Kingsley Amis

Elizabeth Jane Howard: Bunny, do you have to have a drink?

Kingsley Amis: Look, I'm Kingsley Amis, you see, and I can drink whenever I want."

Flaubert on art

The more words there are on a gallery wall next to a picture, the worse the picture.

Henry Steele Commager on Gone With The Wind

On Scarlett: She had no mind, but she had a mind of her own; she had no subtlety but she had a genius for getting below the surface of things and knowing their reality; she was full of pretense and wile, but she was impatient of all sham, convention and shibboleth...She was not a lady, though she wanted to be, but a magnificent woman, a vital, proud, passionate creature...sentimental but without nonsense, deeply rooted in the soil of Tara, but uprooted too, and lost. 

Seamus Perry on Ted Hughes

All of which implies cultural history painted with the broadest of brushes: the villain of the piece is the Renaissance, that catastrophe of individualism, which gave birth at once to the hubris of the scientific mind and the desiccated spiritualism of reformed Christianity, both of which involve getting our relationship with nature wrong.  "The story of the mind exiled by nature is the story of Western Man," wrote Hughes..."Our civilisation is an evolutionary error." 

Edmund Wilson on Dickens

Edmund Wilson summed up the phenomenon succinctly: “Dickens had a strain of the ham in him, and in the desperation of his later life, he gave in to the old ham and let him rip

NYRB on Tomalin's Dickens

The vicissitudes of Dickens’s visits to the United States are tracked in detail in Tomalin’s biography, suggesting a curious admixture of innocent authorly vanity, a shrewd desire to make as much money as possible, and what comes to seem to the reader a malignant, ever-metastasizing desire for self- destruction. Dickens’s delight in his large and uncritical audiences shifts by degrees to an addiction to public performing; like Mark Twain, he quickly came to see that public performance paid more than writing, and was much easier, at least in the short run. Dickens’s need for the immediate gratification of public performing is both tonic and masochistic; consumed by vanity, the celebrated writer is consuming his very self.

Kermode on Shakespeare

...One of Kermode's most important points. The later Shakespearean technique has foregone the traditional routine academic rhetoric for a new and supple style that follows the movement of a mind....For Kermode, the new capacity to create a style that follows the process of thought, with all its hesitations and convolutions, begins with Richard II.

Spinoza on interpretation

It is one thing to understand the meaning of Scripture, and quite another to understand the actual truth.

John Steinbeck on the decline of the USA

....made me think of the current political situation and the anger of the tea-baggers:

"Americans, over invested in material toys and saddled with debt are bored, anguished and discontented and no longer capable of the heroism which rescued them from the terrifying poverty of the Great Depression. And underneath it all, building energies like gases in a corpse. When that explodes, I tremble to think what will be the result." John Steinbeck to his editor Pascal Covici, 1960.

Michael Dirda on John Banville

Chekhov used to say that one had to be a god to distinguish between success and failure. While John Banville has won Britain’s major literary awards—the James Tait Black Memorial Prize for Doctor Copernicus in 1976 and the Guardian Fiction Prize for Kepler in 1981, as well as the real plum, the Man Booker for The Sea (2005)—and while he has been widely (and rightly) acclaimed for his linguistic inventiveness and artistic intelligence, his novels have tended to be more admired than loved. My impression from reading reviews and talking to readers is that his books, for all their virtuosity and precision, are seen by many as slightly forbidding and emotionally cold, their tone arch, their humor nastily black.

Wyatt Mason on Celine

Spliced from a 1984 interview published in French in LaQuinzaine Littéraire, Roth's approbation reads differently in its original, unbowdlerized form:

To tell you the truth, in France, my Proust is Céline! There's a very great writer. Even if his anti- Semitism made him an abject, intolerable person. To read him, I have to suspend my Jewish conscience, but I do it, because anti-Semitism isn't at the heart of his books, even Castle to Castle. Céline is a great liberator. I feel called by his voice.

