Marry Me, Harold Bloom: A Love Letter [Slash Dredged-Up Artifact]

In honor of the death of Harold Bloom, I bring back to the internet this open letter I wrote during my first year of graduate school.

Dear Harold Bloom,

I love you. Let’s get married.

But: what about this?, my reader enjoins. And it’s true, Harold Bloom. I think you are a lunatic. I think you are straight-up crazy nuts. Also, you are approximately one million years old, and I am twenty-six. But I do not want to marry you just to make myself Mollie Bloom (which is not to say that wouldn’t be a really compelling side benefit). I respect your lunacy, and I love you anyway. I love you for your lunacy. I love that every paper I write about anything to do with canon (which is a good proportion of all the papers I write, given that it’s kind of a thing with me) provides me the opportunity to come across some new nutty remark of yours. And Harold Bloom, I love your nutty remarks.

Like this: “If aesthetic merit were ever again to center the canon Finnegans Wake would be as close as our chaos could come to the heights of Shakespeare and Dante.”

You said this in The Western Canon, Harold, and Penguin liked it so much they slapped it on the back of their edition of the Wake. Do you know why? Because no one else has ever said anything of the kind, because it is crazy. (Forgive my italics, Harold; I’m underslept and overenthusiastic.) It is a whole symphony of crazy. It is variations on the theme of crazy. It is crazy because it imagines some golden age of aesthetic purity long departed. It is crazy because you still really think Shakespeare is God (actual, literal God—Dante and Joyce can maybe fight it out for Jesus, but Shakespeare is the inventor of the human). It is crazy because if you got everyone who’s ever read both to line up in the schoolyard (and it really wouldn’t need to be a big one) and run either to the side marked Ulysses or the side marked Finnegans Wake I am pretty sure you would be standing alone. You don’t have to stand alone anymore, Harold. (I mean this metaphorically: I am all but positive that I would be on the Ulysses side, too, if I ever got around to hacking through Finnegans Wake. But think of the fights we could have about this in your mahogany-paneled study.)

Harold Bloom, you might think I am being flippant, just because I put in a footnote about how you take so much pleasure in tweaking the nose of the common reader that your exception can be considered to prove the rule. I am not. I am being absolutely genuine. I think there is something valiant in your denial of materialism, of the world as it is and always has been. The promise of a better world is an appealing one, Harold, even if that promise comes in the form of a eulogy for something that never was. I will believe in Philistines with you, Harold; I will believe in Kulturkampf. The Ragnarok of art. These are the end times, Harold; let’s spend them together.

Also, Harold Bloom, allow me to be crass (I bet you don’t mind that): I am pretty sure that I would get a tenure-track job out of our marriage. And—perhaps you have not heard—those are hard to come by these days. What with the ranks of the very senior professoriate soldiering on and all.

What do you say? I will read Ulysses out loud to you as you grow slowly blind and deaf (but O, Harold, never dumb). I will read you the Romantics (not the lady ones). We can negotiate on Finnegans Wake in the pre-nup. So long as you never run out of crazy, I will make sure you never run out of cognac. If you were to shuffle off this mortal coil at the advanced and dignified age of one hundred, Harold, I would only be forty-six. You will never see me mottled and wattled. That has the whiff of immortality about it, doesn’t it? I think we will be very happy together. So I think there can, Harold Bloom, be only one response to this (modest) proposal:

yes I said yes I will Yes

With love (obviously),

P.S. Harold Bloom, I reserve the right to take all this back as soon as I get my first full night’s sleep in a week and some distance on this paper on Ulysses. But for now, I am stone-cold serious. Move quickly.

Write What You Know, Know What You Write: On Lionel Shriver and Cultural Appropriation in Fiction

There is so much going on in the world right now—and even within the realm of race and culture and public life—that l'affaire Lionel Shriver may not be on everyone's radar. But it's something I've been following, because as a literary scholar interested in the way that our beliefs about literature interact with other kinds of cultural ideology it hits me where I live. Long story short, Lionel Shriver, white woman and novelist, said that cultural appropriation is not a thing and that the concern with it impedes (even censors—her word, though clearly not one that reflects reality in that she gave the speech and wrote the novels in the first place) the work of fiction. She also said a bunch of things about wearing sombreros at fiesta-themed frat parties & similar. The full text of her remarks is here.  

Let's dismiss the second out of hand, because it's just racist apologia that has nothing to do with the work of fiction (does she truly believe that the frat boys in sombreros are trying earnestly, gently, empathically, in the manner a serious novelist might try to understand a character s/he's creating, to walk a mile in the hat of someone else? Seems to me to strain credulity and radically misunderstand the nature of a frat party), although it does contextualize her attitude on literature. Let's talk about the first point.

In writing MFAs and creative writing classes the nation over, writers tell younger writers or people who hope to become writers, "write what you know." Why? Because when we write what we know, we speak what we need heard, and we speak from a well of knowledge we may not even be aware we have. The things that define the experience, that make it what it is, are available to us if only we can retrieve and organize them. "Write what you know" has an element of craft—that's how you make something believable, and therefore good—and also, less explicitly, an element of intellectual judgment about the work and the possibility of the work of fiction—that it can, when it works, tell someone else about what you know: let them understand it, live in it, experience it vicariously.

