover, this potent image carries a lot of “bang for the buck,” as they say. It conjures ideas about preservation through freezing in ice. The feelings that Agnes and Peter describe are frozen in time. Another potent symbol in Ice Wagon is the Balenciaga dress that Peter’s wife, Sheilah, owns. It’s not explained how Sheilah came to possess this presumably expensive, designer item, but we can assume it was bought during a time when the couple had money and wanted to display it. It makes a telling appearance at the beginning and end of things, as well as in a crucial scene. “Sheilah has the Balenciaga. It is a black afternoon dress, stiff and boned at the waist, long for the fashions of now, but neither Sheilah nor Peter would change a thread. The Balenciaga is their talisman, their treasure, and after they remember it they touch hands and think that the years are not behind them but lazy and marvelous and still to be lived.” In Geneva, Sheilah dreams they’re in Paris and that Peter is more than a file clerk. She wears the Balenciaga “…and puts candles on the card table where she and Peter eat their meal. The neckline of the dress was soiled with makeup. Peter remembers her dabbing on the makeup with a wet sponge. He remembers her in the kitchen, in the soiled Balenciaga, patting on the makeup with a filthy sponge…Sheilah sitting straight as a queen.” The Balenciaga is a symbol of their dreams of success. They maintain it although it is out of fashion and soiled with makeup. Why, you ask, don’t they do a better job of cleaning it? Too literal, my dear. That would be a different story. It is also a symbol of faded glory, of tarnished class. At the party where Peter is asked to take Agnes home, Sheilah is wearing the Balenciaga. At the end, when they’ve been exiled back to Canada, “We have the Balenciaga,” (Peter thinks/says). “He touches Sheilah’s hand.” Now, a different way to present this story would be to have a narrator “tell” the reader that, in this case, Peter realizes he’s a failure. “Peter realized he was a failure.” Or, the character could say, within a scene, “I’m a failure. I will never see the ice wagon coming down the street in the same way Agnes did.” Of course, that would also be a different story—part of the artistry of Ice Wagon is in the delicate showing of Peter’s inner state, a state the narrator is more aware of than is Peter himself. The fact is that Peter’s self-awareness only rarely breaks through his armor of denial. If Peter was the narrator of this story, we could say he was unreliable, unaware of himself. But he is not. We have a separate narrator entity showing us the story. Ms. Gallant does have this narrator saying that Peter is lost, however, she also presents several symbols that express and show what his experience is—in a rather mysterious way. Well, you’re talking about the objective correlative, correct? Yes. The venerable T.S. Eliot developed the idea of the objective correlative, saying it is a set of objects, a situation, or chain of events that express a particular emotion the writer is trying to express. An action of creating an emotion through external factors and evidence linked together. One of the effects of this—and we see it in Ice Wagon—is that a distance is created between the character/story and the author. A distance into which irony falls. Ooh. The objective correlative is a useful way to describe the mechanism of Ice Wagon, where the ice wagon story, the Balenciaga dress, and the circumstances of Peter and Sheilah’s life, combine to show an emotional mood of regret, shame, and loss, one that the author, the narrator, and the reader grasp but not Peter. Till next time. #TheIceWagonComingDownTheStreet #MavisGallant #AlanBray

“Now that they were out of world affairs and back where they started, Peter Frazier’s wife says, “Everybody else did well in the international thing except us.” So begins Mavis Gallant’s story, “The Ice Wagon Going Down The Street,” first published in the New Yorker in December of 1963. It is contained within the story collection Paris Stories, published in 2002. Last time, I threatened to look for symbols, metaphors, allegory and rhymes in this story, and I intend to do that. But first, let’s consider things more broadly. (whiny voice) Scuse me, Mr. A.I. What’s an ice wagon? You again. Well, I will explain for my younger readers. It’s a wagon made of ice. No. Before the days of electrical refrigeration, blocks of ice were delivered to homes and businesses by a horse-drawn wagon, to be placed in iceboxes to preserve food. No—you’re kidding, right? We will see that this symbol of the ice wagon