The "you" in this post's title refers to my newest adventure in research: a long anticipated project on Fanny Fern that I am only just starting. (It's not that big a project--for now, just a paper for SAMLA in November.) Anyway, as I look towards wrapping up one big project (that MELUS article I mentioned here) and get ready to start writing another conference paper (this one on Constance Fenimore Woolson, for the SSAWW conference in October--and the research/note-taking is done on this one), it seems like the right time to start the Fern project. I will confess, though, to having a lot of it already written in my head.
Major nerd alert, but it's so true: this first phase of research--hitting the MLA bibliography, ordering ILL materials, printing off articles, picking up books, really diving into the conversation--is just always so exciting to me.
Showing posts with label constance fenimore woolson. Show all posts
Showing posts with label constance fenimore woolson. Show all posts
Thursday, June 28, 2012
Saturday, June 23, 2012
Constance Fenimore Woolson on Louisa May Alcott
"What heroic, brave struggles. And what a splendid success" (qtd. in Gebhard 218).
I know I keep posting these "_____ on ______" entries, but I keep stumbling across great examples. It shouldn't surprise us that writers are so very good at witty and spot-on evaluations of their peers. This one strikes me as particularly poignant as Woolson, like Alcott, struggled with and wrote despite poor health, had long periods of self-doubt, and fought societal expectations about women-writers.
I know I keep posting these "_____ on ______" entries, but I keep stumbling across great examples. It shouldn't surprise us that writers are so very good at witty and spot-on evaluations of their peers. This one strikes me as particularly poignant as Woolson, like Alcott, struggled with and wrote despite poor health, had long periods of self-doubt, and fought societal expectations about women-writers.
Alcott's grave marker in Sleepy Hollow Cemetery. (Taken during my awesome vacation last summer)
Work Cited
Gebhard, Caroline. "Constance Fenimore Woolson Rewrites Bret Harte: The Sexual Politics of Intertextuality." Critical Essays on Constance
Fenimore Woolson. Ed. Cheryl B Torsney. New York: G.K. Hall, 1992. 217-23. Print.
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
Oldies but goodies
[Disclaimer: besides actually wanting to write about the subject addressed below, this post is also the result of A) being burned out after a long day and needing a break and B) my need to push that awful tomato worm picture further down the page. Every time I see it, I cringe a bit. Why in the world did I put it up there? And yeah, I know I can take it down, but that seems dishonest or something.]
Okay, so I know I've posted about this topic before (a long time ago), but sometimes I get real satisfaction out of reading old (and sometimes really old) criticism of a work. As I work on this year's SAMLA paper--about Hawthorne's The Marble Faun and Constance Fenimore Woolson's "Miss Grief"--I am working my way through the relevant sections of J. Donald Crowley's Hawthorne: The Critical Heritage. For those outside English studies, these "critical heritage" books are great resources--basically anthologies of criticism/reviews of a major writer's texts. A couple of gems from James Russell Lowell's April 1860 review of The Marble Faun in The Atlantic Monthly:
"Had he been born without the poetic imagination, [Hawthorne] would have written treatises on the Origin of Evil." (This one makes me laugh because it's pretty darn funny and because Hawthorne already kind of does write about the "Origin of Evil.")
One more: "If you had picked up and read a stray leaf of it anywhere, you would have exclaimed, 'Hawthorne!'" I'm not quite sure what I think of The Marble Faun. It's took me two tries to really get into it and even now, it's not what you would call "fun" reading. And in lots of ways, it's very different from Hawthorne's other books. But, like Lowell says, read any page, and there's no denying it's all Hawthorne.
Okay, so I know I've posted about this topic before (a long time ago), but sometimes I get real satisfaction out of reading old (and sometimes really old) criticism of a work. As I work on this year's SAMLA paper--about Hawthorne's The Marble Faun and Constance Fenimore Woolson's "Miss Grief"--I am working my way through the relevant sections of J. Donald Crowley's Hawthorne: The Critical Heritage. For those outside English studies, these "critical heritage" books are great resources--basically anthologies of criticism/reviews of a major writer's texts. A couple of gems from James Russell Lowell's April 1860 review of The Marble Faun in The Atlantic Monthly:
"Had he been born without the poetic imagination, [Hawthorne] would have written treatises on the Origin of Evil." (This one makes me laugh because it's pretty darn funny and because Hawthorne already kind of does write about the "Origin of Evil.")
