Pymland and the Great Escape

Full disclosure: I’ve recently immersed myself, or rather dived in once again- wholeheartedly and shamelessly- to the novels of Barbara Pym, despite already having read the whole lot down to the last Pymful word some years ago. And so while the Ubiquitous Big Screens are instructing us that the citizens of our rebellious, electronic nation are now engaging in screaming, balloon encased orgies about presidential elections, I defer. Quietly and happily I am wallowing in the ironic coziness of English village life in the mother country a la Pym- all of it  just a bus ride from the bustle of London tea shops.

I suspect some others as well may not be faithfully hanging onto every image and syllable of the political spectacle either, but what are they reading?

Barbara Pym, revered in the 1950’s, rejected as too stodgy by publishers in the swingin’ sixties, rediscovered, resuscitated and restored to literary Valhalla in the seventies, and from then on anointed the undisputed queen of quaint English country life albeit with an early feminist, decidedly wicked twist- what a gal! Pym takes us to locales devoid of yahoo news but brimming with sharp, hilarious edges- places where they are short on suitable men, amply supplied with unmarried ladies, and long on irony. The subdued mayhem happens amid a nice cup of tea, the occasional attendance at evensong, and some truly splendid floral arrangements.

Aaaahhh, life is good.

It’s been going on for the better part of a year, this Pym obsession, in part to honor the memory of a friend recently lost who turned me on years ago to this delicious feast of rectors, unmarried ladies and and drafty vespers; and of course it also is a wonderful means of escape from the cruel, cruel world.

Coincidentally the last two novels in the oeuvre patiently awaiting their turn for re-perusal happened to be sitting in the perfect time slot time for providing a reading refuge from the two Big Party Political Conventions. You remember those, right? The giant, pixel flickering, bellowing spectacles of millions- i.e. dollars and people- each hogging up four consecutive evenings of hours and hours of crowd manipulation, hate, hope, fear of others, fear itself!, false promises and self aggrandizement? As it turns out, Orwell had it all wrong- it really does not take only two minutes a day of bombast to control the populace, but then again, we are long past that iconic date and there was no internet in ’84.

But I digress. Honestly, where else could you find therapy if not complete solace from the chaos of the madding crowd of prospective voters for a mere fifteen bucks of paperback? Or better yet, reading nirvana at absolutely no charge whatsoever as I already own the entire collection of novels! A meditation class at the local Y costs more for heaven's sake.

The people of Pym's stories are women no longer young yet bound contentedly and a tad philosophically to their routines and friendships. They are unattached and live in flats, neat little houses or drafty rectories and attend church often, sometimes or never, but we always know into which category of church going (or not) they fall; they work in libraries or offices or they don't work at all and have small but adequate private incomes. Alongside these are the interesting and often attractive clerical types, a few pompous clerical types, elderly bachelors, eligible bachelors, married men who wish they were bachelors, early middle aged gay men, youngish academics, the occasional self-absorbed, cunning vixen and a small suburban contingent adept at shaking up cocktails. There are gardens and a species known as "gentlewomen," some of whom have fallen down a peg or two in their standard of living as shown by the quality of their hats.

There is a minimum of intrigue, sharp satire and all is revealed through astute character observation, mostly tongue in cheek and quite hilarious. Yet the whole mess seems quite orderly and even bucolic at moments, amid overtones of subtle social mischief, not so subtle character machinations and Pym's deft style. Even the seasons are improved by the queen’s touch. In Pymland you know summer is giving way to autumn  not simply because the evenings are starting to darken sooner, but because “the days inexorably are drawing in.”

Wow! Who says or event thinks that anymore? Drawing in, like some velvet encased Edwardian parlor with mild social suspense and lord knows what other shocking faux pas in the offing. . . .

In truth, the plots have a minimum of narrative cliff hanging and defer to Pym’s many strange characters of lovable quirk to spill the beans- these same single men and excellent or not so perfect but often happy spinsters and spinster wannabes that people her landscape. Sensibly, almost shabbily dressed and sensibly, sensibly, seriously shoed, but quite comfortable in their eccentricities, the gals sometimes even would prefer making bramble jelly of an evening to enduring a boring cocktail party with the town’s eligible bachelors. There are abundant allusions to Austen with a modern, clever take, and yet Pym slices and dices with the softest of cake knives.

The Emmas and Daphnes, Mildreds and Dulcies, the splendid dahlias and bursting chrysanthemums in their carefully tended gardens create a soothing bouquet tinged with all sorts of sly snorts and knowing smiles. Friday evening meetings of the history society at the rectory are a regular feature of village life, as are eligible vicars with doting, unmarried sisters, flirtatious anthropologists, seductive waiters and even the occasional irresistible military cad;  other harmless rakes reside in her English cottages as well, with mischievous subtexts looming under their suitable seeming élan. The ladies make tea, contrive solutions to nearly catastrophic social gaffs and take it all in with a wry flicker.

Who could ask for more?

Food acts as something of a bona fide character in the novels as her British cooks of legendary blandness insist on limping heroically toward a tasty and/or well done effect with their endless variety of casseroles. Often dinner may be “tinned” for a solitary snack, or a meal so sparse that even a boiled egg and some leftover wine suffices as the day’s repast for some of her solitary, excellent women; or, conversely, richly trifled chocolate and perhaps a sweet plate of creamed biscuits to be presented and consumed at an equally pungent and unusually spicy jumble sale at the vicarage.

