Men, and Women, of Letters

The nagging doubts I've always had about reading other people's letters are only added to by how often it diminishes their reputation. It was the first volume of Larkin letters more than the Motion biography that made him so non grata for many. I never had as much time for Ted Hughes in the first place but his letters were mostly tragic, funny in places, forever in search of a new money-making project and a lack of awareness that the problem was him. My big hero, Thom Gunn, was reduced in status by the revelation that 'hedonism' and 'moral freedom' are only more positive ways of saying 'helplessly prmiscuous'.

Elizabeth Bishop came across as a much more homely, likeable and self-deprecating figure and Mozart was almost child-like at times, if I remember rightly. 

James Joyce, regarded this side of idolatry here, if mainly for The Dead, the rest of Dubliners and Portrait, doesn't fare well but by the end, I overcame some reservations. We've long understood that being a great writer doesn't automatically make anyone great at anything else. He's disputatious in his dealings with publishers and in business, perhaps understandably when they are reluctant to publish his work. He's also quite demanding, asking favours from exile and early penury for books, money and, later, detailed information about Dublin so that Ulysses, as has been said, could be used as a comprehensive guide to it.

However, whether we really need to read the letters to Nora in all their frank indecency is another matter. As with poetry, it's preferable if there's always a bit that we don't know.

But, acerbic rather than amusing, he's rarely got good words for the likes of Oliver St. John Gogarty as a person or the work of George Moore and even at his best, he's not inclined to compromise, like declining to buy tickets for the sweepstake,

 The only decent people I ever saw at a racecourse were the horses. The late Shah of Persia when invited by King Edward to go to Goodwood replied: I know that one horse runs quicker than another but which particular horse it is doesn't interest me.

 

Writing to Lucia, though, he drops us a tip, that How Much Land Does a Man Need by Tolstoy is 'the greatest story that the literature of the world knows'. And so we'll maybe have a look at that.

The letters were the easy option, taking a rest at roughly halfway through the Wake. The latest two chapters of that were little more than sitting and looking at the words. One really might as well just read the Guide. So maybe the plan might be to finish the Guide, with notes, take that back to the library and then proceed with the Wake as and when. The point of that really will be to be able to make the spurious claim that I've 'read' it.

Less demandingly, or more rewardingly, is gathering some notes towards an introduction to Thomas Hardy, as poet rather than novelist, for my turn on the Portsmouth Poetry Society programme next year. Being washed by such clarity, coherence and sense is like that first blast of a cold drink on a hot day. Which reminds me that it might soon be time for that, too.