One more: "If you had picked up and read a stray leaf of it anywhere, you would have exclaimed, 'Hawthorne!'" I'm not quite sure what I think of The Marble Faun. It's took me two tries to really get into it and even now, it's not what you would call "fun" reading. And in lots of ways, it's very different from Hawthorne's other books. But, like Lowell says, read any page, and there's no denying it's all Hawthorne.
Monday, October 12, 2009
Constance Fenimore Woolson
Yes, I know that most people have no idea who Constance Fenimore Woolson is, but she's kind of a big deal in 19th-century women's writing. As I mentioned below, I am hard at work on my paper about her poetry, which I'll present at SSAWW's conference in late October. I've been going through all my research notes and found some great quotations from her worth sharing.
Woolson, who had a difficult life as a woman writing in the nineteenth century, wrote to Edmund Clarence Stedman in 1876: "'Why do literary women break down so...It almost seems as though only the unhappy women took to writing. The happiest women I have known have belonged to two classes; the devoted wives and mothers, and the successful flirts, whether married or single; such women never write'" (qtd. in Torsney 19). What a powerfully sad observation--and one often repeated by other women artists. I am reminded of that troubling section in Fanny Fern's Ruth Hall where the main character tells her daughter that she prays the child never ends up like her mother--a successful writer. "No happy woman ever writes," she thinks to herself.
Woolson's writing is full of such observations as again and again she acknowledges her own desire to write and be respected yet also notes how this separates her from other women--how it marks her as different. Torsney's Constance Fenimore Woolson: The Grief of Aristry covers this idea quite well and it worth a read if you are at all interested in Woolson.
Additionally, she writes again and again about the limitations she feels imposed on her--about what a woman should write about and just how she should handle her subject. For the most part, even if such choices kept down her sales figures, she wrote what she felt she had to, a courageous choice for a woman who was more or less financially dependent on selling her writing. Here's a heck of a passage from another letter: “‘I had rather be strong than beautiful, or even good, provided the good must be dull’” (qtd. in Pattee 132).
But it's not all sadness and gloom in Woolson's letters: check out this gem from a letter to Henry James, her good friend, written in February, 1882, in response to his Portrait of a Lady:
“How did you ever dare write a portrait of a lady? Fancy any woman’s attempting a portrait of a gentleman! Wouldn’t there be a storm of ridicule…For my own part, in my small writings, I never dare put down what men are thinking, but confine myself simply to what they do and say. For, long experience has taught me that whatever I suppose them to be thinking at any especial time, that is sure to be exactly what they are not thinking. What they are thinking, however, nobody but a ghost could know” (qtd. in Torsney 39).
I love this passage because it's both funny and biting, playful and serious, marks of the best kind of humor.
And one more--just because it gives me funny mental images--an excerpt from an 1875 letter: "'I hate Wordsworth. Yes, I really think I hate him. And the reason is because people keep flinging him at your head all the time'" (qtd. in Hubbell 725). Don't tell anyone, but that's kind of how I feel about Wallace Stevens (in part because I don't get him!).
Works Cited
Woolson, who had a difficult life as a woman writing in the nineteenth century, wrote to Edmund Clarence Stedman in 1876: "'Why do literary women break down so...It almost seems as though only the unhappy women took to writing. The happiest women I have known have belonged to two classes; the devoted wives and mothers, and the successful flirts, whether married or single; such women never write'" (qtd. in Torsney 19). What a powerfully sad observation--and one often repeated by other women artists. I am reminded of that troubling section in Fanny Fern's Ruth Hall where the main character tells her daughter that she prays the child never ends up like her mother--a successful writer. "No happy woman ever writes," she thinks to herself.
Woolson's writing is full of such observations as again and again she acknowledges her own desire to write and be respected yet also notes how this separates her from other women--how it marks her as different. Torsney's Constance Fenimore Woolson: The Grief of Aristry covers this idea quite well and it worth a read if you are at all interested in Woolson.
Additionally, she writes again and again about the limitations she feels imposed on her--about what a woman should write about and just how she should handle her subject. For the most part, even if such choices kept down her sales figures, she wrote what she felt she had to, a courageous choice for a woman who was more or less financially dependent on selling her writing. Here's a heck of a passage from another letter: “‘I had rather be strong than beautiful, or even good, provided the good must be dull’” (qtd. in Pattee 132).
