snobbery

Queen Lucia by EF Benson

This 1920 novel of middle-class country life never fulfilled its comic potential, sadly. There were a scattering of amusing episodes that went nowhere, and an awful lot of everyday life that made me shake my head in despair rather than laugh.

Mrs Emmeline Lucas, universally known as Lucia due to her pretentious scattering of Italian phrases in conversation, is undisputed queen of Riseholme society. This doesn’t seem like much of a prize to me, as the village of Riseholme appears to house some of the most vain, selfish, mean-spirited, shallow and catty members of the idle rich around. Nevertheless, where Lucia leads her subjects gleefully follow, at garden parties, musical evenings and the like. She sets the local tastes in art and literature despite having little qualification to do so. During the summer of this book, however, there are stirrings of rebellion – some of her subjects start trying to think for themselves, and what’s more, there are outside influences. Naturally, chaos ensues.

At times Queen Lucia feels like it’s going to be a satire, at other times a farce, but for me it never quite works as either and perhaps it only set out to be a gently comic novel that I’d have enjoyed if I’d been around at the time. It’s not angry socialism rearing up, for I’ve enjoyed a multitude of Evelyn Waugh, PG Wodehouse and F Scott Fitzgerald novels containing more than their fair share of spoilt rich creatures. I just couldn’t find any point of contact with patronising Mrs Lucas and her ‘silvery laugh’ and her baby talk (‘Me vewy sowwy’) though I did have some sympathy for her sidekick, camp middle-aged bachelor Georgie with his dyed hair, and talent for embroidery.

Queen Lucia is the first in a series and I believe some or all of the novels have been adapted for TV. That might be more successful as the comic potential could be developed and brought to the fore. I downloaded it for free so anyone who feels they might have more luck with it can do the same, but I wouldn’t recommend it.

The Cult of the Classics

Working men making their own exploration into culture in the 19th century were often stuck in the past as far as their reading material went. They looked to Pope, Milton, Shakespeare, Carlyle etc. All of which I as a teenager, beginning to explore literature for myself, read or attempted to read, or felt guilty for not reading. The kind of books that featured on Sir John Lubbock’s Victorian list of books you ‘should’ have read in order to be considered cultured. Although for working men in the 19th century, reading the whole lot wouldn’t guarantee that. But I digress…

More than 100 years later, for GCSE in the early 1990s, I studied Shakespeare and Wordsworth. We have stagnated, or worse, we are regressing because every year that goes by takes us a year further from the time when any of those works was fresh and new. And as the list is added to (very slowly) the chances of anyone getting through the lot at a reasonably young age grow slimmer.

It is important to know what foundations your culture was built on, but at what cost? If you have to struggle with the language, delve into sideroads of history to understand what was at the time a passing reference to a contemporary person or event, doesn’t that lose some of the pleasure? Which is not to say you shouldn’t do that if you want to – overcoming the challenge may lead to a depth of enjoyment hitherto unknown – but I don’t think it should be expected.

These books or authors were held up at their own times and those just after as the best example of, in Dickens for instance, social conscience in literature. Haven’t we got any other examples yet? If not, we must be doing something wrong.

Detective novel as geography lesson

Many people class detective novels as trashy, throwaway fiction; ok for passing the time in hospital or on a long journey, but adding nothing to the reader’s life or intellectual development. I won’t get into an argument here about doing the Times crossword vs solving fictional crime before the end of the book, and I won’t try and persuade anyone of the elegance of prose in, say, a Ross Macdonald or Stephen Dobyns novel. However, I will try and show how culturally enlightening it can be to have wide-ranging tastes in crime fiction.

Proust and a handful of nineteenth-century Russians aside, in my family the most-read works in translation are undoubtedly detective novels. From Simenon’s Maigret to Andrea Camilleri’s Montalbano via Henning Mankell, my dad and I have travelled the world on the back of a crime novelist’s pen. OneMonkey’s dad has been watching French, Swedish, and Danish crime series on TV recently, now dismissing the British adaptation of Wallander as second-rate, and barely stomaching the first episode of an American remake of one of the other Scandinavian series. Would he even be tempted by a subtitled European sitcom? Unlikely.

