Gendered Pronouns in Early 20th Century Fiction: A Simple Quantitative Study

Gendered Pronouns in Early 20th Century Fiction: A Simple Quantitative Study

The following short essay is a work in progress -- I am exploring the uses of a corpus of early 20th century literature I have been developing for a few months. The study below represents an attempt to make use of that corpus to query a topic that has been of interest in quantitative DH in recent years. 

I have long been fascinated by a DH paper published in 2018, “The Transformation of Gender in English-Language Fiction” (link here; authors were Ted Underwood, David Bamman and Sabrina Lee) that has suggested strong statistical evidence that men were increasingly dominating the world of fiction in late 19th and early 20th centuries – that between 1850 and 1950 the percentage of published novels that were authored by women dropped dramatically (from near parity to more like a third or a quarter). Thus, at the exact period when we might have expected women to be gaining visibility and influence – associated with the early 20th-century suffrage movement and the appearance of important feminist voices like Virginia Woolf – they were actually losing position on the whole in the publishing world. 

According to the authors, the pattern only started to reverse in the second half of the twentieth century (and today, the publishing industry would of course look very different). Also, within their fiction, “The Transformation of Gender” authors indicate that men writers tend to write more about men, while writers who are women might be closer to gender parity in the amount of time given men and women in the social world represented in the story. The authors suggest that particular tendency hasn’t improved or changed as much.

Source: Underwood, Bamman, and Lee (2018)

Incidentally, the concern with the growing marginalization of writers who were women alluded to above is not a new one. The authors of “The Transformation of Gender” cite a 1989 study, Edging Women Out: Victorian Novelists, Publishers, and Social Change (Gaye Tuchman and Nina Fortin), where the authors did quantitative (but not digital!) scholarship with similar findings. Tuchman and Fortin counted and classified entries in Leslie Stephen’s Dictionary of National Biography to compare how women writers were talked about versus men writers. They found that while books by men were reviewed more frequently on the whole, the gender disparity in the more recent authors (late 19th century) became especially sharp with respect to works of nonfiction.  The authors of “The Transformation of Gender” used a very large corpus of tens of thousands of novels from HathiTrust (and checked against the smaller University of Chicago novel corpus) as well as sophisticated modeling techniques built around Natural Language Processing (NLP) to infer gender within a text and derive percentages. Some years ago, I finally gained enough confidence in basic Python to explore some of these methods on my own, using David Bamman’s BookNLP software (sadly, that software does not appear to be working at present, so I will not be using it for the results below).

One other bit of background: in the revised version of the essay published in his book, Distant Horizons, Ted Underwood mentions the Gendered Language Visualizer, a simple but deceptively powerful tool that tracks the association between non-gendered words and gendered pronouns in works of fiction. The technique behind that led to the beautifully illustrative image below (from the jointly written 2018 essay)

Source: Underwood, Bamman, and Lee (2018)

What it shows: women in fiction tend to "smile" and "laugh"; men tend to "grin" and "chuckle." (Though note that the divergence diminishes over time -- so in contemporary fiction that 'gendering of mirth' would be much less pronounced than it was at the peak of the divergence, around 1950.) 

Earlier studies: I should say that this is a more complex version of a type of analysis scholars have been doing in stylistics for many years; there are studies that go back to the 1990s that aimed to predict the gender of a writer based on characteristics of function words and articles. Koppel et al. (2002) used sophisticated statistical techniques with a fairly straightforward counting to find that writers who are men tend to use a higher proportion of noun specifiers (a, the, that), and numbers in their fiction. They also claim women tend to use more pronouns (she, herself), negation (not), and certain prepositions (for, with) and conjunctions (and). By lining up counts of these various parts of speech, the authors claim to be able to predict the gender of an author of an anonymized text with 80% accuracy. (Note: for what it’s worth, I tried to replicate their results with my own small, early 20th-century corpus, and failed. The only place where I saw a clear correlation was with gendered pronouns -- which might explain how I got to the design of the present study below.)

