When I started thinking about doing a field study in London, I kept thinking, "There has to be something in the water there that produces good writers, because England is just chock-full of them." I wanted to see what this place was that had inspired so many people to write such high quality literature. I mean, this is a relatively small island and yet it's the nation that has produced some of the most inspiring stories ever known. I mean really, what on earth is going on here?
I'm sure there's some kind of scientific or historical or sociological or whatever study that could be done to justify the massive proportion of British writers (and more importantly, outrageously successful British writers) in the whole scheme of world literature, explaining how things involving the climate, politics, health, spirituality, and economic qualities of this small corner of the globe somehow propelled it in literary production. I, however, am not doing that kind of study, nor am I interested in ever trying to possibly do such a one. (If I'm honest, I probably wouldn't even be interested to read anything other than the Spark Notes of that research because it would be an enormous beast of work.)
At any rate, London has left me with something of an enormous question mark: how could this possibly be the inspiration for so many people? Culture shock left me bitter, blaming modern London for being creatively destructive, as well as being filthy, stifling, and tourist-plagued to boot. I saw somewhat in Scotland what I'd hoped to find in London—that sense of the magic, the mystical, the fantastical. That was gratifying, but I still wondered how on earth London could continue to be a creative resource, having clearly lost that magical feeling that seems to be present in so much of the British literature from previous centuries. (I obviously can't comment on the areas of the UK outside of London.) I have so many happy memories of reading these stories, and I felt a little gypped that I wasn't having visions of teenage wizards or orphans coming into inheritances or period romances that could someday be spun into tales that could place my name indelibly among the Literary Gods.
In all seriousness, my time in London has been so far from skipping around town on cloud nine just because I'm here; it's been a lot of the opposite. I'm not trying to be a downer or anything, because I have had some incredible experiences here and I'm happy a lot of the time, but I've been surprised at how hard it has been to be here. Lack of literary inspiration has been remarkably low on my list of troubles (although, being somewhat involved with one of my classes, it has been a little higher than it would otherwise be). Though it's not a problem, per se, it has been frustrating. I've asked myself, "Why doesn't this city have magic for me the way it has for others? How am I ever going to write my essays for my classes when things have been so difficult and I haven't been running around worshiping London for the past nine weeks?"
This is why I loved Writing Britain so much. (You thought I was never going to get back to it, didn't you?) Writing Britain is very much what it sounds like—an exhibit of how different people have written about Britain, how they've written its very landscape and character into their work, including the city, the country, the water, and London specifically. Not only was it fascinating, I was getting all kinds of nerdy over the various books and manuscripts and things they had on display. But I also loved it for another reason, and that's because I realized I have a lot more in common with those writers than it initially seemed to me, and that maybe I'm not having an overly pessimistic perspective of London after all.
I realized that writers have been dealing with a Britain that they've seen progressing downhill for literal centuries. To illustrate that, one of the major sections of the exhibit, and the main face of the advertising campaign, was this:
Yes, "Dark Satanic Mills" and a landscape with a bunch of fire in it, emphasizing the hellishness of Britain's dive into the Industrial Revolution. Talk about dark. I started thinking about the stories I loved so well—Little Dorrit by Charles Dickens, North and South by Elizabeth Gaskell, Tess of the d'Urbervilles by Thomas Hardy—not all necessarily featuring London, of course, but I think they still count. You know what I realized? These are dark, dark, dark, dark stories. I mean, lovely and beautiful, but not at all ignorant of the injustices and industrialization and injuries that are very much a part of the real world that we live in. They aren't sugar-coated fairy tales by any stretch of the imagination. As for London itself, I began to recall that it is often shown in an unfavorable light—because it's city instead of country, because it's full of seedy characters, because it's filthy.
As I thought about and read through the different writers' work and experience, I began to realize that many of them were very much like mine—tending towards the melancholy and pessimistic. (Please don't let that make you sad, especially not for me; I'm only explaining this because it's clear to me that these emotions I've been having actually are connecting me to the city and its inhabitants and its history, not driving me away.) I realized that it hadn't been the writers romanticizing the sights and landscapes they were describing; it was me doing the romanticizing, because I didn't understand what this city is truly like. I thought it had been my fault, my pessimism, my homesickness, my culture shock that was unfairly perceiving London and casting it as the villain in my field study story. But that might actually be closer to the truth.
