Living the literary life?

[stlukesguild]

JoZ... The OP questioned us as to how or what we imagined living "the literary life" would be like. Some threw out some comments upon the stereotypes. I threw out my thoughts as to what leading "the literary life" meant to me as someone who is not a writer (but an artist)... but deeply enamored of books. I also threw out my notions of what living "the artist's life" meant. From this point we went through several digressions... discussions of beauty and Modernism... discussions of the differences... and the links between the arts. LitNet is a dialog and like many dialogs it meanders away from the original question of topic if not continually pushed back by moderators or the original poster. I believe a good many postings here do directly address the OP as to what living "the literary life" means to the respondent. Obviously we are, as a group, comprised of individuals with a wide array of interests and aspirations brought together by a single common love of books. What "living the literary life" means to us as a group may never result in any sort of consensus because of this broad array of personalities and personal goals. Anyway... sorry if you feel hijacked.

[Emil Miller]

[QUOTE=Neely;640805]

I know the reality is the real, the tiredness, the misery, but I prefer the unreality of imaginary bliss, I prefer the untrue, true, literary life.


And that`s before you`ve started on the absinthe!

[LitNetIsGreat]

I know the reality is the real, the tiredness, the misery, but I prefer the unreality of imaginary bliss, I prefer the untrue, true, literary life.


And that`s before you`ve started on the absinthe!

Ha, ha - yes I am a screwed up individual - sometimes I talk such rubbish that even I don't know what I am saying!

Back to the topic I always think that in order to live the true literary life (or the untrue, true literary life) a person has to be totally financially independent, someone who does not need to work to earn a living. Such people as artists or writers are able to live outside of the social system in some way and are allotted, therefore, some form of true individuality. I'm thinking of particular of the poets who had patrons as in Wordsworth and Coleridge or those of their own means like Byron and Shelley. It would have been very difficult for these people to write how they did if they had to contend with 50/60 hours labour a week at their particular time of living, in the harsh times of early 19th C Britain.

I am not saying that you can't be an artist with a day job, but it is a damn sight easier if you don't have to. I would also suggest that the pure artist is one who doesn't have to conform to any particular audience or public, the true artist produces for him/herself alone and is able to create what the hell they want free from outside influence.

All of this is just the stuff of "The Soul of Man Under Socialism" I suppose, Wilde again in most ways. Wilde was a fan of absinthe too of course.

[Jozanny]

I am not saying that you can't be an artist with a day job, but it is a damn sight easier if you don't have to. I would also suggest that the pure artist is one who doesn't have to conform to any particular audience or public, the true artist produces for him/herself alone and is able to create what the hell they want free from outside influence.

This point might be interesting to examine Neely, because it may be commonly held but not really true for writers, though Henry James and rare lucky people like Rowling are exceptions--but even in James's case, his wealth did not entirely support him in his youth. He functioned as something of a reporter and gossip columnist in England, at least til Daisy Miller became an international hit. Kafka was an insurance adjuster, and by all accounts, a good one. Faulkner and dear Fitzgerald became Hollywood script writers, which places much different demands on authors. I did serious time in social services, and produced more then, and even more as a contract reporter, than I am capable of now, and it is not writer's block holding me back today so much as major disruptions and health, at least for the time being. Most writers do hold jobs, and rarely hit the JK Rowling jackpot.

I am not an expert on the classical era, but even back then, patronage was dicey. Ovid was exiled from Rome, and it devastated the poet.

[LitNetIsGreat]

It is only natural that the vast majority of writers/artists have had to work in some way, either by selling the work or by some other means in their life – even Shakespeare had to write for an audience of course.

What I see as the purest form of artistic creation though is the ability to exist totally free from the constraints of the system. I think the wonders we have in the world, in terms of art, are here despite of the obstacles of the everyday, not because of it.

[stlukesguild]

What I see as the purest form of artistic creation though is the ability to exist totally free from the constraints of the system. I think the wonders we have in the world, in terms of art, are here despite of the obstacles of the everyday, not because of it.

There is the ideal... and there is reality. In my ideal artist's life my artwork would sell for such a high price that I might freely spend my entire days doing nothing but create art. In many ways... at least for the visual artist... this was the norm prior to the intervention of the gallery system. But with each possible life lived by the artist it would seem there come differing problems. The ideal of which you speak... being wealthy enough to be completely free from any constraints... would seem to have been realized by a scant few: Sir Walter Raleigh, Edward Spenser... but then again... their larger life as political figures surely "got in the way" of their writing. But what of the writer such as Dickens or even Stephen King whose writing is so successful? Did they have no restraints? Was there no pressure to continue writing at a certain speed, in a certain genre?