But it's not all sadness and gloom in Woolson's letters: check out this gem from a letter to Henry James, her good friend, written in February, 1882, in response to his Portrait of a Lady:
“How did you ever dare write a portrait of a lady? Fancy any woman’s attempting a portrait of a gentleman! Wouldn’t there be a storm of ridicule…For my own part, in my small writings, I never dare put down what men are thinking, but confine myself simply to what they do and say. For, long experience has taught me that whatever I suppose them to be thinking at any especial time, that is sure to be exactly what they are not thinking. What they are thinking, however, nobody but a ghost could know” (qtd. in Torsney 39).
I love this passage because it's both funny and biting, playful and serious, marks of the best kind of humor.
And one more--just because it gives me funny mental images--an excerpt from an 1875 letter: "'I hate Wordsworth. Yes, I really think I hate him. And the reason is because people keep flinging him at your head all the time'" (qtd. in Hubbell 725). Don't tell anyone, but that's kind of how I feel about Wallace Stevens (in part because I don't get him!).
Works Cited
Hubbell, Jay B. “Some New Letters of Constance Fenimore Woolson.” The
Pattee, Fred L. “Constance Fenimore Woolson and the South.”
Torsney, Cheryl B. Constance Fenimore Woolson: The Grief of Artistry.
Fall Break...
Technically, we are on Fall Break today and tomorrow, but I've been up here at school since about 9:00 this morning. Despite this, it does feel a bit like a break--it's very quiet here and I've been ultra-productive. After all, on a normal Monday, I would have already taught three classes and held a bunch of office hours by this point. (What does it say about me that "feels like break" = "time to be productive"? Note to self: consider more ways to expand life beyond work.)
Anyway, here are the three things that have been occupying me so far today:
1) Printing and organizing application materials for our two job searches. All of our materials (with the exception of reference files) are submitted online (official university procedure), but someone (me!) still has to print them out for colleagues who don't like to read online documents. It's a pain the neck and takes an incredible amount of time (hours and hours and hours), especially with my super-slow printer, but it is easier on the candidates this way and I am all about making things easier for the poor folks on the job market.
2) Working on my third-year review portfolio, due on October 15. It's not all that different from the teaching portfolio I put together while on the job market, although this one includes documentation of scholarship and service, too. It's coming along, but I have lots of question about formatting and stuff and no one to ask until Wednesday when we are back in session. I also think it's always a bit strange to put together what is essentially a binder all about how awesome I am (ha!) and how they ought to keep me around. I mean, I know you've got to do it, but it's a weird process.
3) Working on my paper on Constance Fenimore Woolson for SSAWW. I've been done with the research part of the project since the end of the summer, actually, but haven't taken the time to do the actual writing. It's all up in my head and everything, but I've got to just sit down and write the thing. And I am about to write another post about how cool she is...
Don't worry too much about me working through the break: I have scheduled myself to stop at 2:30 to run to Hagerstown to run about a thousand errands, with a healthy mixture of "fun" and "practical" tasks on the list.
Anyway, here are the three things that have been occupying me so far today:
1) Printing and organizing application materials for our two job searches. All of our materials (with the exception of reference files) are submitted online (official university procedure), but someone (me!) still has to print them out for colleagues who don't like to read online documents. It's a pain the neck and takes an incredible amount of time (hours and hours and hours), especially with my super-slow printer, but it is easier on the candidates this way and I am all about making things easier for the poor folks on the job market.
2) Working on my third-year review portfolio, due on October 15. It's not all that different from the teaching portfolio I put together while on the job market, although this one includes documentation of scholarship and service, too. It's coming along, but I have lots of question about formatting and stuff and no one to ask until Wednesday when we are back in session. I also think it's always a bit strange to put together what is essentially a binder all about how awesome I am (ha!) and how they ought to keep me around. I mean, I know you've got to do it, but it's a weird process.
3) Working on my paper on Constance Fenimore Woolson for SSAWW. I've been done with the research part of the project since the end of the summer, actually, but haven't taken the time to do the actual writing. It's all up in my head and everything, but I've got to just sit down and write the thing. And I am about to write another post about how cool she is...
Don't worry too much about me working through the break: I have scheduled myself to stop at 2:30 to run to Hagerstown to run about a thousand errands, with a healthy mixture of "fun" and "practical" tasks on the list.