Crime fiction more than any other genre seems to be rooted in a sense of place, more often than not a real place. Read enough of them and you too can walk the streets of 1990s LA with Robert Crais or 1930s San Francisco with Dashiell Hammett, the deserted canyons of 1940s California with Raymond Chandler or the backstreets of Paris with Georges Simenon. While the settings are often fictionalised versions of a real town, or even a fictional town placed within a real area, some writers do use real locations quite faithfully, which is where the modern miracle of Google maps comes in.

Noting that Saratoga Springs was a real place while reading a Charlie Bradshaw book by Stephen Dobyns, I looked it up on a map. That gave me a sense of where it was, and how far from Albany and other locations sometimes mentioned in the books, and is as far as I would have been able to go in the past. Enter Google and its street views. I can walk down the main street following Charlie from the pool to his mother’s hotel, or see the race track entrance as Victor sees it. I can immerse myself in the town and its make-up. Of course I’m not expecting all the streets that Dobyns mentions to be real, I’m not even expecting him not to take liberties and make the town hall visible from a street where actually all you’d see is the looming library. However, that extra element, beyond his descriptions, of seeing the width of the streets, the trees, the age and style of buildings, the jostling of old and new – it’s certainly more entertaining than any Geography lesson I had at school. I don’t think I’d use a detective novel as a guide book to a foreign city, but they can open up an easy doorway to a different world.

The Uses of Literacy, by Richard Hoggart

In the early 1950s, 30-year-old university lecturer Richard Hoggart (father of Simon, brilliant political sketch-writer from The Guardian) started writing a book rooted in his ‘northern urban working-class’ childhood (in Leeds), that he thought about calling The Abuses of Literacy. He changed it to The Uses of Literacy so as to sound less confrontational, and had to change parts of the contents so as to avoid possible libel charges. However, the result was published in 1957 and 54 years later I read it, appreciated it, and marvelled at how much is still relevant.

I was wary of mentioning it on my blog because part of me doesn’t want anyone to read it – then I figured I don’t have much influence and few people would find it an interesting topic for their leisure hours so I needn’t worry about a stampede. The reason for my mixed feelings is that in the wrong hands (i.e. those of anyone not born into northern working-class families) it could become a kind of anthropological study of peculiar speech, attitudes and customs, a kind of sneering affirmation of superiority on the part of the reader. When I read it, I found myself thinking ‘that’s a bit harsh’ occasionally, then realising I’d said almost the same thing plenty of times myself, usually for OneMonkey to reply ‘that’s a bit harsh’ – but for me, as for Richard Hoggart, there’s a mixture of exasperation that comes from looking closely from the outside, and affection for and/or understanding of the relatives and family friends looking back.

Hoggart set out to write a textbook about mass culture, by which he seemed to mean newspapers (newly-sensationalised), magazines (with pin-ups and short attention-span), cheap paperbacks (badly-written and full of sex and violence) etc and the habit of reading among a class of people who had more education as a basic background than their predecessors, but didn’t appear to be much better off for it. He then wrote the first half of the book (a summing up of recent or current attitudes in the northern urban working classes) to set his ideas in context. He seems to wander off-topic a fair bit and I must admit I didn’t follow all of his arguments, which is due in part to some of the contemporary references. I can say now a Sun-reader, a Guardian-reader, and conjure up in my own and other (British) people’s minds an idea of the sort of background or attitude I mean by that (it will be stereotypical, and in many instances unfair, but it’s a handy shorthand and a useful generalisation in some contexts, including as advertising targets, which Hoggart also covers) – but I have no idea what The Listener was like or who it was aimed at, I know nothing about any of the radio programmes he mentions (TV hadn’t really taken off at the time) and even the distinction between types of paper-shop is lost on me. However, there is enough of endurance there that I get the general gist.

OneMonkey has noted how many conversations in the last couple of weeks I’ve chipped in with ‘it’s funny you should say that because in this Hoggart book…’ and I do find it fascinating (and also quite depressing) that so little has changed in some areas; in the introduction to the 2009 edition Lynsey Hanley (a politically informed writer a couple of years older than me) says ‘no reader two generations younger than Hoggart should gasp in recognition at his descriptions of growing up…Yet, despite the social and economic transformations that have taken place since its publication in 1957, there are thousands who do.’