Just as Roth's "Jewish conscience" was itself silently suspended by editorial sleight of hand, a no less misleading elision of Céline's posterity has been made. Henri Godard, editor of the Pléiade edition of Céline's novels, has argued that, taken together, the eight novels possess a "dynamic unity" without which "it is not possible to get the true measure of Céline." This does not go far enough. Once one extends the reach of Godard's claim to include the anti-Semitic trilogy, the congruence of Céline's wink-wink misanthropy with his unblinking sociopathy becomes apparent. It is not that we shouldn't read Céline because he was, at a profound level, contemptible. It is rather that, to understand Céline, we must be ready to, and permitted to, read all that he wrote. Only in this way can we begin to understand what we are saying when we might think to class him as—of all things—a humorist.

Hilton Als on A Streetcar Named Desire

You might recall the moment: Stella has just had a baby. Returning home from the hospital, she sets about restoring order to her home. First things first. She commits her older sister to a mental institution. Stella, it seems, cannot live with this truth: that Stanley, her husband, has raped Blanche. Stella prefers to treat Blanche’s report as further proof of her madness. The new mother loves her sister, but she loves her life more. If she believed any aspect of what Blanche had to say, she’d have to leave Stanley, and forego those aspects of her existence that Blanche envies — and has contempt for. Without a man, though, who would Stella be? Her marriage defines her. To divorce Stanley would mean she’d probably end up as her sister’s custodian, thereby becoming another member of the pitiful, powerless female world Blanche is a member of.

But as Williams makes clear about half way through his 1947 drama, Stella would never dream of leaving Stanley. His crude, working class demeanor degrades the memory of his wife’s genteel upbringing in Mississippi. (“I pulled you down off those columns.”) As a result, Stanley makes Stella feel alive, turned on, present. And in order not to forfeit that feeling, Stella is complicit in her own brutalization, and, ultimately, her sister’s. In fact, Blanche matters less to Stella than her future as a happily conventional woman, dutifully attending to her home, and honoring her husband.

One requires a Brando-like intensity to play Blanche, but Blanchett doesn’t yet seem to possess the kind of imagination that understands degradation; she is too competitive a spirit to grovel where Blanche has groveled in order to stay alive. In fact, the moments leading up to Blanche’s rape—the cutting of the final chord of reality—rang especially false, because Blanchett plays it as though Blanche is drunk, confused, fitful, and not as a willing female victim to Stanley’s male need for control; she is ultimately relegated to the life of tragic mundanity she has tried so valiantly to escape, while Stella runs towards it.

Wilde's Preface to Dorian Gray

The artist is the creator of beautiful things. To reveal art and conceal the artist is art's aim. The critic is he who can translate into another manner or a new material his impression of beautiful things.

The highest as the lowest form of criticism is a mode of autobiography. Those who find ugly meanings in beautiful things are corrupt without being charming. This is a fault.

Those who find beautiful meanings in beautiful things are the cultivated. For these there is hope. They are the elect to whom beautiful things mean only beauty.

There is no such thing as a moral or an immoral book. Books are well written, or badly written. That is all.

The nineteenth century dislike of realism is the rage of Caliban seeing his own face in a glass.

The nineteenth century dislike of romanticism is the rage of Caliban not seeing his own face in a glass. The moral life of man forms part of the subject-matter of the artist, but the morality of art consists in the perfect use of an imperfect medium. No artist desires to prove anything. Even things that are true can be proved. No artist has ethical sympathies. An ethical sympathy in an artist is an unpardonable mannerism of style. No artist is ever morbid. The artist can express everything. Thought and language are to the artist instruments of an art. Vice and virtue are to the artist materials for an art. From the point of view of form, the type of all the arts is the art of the musician. From the point of view of feeling, the actor's craft is the type. All art is at once surface and symbol. Those who go beneath the surface do so at their peril. Those who read the symbol do so at their peril. It is the spectator, and not life, that art really mirrors. Diversity of opinion about a work of art shows that the work is new, complex, and vital. When critics disagree, the artist is in accord with himself. We can forgive a man for making a useful thing as long as he does not admire it. The only excuse for making a useless thing is that one admires it intensely.

All art is quite useless.

NYRB on John le Carre

If you feel that good novels are the lie that reveals the truth, then it will always be thrilling, in any given period, to come across works that manage to be much more revealing than the evening news. John le Carré made that kind of thrill into a genre, capturing the dowdy, fatal, realistic weather of European espionage at a time when the subject was covered on the BBC as if it were merely a parlor game beloved of donnish existentialists.