Moving past binarized gender thinking: Admittedly, I am not so interested in this particular application for my own research – it’s almost never the case with 20th-century fiction that the gender identity of an author is unknown. I also tend to be interested in writers who pushed against conventional gender roles and expectations in any case, many of whom might be understood as LGBTQIA+ today – writers like Virginia Woolf, E.M. Forster, D.H. Lawrence, Radclyffe Hall, or Wallace Thurman. Today, most scholars would find the "predict the gender" type of analysis overly restrictive and as essentially reinforcing binarized gender thinking. If E.M. Forster, for example, breaks with the expected pattern in novels that feature women protagonists (spoiler: he does!), that would be a more interesting finding than simply that reconfirming that 80% of men are from Mars, as it were.  

A simplified method for the present study: What if we drastically simplified the query with a corpus of early 20th-century fiction? As a starting point for thinking about patterns with respect to gendered socialization, why not simply look at gendered pronouns: he/him/his and she/her/hers? If the conclusions by Underwood et al. are correct, we should expect to see a lopsided homosocial tendency in fiction by men (men mostly talking to and about other men, and only occasionally mentioning a woman), and maybe a more balanced gender representation in fiction by women. We might also see some interesting anomalies in the patterns that might be worth exploring.  

Before doing this at a mid-range scale, I was curious to see how authors I know would shake out. Over the past few months, I’ve been developing a custom corpus of early 20th-century texts. I have described the basic design of the corpus here; it contains about 1000 total texts, including about 100 texts that might be thought of as canonical high modernist texts, 130 texts by African American authors, and about 90 texts associated with colonial South Asia. It also contains a substantial amount of genre fiction. The results below only reference works of fiction, though there are works of poetry, drama, and nonfiction in the corpus. 

With a little help from generative AI coding assistants, I devised a simple bit of code to count the use of gendered pronouns (he, him, his vs. she, her, hers), first, in a single novel, then in a batch of files, and then derive a percentage from the total word length of the file. I then took those gendered pronoun percentages, and compared them to one another to get a ratio. Rather than overwhelm the reader with a vast array of raw data, I’ll start with some smaller findings, initially focused on gendered pronoun ratios in a small set of ‘high modernist’ works of fiction, mainly by white British and American authors. I’ll then expand the conversation to other authors and consider broadly why any of this might be significant. 

From my limited high modernist collection, what are some texts that are especially lopsided towards men? (If you expected to see Ernest Hemingway on this list, you would be right!)

Text	Ratio of masculine to feminine pronouns
Ernest Hemingway: Men Without Women	11.4 to 1
Hemingway: In Our Time	9.4 to 1
James Joyce: Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man	9.2 to 1
John Dos Passos: Three Soldiers	7.3 to 1
D.H. Lawrence: Kangaroo	4.2 to 1
Hemingway: The Sun Also Rises	3.5 to 1
James Joyce: Ulysses	3.0 to 1
James Joyce: Dubliners	2.2 to 1
E.M. Forster: A Passage to India	2.2 to 1
F. Scott Fitzgerald: The Great Gatsby	2.0 to 1

What to make of the lopsided nature of some of these texts? I should say, off the bat, that I don’t think the lopsidedness necessarily serves as an indictment of someone like Hemingway. The relative absence of women in his various short stories is partly due to their settings (several in Men Without Women deal with soldiers and World War I, and “The Undefeated,” about an aging Spanish bullfighter out for a last hurrah, is a pretty marvelous critique of dysfunctional masculinity). Moreover, A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man is a coming-of-age narrative for Stephen Dedalus at schools that only admit boys and men with teachers who are also only men, so it’s not a huge surprise that the social world represented in the text is also pretty lopsided. (The imbalance might have been less if Joyce had kept in more of the love interest/romantic sections that were in the original Stephen Hero version of his manuscript.) The lopsidedness of other writers (and other Joyce texts) is less extreme, though it’s striking to see novels by D.H. Lawrence and E.M. Forster here (especially since Forster, with Howards End, is also on my second list below). 

Again, I don’t see it as an indictment per se, or as a reason to drop Hemingway or Joyce from my syllabus, though it is still worth knowing. (Do readers want or need to see characters that match their own gender identity or expression in order to connect with a text? Probably not, but my hunch is that it might help...) Still, the pattern does appear to show that there is a pretty limited role for women in the social worlds we find in these texts. It is not as if the authors don’t know it, either: the title Men Without Women can be read as self-critique of a symptomatic nature. These are men without women, and perhaps that’s why they are so broken.

And what about woman-centered texts by writers of literary fiction typically associated with high modernism? 