A couple of years ago, I heard a truly remarkable keynote talk by Fred Moten at the Louisville Conference on Literature After 1945. This remains maybe the best—the most accomplished, the most engaging—academic talk I've ever heard, and in one of the bits I remember most vividly from it, Moten spoke to the need for the work of Black writers in anthologies, and specifically to the capacity of poetry to transmit what we do not know. Poetry, he argued, has the potential to give us the rhythm, the texture, the sensory experience of a life not our own—in poetry, even someone who had not grown up around Black women and the rituals of lye and hot irons, of money and pain and time that go into rendering Black hair acceptable to white beauty standards, even I (and even Marjorie Perloff, who had said some pretty brutally dismissive things about the work of Black poets in major anthologies to which Moten was responding) might come to know "the smell of burning hair."

I could spend several thousand words about how and why poetry and also fiction can, especially in their most finely-wrought iterations, do this thing. The short version is that they absorb us, that they engage us empathically, that they work on us in a thousand ways large and small, through craft and the nature of the medium. They simulate experience, give us the closest thing possible to knowing what is written. long as what's written is known. As long as there's something there to be transmitted. 

In today's Times, Kaitlyn Greenidge argues that who gets to write what hinges on whether or not what's written is good. I think she's right. 

The novelists who write characters outside their own experience do so at a risk. Whenever you write what you don't know, you risk getting it wrong. If done well, though, it's a goddamn triumph. And these are the things that writers are supposed to be able to do well: to imagine the lives of others, to understand them, to grasp them from the inside out. Writers are supposed to be able to do the imaginative work, the empathic work, and also the intellectual work—research where necessary, identify what you don't know, make sure it's believable. If the resulting characters are hollow to people who do know the experience the characters are an attempt to depict, then it's the writer who's failed. But of course the thing is: the writer has to be willing to listen to the people who their characters ostensibly represent. That's who gets to decide if the character is believable. Not the writer herself, when it's not her experience. Not the writer's circle of friends. Because: write what you know. 

And if the writer can't hear that? If the writer is standing at the podium alone, insisting that her character does too accurately represent the experience that she herself has never had, insisting that even to the people who actually have had it? If the writer is willing to insult the people with whom she insists she is capable of empathizing sufficiently to depict their experience as if she knows it like her own? 

Then it's not just bad writing. Then it's a failure to understand the way writing works, and what it does, and what it can do. It's a betrayal of the possibility of fiction, not a valorization of it.

Happy 200th Birthday, Charlotte Brontë

Basically the slightest mention of Charlotte Brontë revives my mania for Villette, which is today in full swing. Here's a little roundup of good things from the internet's observance of the occasion slash annotated bibliography for when I place my shrieking screed about Villette. I am sort of ignoring the Jane Eyre stuff a little bit, because...Villette. Also worth noting: not a male byline among them.

  • LitHub wins the day with Brontë essays in triplicate from a trio of female critics. These are good essays, each one, and they hit necessary themes when contending with Brontë—genre, protofeminism, and the intimacies of reading. 
  • The Millions offers a heavily Victorian memento mori-y visit to the Brontë house
  • The Pool features Samantha Ellis's (correct) argument that Villette is the grown-up Brontë novel.
  • This piece on Brontë beyond Jane Eyre, from the New Statesman, is a little surface-y, but I'm putting it here for thoroughness and a sense of the conversation.
  • In the Spectator, Ysenda Maxtone Graham, under a provocative title that foregrounds gender, argues in passing that critics are overcompensating and people really do like Jane Eyre better.
  • Honorable mention to The Toast, which ran this a long time ago and I think kind of crystallizes the reception division between Jane Eyre people and Villette people.
  • Okay, fine, one Jane Eyre thing. I'm linking this one because of the way its opening implicitly connects Jane Eyre to the Austen Industrial Complex, which connection suits the argument.
  • And mostly unrelated to my basically imaginary Jane Eyre vs. Villette binary (there is enough room for two books!) (even if one of them is better, just saying), the Guardian features Emma Butcher on Brontë's private fantasy stories. Really nice piece.
  • Brontë's Christian (proto-)feminism. I do think calling it "radical" is perhaps a bit much—similarly "some anti-Catholicism" is probably underselling it. Lucy Snowe, not big into popery.

A Partial List of Cultural Products Currently Occupying My Fractured Attention


  • Scandal; the work that it's doing right now around female ambition, sisterhood, and Hillary Clinton; the conversations that Chloe and I have about it at our regular Scandal nights.
  • House of Cards, marriage, the Underwoods' marriage in particular, emotional privacy, how to describe that Oscar-bait color palette, why this version of political melodrama has more cultural credibility than Scandal's version even though it could really use a hit off Shonda's adrenaline IV.
  • DH Lawrence, gender and sex, sex and power. The lapis lazuli paperweight (always). I reread the relevant page or two out loud this morning and the repetition of words in Lawrence really strikes me, the way he reworks his sentences. They have this on-the-nose quality that results in something kind of surreal, something extremely abstract. 
  • RuPaul's Drag Race and this incredible RuPaul interview in which Mama Ru disclaims stable identities and refuses to make meaning for anyone but himself. Is the only way not to go insane when you know how to play all the angles, to decide that they can't cohere? Anyway, my early favorite this season is Bob the Drag Queen, who has such panache.
  • A piece I read somewhere but apparently can't be bothered to find right now about EM Forster's virginity when he wrote Howards End—the writer of the piece felt like the power of the novel had faded for her, not because of that virginity, of course, but in a way that may have been concomitant with it. I hope this wouldn't be true if I reread it, because it's one of my absolute favorites. 
  • A&E's Poirot—the leads it gives me to run down for the dissertation chapter that may or may not ever be, for one, but also what it is that Christie isn't—atmospheric, ever-darkening, attentive to things like loneliness, and the soul, and being pent up in one's own head and heart. Its trapped women (Third Girl, Taken at the Flood). The way it shifts focus on what's there to somehow change the entire product. The brilliance of the Suchet performance