My initial "realistic ideal" was to have gone from art school to some elite graduate program to the fast-track for teaching art at the college/university level. Things did not pan out as planned. Reality intervened... and reality pointed out that the academic posts I was looking to were few and far between... lacked any of the sort of security I was seeking. And so I ended up teaching art to elementary (and now middle-school) students in some of the poorest and roughest neighborhoods in one of the poorest cities in the US. There are undoubted trade-offs. There are many days when the energy I must expend leaves me exhausted and in no way able to work in my studio. On the other hand... I am well off enough that not only do I not need to worry about where the rent is coming from, who is paying for the doctor's visit, let alone need to put of painting because I cannot afford that red paint I recently ran out of... but I am actually able to afford a large professional studio space where I am able to work as a professional... show my work professionally... think of myself as a professional:







I also realize that the current path I have taken certainly has had an impact upon me and my art that most certainly is different from what my ideal might have been. As a college/university teacher it is quite likely that my work would have fallen into and stayed within a far more academic mode. In other words I might have found it far easier to continue on my way as an abstract formalist. Confronted every day with children's art... with images... with art made from the most primal inspirations: the simple desire to record the world around them... the draw "things"... has all undoubtedly impacted me as an artist... for better or worse. JoZ first threw out the question about living the "literary life"? Is there really a single ideal or right approach to such?

[Emil Miller]

I know the reality is the real, the tiredness, the misery, but I prefer the unreality of imaginary bliss, I prefer the untrue, true, literary life.


And that`s before you`ve started on the absinthe!

Ha, ha - yes I am a screwed up individual - sometimes I talk such rubbish that even I don't know what I am saying!

Back to the topic I always think that in order to live the true literary life (or the untrue, true literary life) a person has to be totally financially independent, someone who does not need to work to earn a living. Such people as artists or writers are able to live outside of the social system in some way and are allotted, therefore, some form of true individuality. I'm thinking of particular of the poets who had patrons as in Wordsworth and Coleridge or those of their own means like Byron and Shelley. It would have been very difficult for these people to write how they did if they had to contend with 50/60 hours labour a week at their particular time of living, in the harsh times of early 19th C Britain.

I am not saying that you can't be an artist with a day job, but it is a damn sight easier if you don't have to. I would also suggest that the pure artist is one who doesn't have to conform to any particular audience or public, the true artist produces for him/herself alone and is able to create what the hell they want free from outside influence.

All of this is just the stuff of "The Soul of Man Under Socialism" I suppose, Wilde again in most ways. Wilde was a fan of absinthe too of course.

What you say about being financially independent and not having to submit to the mundane daily grind is a universally held desire and those writers, artists and composers who were patronized in the past, whether by the church or aristocracy, have produced an artistic heritage that no state subsidised system could ever match; which is only one reason why I do not support socialism. However, as you point out, since then most artists have usually had to rely on `the day job` to stay alive; and while we are unlikely to produce another Michaelangelo, Caravaggio, Hadyn, Beethoven, Byron or Shelley etc. etc. there has been some pretty good work produced in the interim. So living the artists life applies to all those who have created what is generally conceived of as art, regardless of their personal circumstances.
As for Oscar Wilde, of his many witticisms the one that appeals (or even applies) most directly to myself is that `Work is the curse of the drinking-classes.`

[LitNetIsGreat]

Love the studio Stlukes, (and the divan).

But what of the writer such as Dickens or even Stephen King whose writing is so successful? Did they have no restraints? Was there no pressure to continue writing at a certain speed, in a certain genre?

They are held back by having to produce work in a particular genre, as you say, in order to meet deadlines for the publisher. The absolute artist shouldn’t (in the most ideal of all worlds) have to think about his audience at all, neither should they have to think about meeting deadlines and writing in a pre-arrange genre for a particular publisher. Of course there are successful writers, geniuses even, but that has little to do with the absolute ideal of the best conditions for art, which is the fact that the artist should be free to express themselves without any regard to outside influences.

I also realize that the current path I have taken certainly has had an impact upon me and my art that most certainly is different from what my ideal might have been. As a college/university teacher it is quite likely that my work would have fallen into and stayed within a far more academic mode. In other words I might have found it far easier to continue on my way as an abstract formalist. Confronted every day with children's art... with images... with art made from the most primal inspirations: the simple desire to record the world around them... the draw "things"... has all undoubtedly impacted me as an artist... for better or worse. JoZ first threw out the question about living the "literary life"? Is there really a single ideal or right approach to such?

Of course we are all undoubtedly a product of our social environments, including the things we read and see, as such there is no “right approach” as everyone is unique.

[Babyguile]

Ha, 'end product'? I guess the joy of reading a book itself, and finishing it.

[librarius_qui]

JoZ first threw out the question about living the "literary life"? Is there really a single ideal or right approach to such?

Now I'm confused ... She spoke about literature, and, since the beginning, you've ... not strayed into your art, but ... Yes, of course! But a literary life certainly is a different thing from a painter's life!

It's the life of a writer. You can talk about it if you write.

If you don't write, no matter you are talking about similar things (for there is something in common between painting and writing), you aren't talking about the life related to literature.

(Unless that you like books, and that they make part of your life.)

Nice studio, by the way. Is that yours?

[stlukesguild]

She spoke about literature, and, since the beginning, you've ... not strayed into your art, but ... Yes, of course! But a literary life certainly is a different thing from a painter's life!