And yes, she trifles with our sensibilities too, but in the most charming and delightful of ways, wrapping up her readers in a warm blanket of perceptive humor and gentle sarcasm about the perceived on goings of the sexes and their captive audience- the town denizens and busybodies who never miss a trick. Occasionally one of these observant watchers even can be made to expire, in her rocker for example on a chilly evening, a favorite kitty on the lap, proving that this is not entirely a fairy tale but also a clear lens on all our village-y life concerns about existence and mortality.

I know this paean to Pym may seem somewhat overstated, the average, informed anglophile reader having long ago succumbed to her siren song (or not) of tea cozies and a nice chicken dinner when guests are expected and you’re really not sure what to serve. And it’s not that I wish to write like her, nor ever could purport to aspire to (thus ending my phrases with prepositions as so often I am mis-inclined to do!). 

It’s simply that I think I would like to live as a character in one of her marvelous tales of angsty guffaws and reside therein forever in a mythical village of shepherd’s pie and equally savory soft intrigue. There will be no ubiquitous screening of Big Party Conventions either in view or earshot, and only birdies will be providing the background twitter. In such a charming if imperfect world of teapot tempests, smart quips and witty character revelations you will find me as you open the novel's pages, tending quite contentedly to my field of summer roses and chatting amiably with the neighbors. 

The Writing Exercise, Part Two

The writing instructor, Marvin, begins to speak, but as it turns out he really does not invoke or even vaguely resemble the figure in his concertedly impressive bio, the one in the course catalog with the nice photo and a row of books behind him. He’s actually a bit silly and quite shlumpy- I pictured a tall British poet with sculpted features and flaxen hair, not a pot bellied gnome with scruffy beard gone brillo gray in a wrinkled shirt. 

For the moment I have the insane urge to laugh, you know, really crack up until the tears come but force myself to control the impulse. The guy lisps too. This has got to be a sitcom about a lisping writing instructor who wildly mispronounces certain words and destroys whole sentences with great concentration.

Thally’s Thtory raithezz an interething quethion Marvin offers, as Sally of the floppy bangs thits there continuing to thulk in what she hopes is a vaguely literary pose.  Marvin as it turns out also has a kind of  vocabulary suggestive of the verbal part of the SAT and knows how to turn- or mangle- a phrase exquisitely, depending on contexth, and what’s more he is giving the victim of the vengeful hair cutting shears her full due. But if it continues like this much longer, I will be compelled to run screaming from the room.

The word of the day appears to be resonant. Does Floppy Bangs' story have resonance (or rethonance as it were)? He glances expectantly around the circle.

I hate the word resonance, I really do.

Resonant is not much better, and in fact may even be worse.

Why in the hell do words have to resonate????

Personally, I would much rather they evoke. . . but why split hairs? Am I simply being too judgmental, and not empathetic enough to the sad tale of the botched bangs???

The apathetic circle quickly stirs to life and sheets of paper begin to rustle as pens flick back and forth in nervous fingers.  A lady with lots of eye makeup and a little red cowboy bandana rakishly caressing her skinny neck says that although she understands Sally’s frustration about the bangs, the narrative voice simply is not childish enough. Then the neighbor to Bandana’s left in a loud, spangled, low cut t-shirt purchased at a street fair no doubt and platinum spikes with the roots showing says she understands Bandana’s problem with the story but feels the real weakness has to do with the description- or lack thereof- of the invasive shears. This last comment provokes murmurs of assent all around as the next "suggestion" creeps silently into the air awaiting its miserable little turn. Finally an elderly pixie in size zero entrenched on the other side of Floppy Bangs comes in for the kill: Do these bangs actually suggest castration or simply a haircut gone wrong? I have a problem with the ambiguity- it lacks punch.

I cannot bear to look at Floppy Bangs at this point and decide it really is time to leave. These people are out for blood! Do I really want them eviscerating my own pathetic little tale of woe? I think not. I picture strutting in with a bouffant or an afro of a story and leaving bald, bereft, crumpled like a discarded draft, and near tears. This will never do and soon I’m wriggling quietly out of the seat looking appropriately so very sorry as I make my writerly way out that goddamn door.

The Writing Exercise, Part One

The Writing Exercise

Describe a place, a building, a room; have it evoke a character

I arrive at the writing seminar about five or ten minutes into the session and stand undecided at the door. The room is airless, a windowless cubicle with a faulty ventilation system and maybe twelve women of varying ages sitting in a semi circle, plopped into those small plastic desk chairs with the uncomfortable skewed arms.

A reading already is in progress and the instructor enthusiastically though a bit insistently waves me in. Near the door, squeezed into one of the torturous seats not designed for adults or children, and leaning up quite close to the instructor, sits a woman in her early forties with strange little bangs flopping over her forehead- they are dark, shiny and clumped. She has what I see as a perfectly ordinary if slightly ecclesiastical little face, innocuous with a permanently annoyed expression.

The woman with the floppy bangs is reciting a story about someone she calls mummy, who once, when she, the reader/writer, was a young girl, gave her an awful, awful haircut, especially concerning the bangs. This now grown person whose hair fell once victim to such vengeful shears sits in her skewed chair wearing expensive jeans and a shirt that looks like it comes from Banana Republic possibly at full price, although she does not appear to be gainfully employed-  a situation which no doubt allows her time to write such anguished drivel. Her cheeks are sun color and there is a touch of red on her nose, which also makes me think she has a summer place somewhere, maybe in the Hamptons- a perfect retreat wherein to garner the right dash of inspiration. In addition, people from the South Bronx do not refer to their mothers as mummy. I decide to stick around at least for a short while just to see what happens. . . .