going down the street is key to the story. Probably why it’s the title. ‘Kay. Voices is not a story about Linnet Muir. It concerns Peter Frazier, a Canadian who was worked in various low-level jobs in Europe, always dreaming of material success. In the course of one of these positions, his supervisor is Agnes Brusen, a young woman who affects him profoundly. It is Agnes who relates the episode of the ice wagon coming down the street, a childhood memory of hers. At the beginning of Ice Wagon, Peter, his wife, and two young daughters are living in his birth country Canada with his sister after an unsuccessful season spent in the Far East. And this season occurs after an earlier unsuccessful time in Geneva, where he encountered Agnes. Prior to that there was an unsuccessful time in Paris. You get the idea, yes? Peter (and his wife) is someone who expects success and acclaim but does not work for it. Also, Peter and Sheila are perpetual exiles without a home. But Peter maintains a brave front. “He had tried to tell Sheila why he cannot be defeated. He remembers his father saying, “Nothing can touch us,” and Peter believed it and still does. It has prevented his taking his troubles too seriously. Nothing can be as bad as this, he will tell himself. …as if his office were a pastime, and his real life a secret so splendid he could share it with no one except himself.” He is arrogant and resentful. But meeting Agnes Brusen provides him with a haunting sense of his own moral bankruptcy. Here’s how the story ends: “Everything works out, somehow or other. Let Agnes have the start of the day. Let Agnes think it was invented for her. Who wants to be alone in the universe? No, begin at the beginning. Peter lost Agnes. Agnes says to herself somewhere., Peter is lost.” Let’s look at how the central symbol/metaphor of the ice wagon coming down the street leads us to this bleak end. Peter and Sheila attend a party where Agnes is present. Agnes drinks too much—very rare for her—and the hostess asks Peter to take her home. As they search for his car, Agnes says: “I’ve never been alone before. When I was a kid I would get up in the summer before the others, and I’d see the ice wagon going down the street. I’m alone now.” The next day, at their office, Agnes says: “I told you about the ice wagon…that was the best. It’s the best you can hope to have. In a big family, if you want to be alone, you have to get up before the rest of them. You get up early in the morning and it’s you, you, once in your life alone in the universe. You think you know everything that can happen…nothing is ever like that again.” In her small apartment, Agnes emerges from the bathroom and clumsily embraces Peter—although this is not a bid for seduction. Peter “saw her back and her profile and his own face in the mirror over the fireplace. He thought, this is how disasters happen…He saw floods of seawater moving with perfect punitive justice over reclaimed land, he saw lava covering vineyards and overtaking dogs and stragglers. A bridge over an abyss snapped in two, and the long express train, suddenly V-shaped, floated like snow.” My read of this is that, looking in the mirror, his world cracks apart. All the lies and pretending, the narcissistic resentment that his undeveloped abilities are ignored, are exposed, and he sees his double for who he really is—a failure. What Agnes unknowingly communicates to him is that he is like a child watching the world in wonder but that nothing is ever like that again. He is spending his adult life in the mistaken belief that it can be. He returns home. Peter “thinks of the ice wagon going down the street. He sees something he has never seen in his life—a Western town that belongs to Agnes. Here is Agnes—small, mole-faced, round-shouldered because she has always carried a younger child. Nothing moves except the shadows and the ice wagon and the changing amber of the child’s eyes. The child is Peter…He is there. He has taken the morning that belongs to Agnes, he is up before the others and he knows everything. There is nothing he doesn’t know. He could keep the morning, if he wanted to, but what can Peter do with the start of a summer’s day?” The image of the ice-wagon coming down an empty, early morning street, watched in wonder by a child, is marvelously evocative and magical. And it “holds” much meaning. Peter may have been the child observing, but he is no longer a child. He is alone with Sheila. “…Agnes went on and did—what? They lost each other. Peter is lost.” And there are other metaphors we should consider in this story. Till next time. #TheIceWagonComingDownTheStreet #MavisGallant #AlanBray