A couple of hours ago, I ran across a quote that is extremely relevant to this whole subject. It's from Peter Cameron's book, Someday This Pain Will Be Useful to You:
“People who have only good experiences aren’t very interesting. They may be content, and happy after a fashion, but they aren’t very deep. It may seem a misfortune now, and it makes things difficult, but well—it’s easy to feel all the happy, simple stuff. Not that happiness is necessarily simple. But I don’t think you’re going to have a life like that, and I think you’ll be the better for it. The difficult thing is to not be overwhelmed by the bad patches. You must not let them defeat you. You must see them as a gift—a cruel gift, but a gift nonetheless.”
I've begun to realize how much struggling in this city has been a more real, true experience than being a happy-go-lucky student going crazy and having a fun time all the time.
Yes, it's been the grit of the city that has contributed to my challenges; but it's been the very same grit that has forced me to see a side of life that I often like to pretend doesn't exist. As unpleasant as that has been, I think I'm the better for it.
Yes, it's been the grit of the city that has contributed to my challenges; but it's been the very same grit that has forced me to see a side of life that I often like to pretend doesn't exist. As unpleasant as that has been, I think I'm the better for it.
Maybe what I thought I'd find in London is something that isn't actually there.
Maybe I've found real London after all.
Maybe I've found real London after all.
***
This post is done, but I need to take a moment to brag. Today I saw the 1,000 year old Exeter Book. I read text directly from the notes and manuscripts and proofcopies of George Eliot's Middlemarch, Charlotte Bronte's Jane Eyre, Jane Austen's Persuasion, George Bernard Shaw's Pygmalion, Charles Dickens' Hard Times and Our Mutual Friend, Daphne du Maurier's Rebecca, Robert Louis Stevenson's Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, Thomas Hardy's Far from the Madding Crowd and Tess of the d'Urbervilles (my favorite book!), Lewis Carroll's Alice's Adventures Underground, and many many more.
Oh, and I read a section of Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone directly from the paper on which J.K. Rowling originally wrote it. It's okay to be jealous, because the fact that I was able to do that is awesome and I would be jealous too if it wasn't me that did it.
Did I almost burst into tears a few times in the exhibit? Okay, yes. What can I say? I'm a lit nerd. I'll defend myself and close with the words of one of my favorite present-day authors, John Green, whom I have quoted here before:
"Nerds like us are allowed to be unironically enthusiastic about stuff ... Nerds are allowed to love stuff, like jump-up-and-down-in-the-chair-can't-control-yourself love it. ... When people call people nerds, mostly what they're saying is 'you like stuff.' Which is just not a good insult at all. Like, 'you are too enthusiastic about the miracle of human consciousness'."
"Saying 'I notice you're a nerd' is like saying, 'Hey, I notice that you'd rather be intelligent than be stupid, that you'd rather be thoughtful than vapid, that you believe that there are things that matter more than the arrest record of Lindsay Lohan'."Maybe it's okay to fly my nerd flag a little more often. :)
There's always so much joy in geekdom - why suppress your inner nerd?
ReplyDeleteThe quote by Peter Cameron reminded me of something my mom told me. After I had spent a good half hour explaining why I needed to head back to Utah (after being in London for a week), she told me that London was a great opportunity, and I needed to make the most of it. Scoffing, I launched into a tirade about how hard everything was. "Ari," she said, "not all opportunities are easy." End of my whining. To her, at least.
ReplyDeleteLike you, I had illusions about London. I knew it was dirty and would be wet. True, I did not expect to have the rainiest season on record, but I knew about the rain. But I thought my field study would be similar to my study abroad in that I would not really have any responsibilities. My illusions ran more along the lines of the experiences and opportunities I would have in London. I had romanticized them, conveniently forgetting about logistics.
London has been my cruel gift.