Monday, July 13, 2009
Summer Reading
It goes without saying that there’s been a lot of reading going on here this summer. In terms of “work reading,” I’ve been thoroughly immersed in him and her. And then there was my Summer I class. But all work and no play gives Heidi a dull summer, so I’ve been doing lots of “fun reading,” too. Here are some highlights:
1) The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao, by Junot Diaz. Everyone’s been talking about this book for awhile now, and for good reason. I picked it up in January, plowed through the first 100 pages or so, then had to put it down as the semester got really crazy. For me, it just wasn’t the kind of book I could read the way I read for fun during the semester—30 or 60 minute clips before bed or longer blocks over weekends. Once May hit, though, I turned back to it and read it in long and indulgent sittings. And it’s amazing—what a book! It might sound cheesy, but it’s almost like the book is alive in your hands. That’s just the way Diaz writes—the prose is so alive, so vibrant, so rich. And the characters are unforgettable.
2) When You are Engulfed in Flames, by David Sedaris. I am cheating a bit by calling this “Summer reading,” since I bought this book over a year ago when I was apartment hunting with Vogel in Philadelphia. (The receipt is still in the book and served quite well as a bookmark.) But, after I read the first few essays, I let it get buried in a stack of books by my bed, only really picking it up again in May, once the last exam was graded. If you liked David Sedaris’ earlier books, you’ll like this one, too. All the things I love about Sedaris—his funny observations about language, his unashamed revelations about his own character, and the way he sometimes slips sentiment into his cynicism—all of that’s in here, too. I always read with a pencil nearby. I have a habit of making little smiles in the margins when something makes me laugh. At some point, I realized how pointless these marks are in a book like When You are Engulfed in Flames. It’s like pointing out ants at a picnic or something.
3) Butterflies Dance in the Dark, by Beatrice MacNeil. My parents picked this book up for me last summer when they took a cruise up North and stopped in Cape Breton. MacNeil was signing copies of her book in a little shop. My dad says he read the back, thought it looked interested, and picked up a copy for me—complete with inscription from the author. (“To Dr. Heidi,” it reads. My parents never miss out on the chance to tell people that I have a PhD. If I did it, it would seem obnoxious. When they do it, it’s kind of cute, I think.) Anyway, the book is enjoyable and not at all what I was expecting. Mari-Jen is unlike any first person narrator I’ve encountered before: she’s intelligent and creative, but also suffers from a learning disability and, later in the book, something quite like mental illness or at least severe emotional disturbance. At times, I found myself tired of her and her reticence. But MacNeil renders her with rich detail and real skill. What is also accomplished quite well, I think, is a vivid depiction of the region. I am also quite fond of Alfred and Albert, the main character’s twin brothers. They might be my favorite thing about this book.
4) Interpreter of Maladies, by Jhumpha Lahiri. This book had been on my radar for years and I’d already read three of the short stories in this collection—and loved each one (“This Blessed House,” “Sexy,” and the title story). I’ve blogged about Lahiri before here. Not much to say except that each story in this collection is amazing. Considering only the stories that were new to me, “A Temporary Matter” stands out for its absolutely devastating conclusion. Lahiri is absolutely one my favorite writers still working today. Part of me can’t wait to dive into Unaccustomed Earth, her new collection. But there is also a part of me that wants to put off reading it, since once I am done with it, I’ll have to wait who knows how long for another Lahiri book.
5) The Madhouse Nudes, by Robert Schultz. Schultz teaches at Roanoke (he started there a couple of years after I graduated), and I found out about this book after reading that it had been selected by the newly-formed Lutheran Writers Book Club. I picked up an old library copy online for a couple of bucks. Like the MacNeil book, this one wasn’t what I expected, but if you are interested in how the body is represented in art (especially the female body), Schultz gives you plenty to think about. He’s also a poet—something that shines through again and again in his beautiful prose.
6) Portisville, by Steve Cushman. Steve and I were first-year TAs together at UNCG. We even shared an office at one point. He’s a great guy so it makes me happy to hear he’s found success. Last summer, I picked up a copy of the book at Ed McKay's in Greensboro. Once I began Portisville, I had the distinct memory of hearing Steve read the first chapter at his thesis reading back in 2002—a testimony to the power of that chapter. The reviews of Portisville on the back cover describe it quite well: “lean, cool prose…a story crackling with reality,” “taut, raw, and gritty.” Steve’s got a new collection of short stories out which I might have to pick up.
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