This week, let’s examine the style of Mavis Gallant’s short story, “Voices Lost In Snow.” Style is the way an author writes a story; it creates the voice that audiences hear when they read. Mavis Gallant certainly has a distinct style, I’d argue that one can identify her writing after a few paragraphs. What is this style? Numerous wise ones identify several components in style, including: tone, narrator-structure, and the use of creative devices like symbolism, allegory, metaphor, rhyme. We’ve touched on tone, or the mood of the story. Voices describes possibly sad events—an adult daughter discovering secrets about her parents, particularly about her long-deceased father. It is a story about making sense of loss—loss of childhood, of parents, of a city and way of life. But the tone is not particularly tragic. It is light and humorous. Ironic. The narrator expresses no grief; she states things matter-of-factly—and of course, this often has the greatest emotional impact on the reader. Mavis Gallant herself said, “Perhaps a writer is, in fact, a child in disguise, with a child’s lucid view of grown-ups, accurate as to atmosphere, improvising when it tries to make sense of adult behavior.” This quote really captures Voice Lost In Snow. The narrator describes Linnet, who is a kind of spy in the world of her parents, yet unable to make sense of their behavior till years later. “…by taking her out of the city he (Linnet’s father) exposed her (her mother) to a danger that, being English, he had never dreamed of. This was the heart-stopping cry of the steam train at night, sweeping across a frozen river, clattering on the ties of a wooden bridge. From our separate rooms, my mother and I heard the unrivaled summons, the long, urgent, uniquely North American reckoning. She would follow and so would I, years and desires and destinations apart. I think that women pledged in such a manner are more steadfast than men.” The prose is lyrical, but the tone is casual and matter of fact. When Linette’s father concludes the visit with Georgie, father and daughter walk down Sherbrooke Street. “You needn’t see Georgie again unless you want to…(he’d made) a private decision about himself. He was barely thirty-one and had a full winter to live after this one—little more. Why? ‘Because I say so.’ The answer seems to speak out of the lights, the stones, the snow; out of the crucial second when inner and outer forces join, and the environment becomes part of the enemy too.” We’ve talked about the narrational structure in the story. There is a narrator who is a character, a protagonist who seems to be writing an autobiography. She has privileged knowledge of the child Linnet Muir, but it is not expressed in the form of Linnet being a full-blown character with an inner life. It is more that the narrator remembers largely visual memories and tries to make sense of them years later. She “improvises.” Linnet is the conduit for the narrator to recast the past. Yes, a question from the audience. Thank you, Mr. Al. In the past, you’ve discussed ad nauseum, the concept of the implied author. How does this concept fit into Voices Lost In Snow? “Kay—did you just call me Mr. Al or Mr. A.I.? Hello? Mr. A One. Well, in any case, great question. Is there another level of narration in the story, an author entity who shapes the narrator and who may not necessarily always have the same opinion as the narrator? Praps, best beloved. (Cheering, applause). Thank you. There certainly is an entity who has written the story, making decisions about structure, scene, and character. This entity allows the narrator to begin by writing about a different style of parenting—Because I said so. This entity makes choices about language, about the personality of the narrator. However, I don’t think there’s a lot of distance between this entity and the story’s narrator. There is not the sort of tension that would arise if, say, the implied author made it clear that it disagreed with some of the narrator’s conclusions—perhaps simply by showing how the narrator is in error or is prejudiced in some way. “There, Charlotte, what did I tell you?” my grandmother said. This grandmother did not care for dreams or for children. If I sensed the first, I had no hint of the latter…It is impossible for me to enter the mind of this agnostic who taught me prayers, who had already shed every remnant of belief when she committed me at the font.” Perhaps it could be said that the implied author shows us that the narrator is rather disapproving of her parents and grandmother (and of Georgie). Yet, we sympathize with rather than condemn her. That is the effect the implied narrator creates—the unnamed narrator of Voice Lost In Snow is someone who is older and wiser, who is able to express beautiful and bittersweet memories of a childhood that is not idealized. Regarding symbols and metaphor, rhyme and allegory, I say let’s look for them in some other stories by Mavis Gallant. Today, we will bid farewell to Voices Lost In Snow and move on to a fresh one next week. Till then. #VoicesLostInSnow #MavisGallant #AlanBray