Talking to OneMonkey about this book reminds me how different our views are on this kind of thing. OneMonkey sees the worth or value of culture as largely subjective (I’m not sure I agree, but I’d be hard pushed to say where worth lies – see my occasional disparaging comments on Dickens and Shakespeare), and if hard-working people with jobs that give them little satisfaction want to come home and read easy to digest escapism about sex and adventure, who am I to say that’s trash? Not everyone wants to read history textbooks for fun, or even multi-layered novels with complex characters. And anyway, some of the sci-fi and fantasy I read would be seen as trash by those with even greater intellectual snobbery than me. OneMonkey also argues, and here I do agree with him, that it’s not a class divide any more (if it ever was) – the middle classes watch X-Factor just as much as anyone else does, it’s just that they’re more likely to have some kind of hypocritical guilt going on. In the same way, they’re more likely to use the argument ‘at least I read’. Why is it intrinsically more worthy to read a cheap paperback romance than to watch with keen interest a BBC4 programme on human rights, for instance? They read, therefore they don’t have to examine their reading-material or opinions because they’re automatically better than you. Dangerous thinking.

Maybe what it comes down to is a misplaced emphasis, or one that’s no longer relevant. It’s thinking that matters (if, like Richard Hoggart and I, you think any of this matters), not reading, surely. If you never read a book or magazine from one year to the next, but listen to the radio, watch TV or discuss things with friends and colleagues and think matters through for yourself (even if you argue yourself round in the end to the position that everyone else you know holds) isn’t that better (by which I mean more indicative of some hope for humanity) than reading the papers every day, accepting what they say, and parrotting back their opinions when asked for your own (and I’m as guilty on occasion of quoting Private Eye or The Guardian as other people are of quoting papers I’m sniffy about)? Of course you may think that it doesn’t much matter either way, most people have no real say in major aspects of their lives, and deep thought and political awareness just lead to depression and a feeling of hopelessness. But if you’ve reached that position by weighing it all up for yourself, then we’re both happy. In a manner of speaking.

The North: a Cultural Wasteland

Finally read This Sporting Life by David Storey, and I quite enjoyed it, much more than I enjoyed his later novel Saville (see my earlier comments on that). Maybe one of the reasons was that it was about a third of the length of Saville, and kept its focus. There were a couple of places (as with Saville) that violence or arguments apparently erupted from nowhere, making me think the characters were over-reacting or just unhinged, but maybe it’s a product of its era and I just don’t appreciate quite how controversial some of the dialogue or circumstances would have been at the time.

I’ve never seen the film despite its brief filming in my native village (Big Brother watched it for that reason earlier in the week, and suggested I should watch it sometime but warned me there’s a lot of grimness and rugby to sit through) but from what I gather it’s different from the book, even the main character’s name. In the book, Arthur Machin is a young factory worker who gets signed to the local rugby team for a fair sum. Though he could live on his rugby pay, he carries on working and remains in his cheap lodgings but buys a car and lives it up a bit, going to parties and greyhound races. He’s a bit full of himself, headstrong and self-centred, but not nearly as bad as some of those around him, or as bad as his parents seem to think. His love affair with his widowed landlady is hard to fathom but in many ways its successes and failures are what seems to drive him. Though his status as a rugby player is central to the novel, rugby itself isn’t, and if (like me) you neither understand nor care about rugby that shouldn’t take away from your appreciation of the book, which is a good example of the northern working class novel of the 60s.

This Sporting Life was first published in 1960, and Big Brother directed me to the iplayer when he’d watched the film, where I found a programme purporting to document the explosion of northern culture in 1960, including this novel. OneMonkey sometimes disputes (possibly in jest, though I’m never entirely sure) Yorkshire’s claim to be Northern. I guess if you’re a Geordie the only place more northern than you is Scotland, but at least we can both agree that Nottingham is not The North by any stretch of the imagination, unless perhaps you’re a BBC type who saw The North as an exotic country (starting around Watford) back in 1960. In other words, this was one of those ‘with friends like these…’ programmes where the BBC attempts to condemn patronising attitudes of the past, and in doing so patronises mightily. If I hadn’t have had a mouth full of omelette, I would have been shouting at the computer. It was as if they’d run out of examples early on, and brought in ‘northern writer’ DH Lawrence (from Nottinghamshire) to fill the gap (maybe they just wanted an excuse to bring up the trial, and use rude words on BBC4).