The question I raised was to ask just what is the "literary life" for the person who has no plans of being a writer. Others have raised the same question. I also raised the question as to how different the "literary life" is from the "artist's life" or the "composer's life"... and while I admit differences... there are also areas of overlap. What of the "scholar's life" or the "critic's life" (as raised by JBI) are these somehow invalid?

[Jozanny]

The question I raised was to ask just what is the "literary life" for the person who has no plans of being a writer. Others have raised the same question. I also raised the question as to how different the "literary life" is from the "artist's life" or the "composer's life"... and while I admit differences... there are also areas of overlap. What of the "scholar's life" or the "critic's life" (as raised by JBI) are these somehow invalid?

I certainly never intended to invalidate other callings through the process of raising questions about mine, although I think JBI's attempt to wall off *critic* is mute, in the contemporary era. Critics are writers, they have to be--they simply engage in a genre that demands specialization with near zero chance of real monetary gain. Poets are usually professional scholars and teachers. Those that aren't, like me, have nothing to show for it but a lot of space used up in literary journals which rarely touch more than a select audience.

I receive more affirmation in writing articles or essays, which, given my incontinence and fevers and struggling in my aging spasticity, is the most I can manage these days, a few words at a time.

The crux of my problem is the reluctant belief that I am no longer relevant because of my physical disintegration, like my ex, who no longer even tries to actually live. His power chair went down a month ago and he sits below me, a defacto prisoner in his studio, watching tv, waiting for his parts to come in. (I just had a shrill argument with his egg-head self about raising his voice and advocating for himself and he doesn't care, and we are broken off and I'd still like to kill him, which should tell me something...) Mine went down last week, and I may no longer be a player in disability activism, but I can still twist arms, and will hopefully have a loner chair Monday afternoon. But can I still go to Italy? Can I still publish successfully enough to say this life is worth it?

Vassar Miller was a successful cross-over poet; she penetrated into the able-bodied lit-crit appreciation game, but one of her end of life assistants published a heart-rending article about taking a job to help her type, and things like that, at the end of her life. He appreciated who she was, but hated the job, and didn't want to be in her company more than he had to for what he was getting paid. I don't think physically healthy people actually realize how this makes real disabled individuals with ambition feel. I feel it with state paid attendants who have had no education beyond the inner city, and when my strength fails, my options seem intensely and terribly stark, with my anger strong enough to nearly make me believe in demons.

[JBI]

I think the problem is though, that the writer, from what I understand, digs into himself as a source of inspiration for his work. The critic, though also digging into himself somewhat, seems to rely more on the actual text of the work. Also, I think the life of a critic is somewhat different than the life of an artist, especially in the eyes of the public. We seem to have in our minds this fantasy notion of what an artist's life is like, but I don't think many place a critic in that group.

We have a notion of a Kunstleroman, in both fiction and in our imaginations, but I am yet to come across a book about the coming into the trade of a critic - even Johnson's Autobiography doesn't seem to go there in that sense.

[Jozanny]

I think the problem is though, that the writer, from what I understand, digs into himself as a source of inspiration for his work. The critic, though also digging into himself somewhat, seems to rely more on the actual text of the work. Also, I think the life of a critic is somewhat different than the life of an artist, especially in the eyes of the public. We seem to have in our minds this fantasy notion of what an artist's life is like, but I don't think many place a critic in that group.

We have a notion of a Kunstleroman, in both fiction and in our imaginations, but I am yet to come across a book about the coming into the trade of a critic - even Johnson's Autobiography doesn't seem to go there in that sense.

You might become the Umberto Eco of the late 21st century, for all you know. I intuit that you have a discipline which does not fail your intelligence; mine did. I went through my first semester a virtual drunkard and made the dean's list anyway. By my senior year I was tired and wanted to get on with the business of living, so I've always been half-baked. A peasant like Pilar, with Pilar's looks too, but whose inner fire managed to get her some pleasant sexual adventures, but a Pilar with education, but education not refined enough to play in the intellectual pissing matches between The New Republic's Jewish coterie and the Harvard feminist warriors who push back against it,, a decent enough writer to keep getting published, but either not lucky or not talented enough to break through, not yet, anyway.

Your life may end up surprising you, young man.

[JBI]

Or not - I'm struggling with a paper on a very slippery novel, Sinclair Ross's As for me and My House, and the trouble seems unnatural. I guess in my stupidity I picked an unbelievably ambiguous text to work with, and now have to suffer for it. It's a shame that this course doesn't deal with more poets though - I can write on for ages on verse, but writing essays on novels, having to dig through them, and support everything is to big a hassle. I think my problem is that I like to deconstruct my own essays, which ends with me cutting them up, over and over again, until I finally, pulling out my hair, decide enough is enough, and write the damn thing.

Then again, I think Robertson Davies's "The Rebel Angels" gives hope - thinking on it, he seems to have written a book specifically about critics and academics, and their very interesting lives.