We’ve noted the intriguing structure in Mavis Gallant’s Voices Lost In Snow, how the story contains an apparently autobiographical narrator looking back to and showing childhood. Memory it would seem. ‘Kay. That is the illusion created by this marvelous tale. I stand by my comment from last week that it's more fiction than anything. George Woodcock, Canadian writer and savant, said in a rather fussy way, “Linnet Muir is about as near to Mavis Gallant as the namesake bird (a modest British singing bird) is to the Mavis, which is the Scottish name for the magnificent European song thrush.” What’s with all the bird references? By a guy whose name is Woodcock, no less. Well, he apparently knew Ms. Gallant and is affirming that the Linnet Muir stories are fiction. So, within the fictional world of the story, an older woman is looking back on her childhood, trying to solve a mystery—who were her parents? Not as parents, but as people. Now, it’s quite possible that the real person, Mavis Gallant, hoped to solve this mystery about her own parents—after all, it’s a common human experience to wonder who one’s parents really were. But Ms. Gallant was writing a story, perhaps one that expressed a personal issue, but still a story. She created a protagonist—ten-year-old Linnet Muir, growing up in Montreal, circa 1930—and she created a narrator—an unnamed older woman who tells the story about her younger self. There are two distinct times in the story, one is the narrator’s present, largely conveyed in simple present tense, and the past inhabited by Linnet, expressed in simple past. And its variations. Examples please. As noted, the story begins with a passage describing an older model of parenting in which children were discouraged from understanding their parents’ behavior. The verb tense used is primarily the simple past. “Dark riddles filled the corners of life…” “Asking questions was ‘being tiresome…’” Halfway through the first paragraph, there’s a shift to the present: “How much has changed? Observe the drift of words descending from adult to child…” A question and invitation to the reader to reflect on how much has changed and to observe. It could also be the author asking herself the question. There’s nothing like different verb tenses to indicate a shift in time. When is the “now” of the story? The use of the simple past tense in the passages about the child Linnet would seem to indicate they had already occurred, that the narrator is describing them after the fact. But here’s a different passage: “Two persons descend the street, stepping carefully. The child, reminded every day to keep her hands still, gesticulates wildly—there is the flash of a red mitten. I will never overtake this pair. Their voices are lost in snow.” Now the author could have written, “Two persons descended the street, stepping carefully. The child…gesticulated wildly—there was a flash of red mittens. I would never overtake this pair. Their voices were lost in snow.” Written this way, it would indicate that we the readers are being shown action in the past. As written, the narrator, writing in present tense, shows something else—a vision she has of the past. A little girl and her father “descending” a wintry street. But it is not the past; it is present as a vision. What about that lovely, “I will never overtake that pair. Their voices are lost in snow?” Well, it indicates the narrator in her future time commenting on the vision. She does not have the experience of moving past the father daughter pair. They are frozen in time, and there is no continuity—that is, this is not someone writing, “I remember the time my father and I walked down a street in Montreal. It must have been 1932." No, to the narrator, the past is not continuous with the present. They are speaking in the present, but their voices are lost in snow. Heavy stuff. Till next time. #VoicesLostInSnow #MavisGallant #AlanBray