1960 also saw Stan Barstow’s A Kind of Loving and of course Billy Liar by Keith Waterhouse. Both novels were mentioned, but mainly in terms of the slightly later film versions. Saturday Night and Sunday Morning also featured (film 1960, novel 1958).

Robert Bolt (born just outside Manchester I think) had 2 new plays in 1960, one of which was A Man For All Seasons, and neither of which were mentioned. Tony Richardson (Shipley-born film director) was mentioned, but for A Taste of Honey which is a very good film but came out in 1961 (and the play debuted in 1958, so I’m not sure why they spent so much time on it in a programme about 1960). What they didn’t mention was The Entertainer, released in 1960, directed by Richardson, featuring Shirley Anne Field, Thora Hird, Albert Finney, Joan Plowright – all born north of the northernmost point of the Welsh-English border as far as I know (and that’s a good start for deciding what to designate the north of England, I’ve always thought). The 1960 Stanley Baker film Hell Is A City was set and filmed in Manchester, based on a novel by a Lancashire man.

I could go on, but I’m in danger of spilling tea on the keyboard in ranting gesticulation, and that would never do. It’s a shame that such a promising programme lost focus, spending quite a bit of its hour (so it seemed) on non-1960 output, non-northern output, and Coronation Street. With courage and research it could have been an informative look at the wealth of northern culture of the time, and a response to the all too frequent sneers turned our way from The South. I’ll let Big Brother have the last word: “What does he mean he likes the scene on the slag heap in Billy Liar? Slag heap? That’s Bradford Moor!”

Pride and prejudice

Still Life was my favourite volume of AS Byatt’s Frederica Potter quartet, and because the author and the central family are from Yorkshire I probably gave it more leeway than I otherwise would. However, since Frederica is doing English at Cambridge for the duration of the novel, there are passages (as there are throughout the series) which assume an intimate knowledge of the ‘greats’ of English Literature, some of which I’ve barely heard of. In case this sounds like the flipside of those people who really annoy me by boasting of their mathematical inadequacies, I’ll reiterate my fondness for Anthony Trollope and remind everyone that I do read a lot, it’s just that most of it probably wasn’t on 1950s Oxbridge reading lists for English Lit. I’m often mistrustful of the so-called greats, the cynic in me assumes it’s a case of the Emperor’s New Clothes until I’ve satisfied myself otherwise: people say Shakespeare is good because other people said so before them and they don’t want to look like philistines. So I read Byatt’s words, undoubtedly missed a variety of allusions and themes (though nothing vital to the plot, as far as I could tell), and pitied the working class character from Sheffield who feels compelled to read Shakespeare because his father-in-law looks down on him for not doing.

The other aspect of a central character doing English at Cambridge is the university itself. Like military or police ranks (I need something more than calling one man Detective Inspector and another Detective Sergeant to make me understand which one’s in charge, I have on occasion found out but it refuses to lodge in my brain), Oxbridge colleges and customs are somehow assumed (particularly in Literature) to be universally understood in England. None of my friends went to either, I have no first-hand experience (except a one-day conference at Cambridge a few years ago) and no particular interest in them, and if (as Byatt does in Still Life) you mention the name of a college but not which of the two institutions it belongs to, I will be none the wiser, thus spending a short time in confusion if this is an important point. I could of course do a five minute search on the internet and come away enlightened but somehow I think that’s missing the point (and not possible if I’m in the bath) – I feel I should be able to read a novel and pick up all the important facts from within its world, not from my own head or a reference book.

A similar thing holds with locations. I’ve set a few stories in a loose kind of way in places I’ve lived, often using the street-map as an anchor in my head; John Braine seems to have done that in Room at the Top, conjuring visions of Bingley (where he had lived and so have I) in my head with his descriptions of the fictional Warley but not sticking exactly to it. Being exact about location risks alienating outsiders by assuming an offhand reference is enough for them to understand a variety of facts about the situation, which you then rely on. I admit that I have a Northern chip on my shoulder, mere mention of London is often enough to get my hackles rising, but I do get annoyed at all the London-based fiction which references street-names, shops, landmarks as though the reader ought to recognise and be informed by them, and I’m wary of doing that myself.

