Ronald Blythe apparently is going to be one of those writers who gets into my mind and stays put.
Reading him is almost like having a conversation. The reading is fun. It’s what happens later that’s consequential.
I’ll read one of Blythe’s essays and forget all about it. Then something will happen, and his words come to mind. There’s nothing voluntary about it. I don’t try to recall what he said. What he said is just there.
It’s like having an old friend. You can never get an old friend completely out of your mind.
Here’s an example of what’s at work: One of the recurring interests of this online collection of notes is how writers work.
Blythe was interested in the notion of literary shrines. Why do people trek halfway across the world to see Thomas Hardy’s study or Virginia Woolf’s writing table?
Blythe thinks every writer “is basically a solitary animal who needs bouts of gregariousness on his own terms.” It’s that tension between solitude and communion with others that interests people who write. We’re looking for clues. We want to know how someone else achieved that balance, “their own brand of trapped quietness.”
That’s Blythe taking a stab at an interesting question. You can agree or disagree, but he’s started a conversation.
Another thing to like about Blythe: He provides a checklist for thinking about literary shrines. If you’ve ever visited the home of a famous writer, go back in memory and see what you remember, specifically, about these items:
• Books and papers.
• Furnishings, often a matter of wildly individualistic taste.
• Office gadgetry.
• Dogs, cats and plants.
• The view from the window.
I’ve wasted enough of the day thinking about pilgrimages I’ve made. I invite you to do the same.
I don’t know what to do about Blythe. I fear I’m going to start reading everything he wrote.
No comments:
Post a Comment