Even today, with his most groundbreaking novels behind him, le Carré continues to be the world's most reliable witness to the vicissitudes of international paranoia: his books conceive of a Western world that has a costly obsession with its possible enemies; he shows you this world's secret missions, its botched jobs, its manifold attempts to thwart the corrupting and sometimes terrifying idealism of others, while keeping the reader close to the exact lineaments of the way we live now.

John Bayley on Tennyson

"Together with Dickens he represented the peak of the Victorian populist achievement, an achievement which high art has not risen to since....But Tennyson was not Herbert or Dunne. His poetry, however full of "good things" is essentially and continuously naïve, moving us altogether if it moves us at all."

John Bayley on Wordsworth

"William Wordsworth's poems are like one's parents clothes: always out of fashion....Most artists redeem their natural solipsism as artists by continual suggestions in their art of personal chaos, drama, disaster...But no artist could be less accident prone than Wordsworth. If he fell he always fell on his feet."

E M Forster - daring to be a liberal humanist....

From Zadie Smith's review of The BBC Talks of E.M. Forster, 1929–1960, published in the New York Review of Books.

.....He was free of many vices commonly found in novelists of his generation—what's unusual about Forster is what he didn't do. He didn't lean rightward with the years, or allow nostalgia to morph into misanthropy; he never knelt for the Pope or the Queen, nor did he flirt (ideologically speaking) with Hitler, Stalin, or Mao; he never believed the novel was dead or the hills alive, continued to read contemporary fiction after the age of fifty, harbored no special hatred for the generation below or above him, did not come to feel that England had gone to hell in a hand-basket, that its language was doomed, that lunatics were running the asylum, or foreigners swamping the cities.

Still, like all notable English novelists, he was a tricky bugger. He made a faith of personal sincerity and a career of disingenuousness. He was an Edwardian among Modernists, and yet—in matters of pacifism, class, education, and race—a progressive among conservatives. Suburban and parochial, his vistas stretched far into the East. A passionate defender of "Love, the beloved republic," he nevertheless persisted in keeping his own loves secret, long after the laws that had prohibited honesty were gone. Between the bold and the tame, the brave and the cowardly, the engaged and the complacent, Forster walked the middling line.

On The Buccaneers

"Miss Testvalley comes to regret what she has done and so she should. It is entirely out of keeping with the character and values she is meant to represent." 

But it's not the case. In the synopsis it says Miss Testvalley is instrumental but in the novel she does little specific other than get them to the UK. She even advises Tintagel against proposing to Nan. We know nothing of Hector and Lizzie. Lizzie orchestrates Virginia and Seadown.

On Mike Nicholls' Closer

Closer is haute merde. All glitz and no guts. Both key sequences feature Natalie Portman walking in slow motion, a device that Nichols seems to confuse with art.

Ian Johnston on Stendahl's The Red and the Black

Ultimately, then, for me, one of the main messages of the novel, to the extent that it has a message at all, is the inability of the narrator to pass any sort of reasonable judgment on his story. Inasmuch as he is clearly a successful member of that society, an affluent, well-educated Parisian, who finds nothing but a certain anecdotal amusement. In the tale, I come to see where the source of the real problems in that society might be - the detached urbanity of the civilised person who doesn't care enough, a person for whom the sufferings he relates are unconnected to him, except as an opportunity for many casual evaluative judgments delivered from a detached and superior position, not the vantage, as in Homer, of a sympathetic objectivity, but rather of a sheltered, uncaring amusement.

Then, too, there's the paradox of his attitude to society. For Julien is fiercely ambitious socially. He ha already made up his mind that, despicable as he finds society, his goals are to rise up in that very society. And in many respects his final failure to achieve what Jane Eyre achieves is, I would maintain, linked directly to the fact that he sets himself inauthentic goals in the first place.

In all of this there is a constant sense of how pathetic Julien really is. His vision of himself as a conquering hero in the Napoleonic mode translates itself into complex but endlessly hesitant, self-reflecting and unsatisfying love affairs, which he describes to himself in military language, a style which simply reminds us just how unheroic these achievements are by comparison.