If I was feeling generous I’d say that all those London writers aren’t being arrogant and assuming we all know London like the back of our rough Northern hands, they’re just writing from the heart and they don’t care if we all get all the references. When someone mentions without detail a person, place, film, play, song, book or painting in a piece of fiction, as long as it’s not integral to the plot it doesn’t matter if half the audience shrug and pass over it; the other half will get an extra layer of meaning, a shared moment of understanding, and an insight into the author. It’s only when an author assumes that because we read literary fiction we must also know the plots of every Shakespeare play that we’re in trouble. Or that because they mention St Paul’s we’ll all know what other landmarks the character can see.

So if you’ve never been to West Yorkshire, never seen Billy Liar, This Sporting Life, The History Boys or LA Without a Map, let alone despaired over a half-century of bad planning in Bradford city centre or marvelled at the remaining architectural gems, I won’t hold it against you, and I’ll try not to shut you out.

Narrowing the field

Looking for somewhere to place a story can be a tedious business. It’s made slightly simpler by Duotrope, where you can search for markets by genre, story-length etc but it can still take a while. Even when you’ve narrowed it down to a few and read stories from their archives to see how you’d fit in, the final choice for submission sometimes comes down to a coin-toss. So it’s thoughtful of the odd editor to do a bit of self-selection and save me some time.

Arrogance. That one helps. I’m not talking ‘our magazine’s fantastic and of course you’d want to submit here’, that’s the kind of thing you’d hope they think. I mean the clique thing, the ‘we don’t want you if you just cruised in from Duotrope’ thing. When there are so many magazines out there, in print and on the web, how do they expect contributors to find them? It might be nice to think that it’s all down to word of mouth in the literary salons, but I don’t think it works like that. By trawling Duotrope I’ve come across some good magazines that I haven’t always submitted to, but I go back and dip into their offerings now and then because I’ve found they have good stuff on show. I don’t subscribe to any magazines because I know from past experience of print copies that they’d pile up unread.

The other main strand of arrogance comes under spelling and grammar. One of my recent rejections hinged on a grammatical transgression I’m still not sure I understand – the sentence reads OK to me (and to the friends of mine who’ve read it), and I regularly wince at mangled sentences in published novels. I’ve even come across a ‘hall of shame’ on some magazine websites, where those submissions that didn’t reach the lofty standards of the editor are paraded for the world to laugh at (often there are spelling and grammar errors on the website. I have much better things to do with my time than point them out in an email to the editor, but I hope someone with more time on their hands has taken the trouble). Aside from the obvious pitfalls (dyslexia, anyone?), I seem to recall some of my contemporaries were taught phonetic spelling, and while it’s legitimate for an editor to reject a well-paced and engaging story on the grounds that they don’t have the time or inclination to correct the their/they’re/there etc that the spellcheckers haven’t dealt with, it’s not legitimate to hold the sins of the teachers against their erstwhile pupils and say ‘this author is thick/lazy and should be ashamed’. What kind of person humiliates a novice author in public? Not any kind of person I’d want to be associated with.

Which brings me to the other big one: unprofessionalism. That’s a broad term and largely subjective, but I’m willing to bet that most definitions would cover submission guidelines that include the phrase ‘fuck off and don’t waste my time’. Funnily enough that made me feel similarly about the magazine, but I’m too polite to say so. Yes there are plenty of time-wasters, yes it must be frustrating as an editor of a small magazine to have to wade through the no-hopers that haven’t remotely followed your instructions, but do you have to be so rude about it? I don’t care if I’m not included in the category of people you’re dismissing so brusquely, the fact that you’re doing it at all to anyone makes me add you to my ‘ignore’ list.

So here’s to the rude, arrogant, snobbish, petty and unprofessional editors that whittle themselves out of my field of potential story markets. Your tactics for reducing the number of submissions you have to deal with seems to be working, and your vibrant displays of reasons not to work with you save me a lot of time.