Last week, I began a look at Mavis Gallant’s Voices Lost in Snow, remarking on how the theme of the story is that parents may be confusing to children and/or that children misinterpret their parents’ behavior. This week, let’s look at the prime example of this—Linette’s visit to her godmother, Georgie, accompanied by her father, Angus. “You didn’t say you were bringing Linette!” This is how the adult Linette recalls the visit beginning. Her father says, “Well, she is your godchild, and she has been ill.” There follows a description of how the adult Linette remembers her medical history, how her first doctor, Ward Mackey (great Canadian name) had told her parents she was “subject to bilious attacks”—this being, after all, in the late nineteen twenties. A new doctor, “Uncle Raoul” proclaimed that the young Linette “had a brush with consumption.” Ms. Gallant uses the French, “Votre fille a frôle la phtisie,” the French verb frôler meaning to brush or graze. So Uncle Raoul was not saying Linnet was tubercular, but that she perhaps had some weakness in the lungs. However, Linette’s parents, out of concern, moved to the country where the air was fresher, I suppose. Ms. Gallant writes: “’Frôler’ was the charmed word in that winter’s story; it was a hand brushing the edge of folded silk, a leaf escaping a spiderweb…I had been standing on one foot for months now, midway between ‘frôler’ and ‘falling into,’ propped up by a psychosomatic guardian angel.” ‘Kay. What does this mean? The child Linette had escaped tuberculosis but there is also a suggestion that she got attention—otherwise lacking—for being ill. Georgie observes that Linette is “smaller than she looks.” The narrator Linette observes, “This authentic godmother observation drives me to my only refuge, the insistence that she must have had something—he could not have been completely deaf and blind.” An interesting comment. The adult Linette is saying—because of this memory of Georgie’s comment that she was small for her age—that she must have had some illness, and that her father must have noticed—despite his seeming obliviousness. Georgie offers Linette some mints. “My father and Georgie talked for a while—she using people’s initials instead of their names, which my mother would not have done—and they drank what must have been sherry, if I think of the shape of the decanter.” Then Linette and her father leave. Angus doesn’t live much longer. “He was barely thirty-one and had a full winter to live after this one—little more.” Years later, when Linette is “about twenty,” she again encounters Dr. Ward Mackey, who tells her, “Georgie didn’t play her cards well where he (Angus) was concerned. There was a point where if she had made just one smart move, she could have had him. Not for long, of course, but none of us knew that.” The narrator realizes she was brought along that day to visit Georgie not because her father didn’t know what else to do with her but because her presence was significant to whatever relationship he had with Georgie. Linette was a reminder to Georgie that Angus was married, perhaps that he intended to stay married. The narrator writes, developing a beautiful card metaphor, “I saw only one move that Saturday: My father placed a card face-up on the table and watched to see what Georgie made of it. She shrugged, let it rest…What if she had picked it up, remarking in her smoky voice, ‘Yes, I can use that?…He took the card back and dropped his hand, and their long intermittent game came to an end. The card must have been the eight of clubs—a female child.” So the story ends. It’s interesting that the eight of clubs is believed to represent a casual relationship. A good omen for love as adventure, a bad one for marriage. More generally, it can mean compromises in love. Another source claims that it is known as the playboy card and connects with the needy child inside us and affirms our lovability. Huh, these meanings seem to connect with the story. The adult Linette realizes there was some attraction between her father and Georgie, an attraction the child Linette was unaware of, and that her father was not quite as remote and disengaged as she believed. Perhaps, she is suggesting that her father had made it clear to Georgie he would only pursue a casual relationship with her as he was married. Her mother too is recast—she is not so much the eccentric nut who turns on her friend Georgie but more the woman and wife who was defending her marriage. Let’s keep in mind that this story is more fiction than anything. It’s easy to read it as autobiography but there’s no evidence it really happened, no evidence that Georgie, Angus, Linette’s mother, Dr. Ward Mackey, Uncle Raoul, and Linette really existed. It’s a story, best beloved, a story that expresses truth about people. Till next time. #VoicesLostInSnow #MavisGallant #AlanBray