Text	Ratio of feminine to masculine pronouns
Dorothy Richardson: Pilgrimage 1Pointed Roofs	13.1 to 1
Bryher: Development	9.9 to 1
Richardson: Pilgrimage (other volumes)	varies between 5 to 1 and 2 to 1
Nella Larsen: Passing	4.9 to 1
Radclyffe Hall: The Unlit Lamp	3.9 to 1
Radclyffe Hall: The Well of Loneliness	2.8 to 1
Wallace Thurman: The Blacker the Berry	2.8 to 1
Gertrude Stein: Three Lives	1.6 to 1
Virginia Woolf: Mrs. Dalloway	1.6 to 1
Katherine Mansfield: The Garden Party And Other Stories	1.6 to 1
Mansfield: Bliss and Other Stories	1.5 to 1
Virginia Woolf: The Voyage Out	1.5 to 1
Woolf: Night and Day	1.4 to 1
Woolf: Orlando	1.4 to 1
Woolf: To the Lighthouse	1.3 to 1
Forster: A Room With a View	1.2 to 1
Forster: Howards End	1.2 to 1

It was not hugely surprising to see Pilgrimage: Pointed Roofs as the most lopsided she/her centered text in the high modernist selection from my text corpus. Pointed Roofs is the story of a young woman teaching at a girls’ boarding school, so, as with Portrait of the Artist above it is not surprising that it reflects a homosocial world with largely girls and women as characters. 

Also, anyone who has read Passing recently would not be surprised to see how prevalent she/her/hers pronouns are there: it really is a novel focused on the relationship between two women. (If anything, this finding only reconfirms readings that have stressed the homoerotic subtexts of that relationship.)

I was intrigued to see a book by a man, Wallace Thurman, come out fairly high on this list (2.8 to 1). I am not entirely sure what to make of it; the novel in question is a thoughtful and often bitter account of colorism within the Black community with a woman protagonist. 

The bigger takeaway might be that the pattern described by Underwood et al. appears to be in evidence with this small group of high modernist writers – writers who were women were, on the whole, less lopsided than were their peers who were men. Instead of a ratio of 10 to 1 or 4 to 1 or even 2 to 1, the median here for writers like Woolf and Mansfield – two of the core authors in the modern feminist canon – is closer to 1.5 to 1. 

Expanding the Range of Authors: Genre Fiction Writers

Now, let’s move to the broader dataset. The first discovery might be that the gendered pronoun disparity can be wildly lopsided in adventure fiction and westerns: 

Text Ratio of masculine to feminine pronouns

Zane Grey, The Young Pitcher 630 to 1

Zane Grey, Ken Ward in the Jungle 433 to 1

G. K. Chesterton, The Man Who Was 

Thursday 139 to 1

H. G. Wells, The First Men in the Moon 104 to 1

John Buchan, Prester John 101 to 1

Lord Dunsany, The Gods of Pegana 57 to 1

L. Frank Baum, The Master Key 47 to 1

Dhan Gopal Mukerji, Kari the Elephant 44 to 1

G. K. Chesterton, The Man Who Knew 

Too Much 43 to 1

Jack London, The Call of the Wild 18 to 1

John Buchan, The Thirty-Nine Steps 15 to 1

Dorothy Sayers, Lord Peter Views 

The Body 5.8 to 1

Agatha Christie, The Big Four 4.0 to 1

The scale of lopsidedness is pretty vast – and consistent – with early 20th century men who wrote westerns, science fiction, and detective fiction all showing a highly lopsided, man-centered social world. (I ran hundreds of titles for this study, and am only including a few noteworthy titles on these tables; readers who want to see the raw data can find it here; note that it contains texts that are not works of fiction--I've been disregarding those in the present study) Even women who wrote detective fiction tended to show a version of it, though Dorothy Sayers’ Lord Peter Views the Body (at 5.8 to 1) is still much less imbalanced than something like The Young Pitcher (another narrative of a young man at school, with no girls or women about). 

And what about woman-centered genre fiction / popular fiction? 

Text Ratio of feminine to masculine pronouns

Rokeya Hossain, Sultana’s Dream 10.8 to 1

Vita Sackville-West, The King’s Daughter 5.7 to 1

Edith Wharton The Old Maid 5.4 to 1

Elinor Glyn, Man and Maid 5.0 to 1

Gertrude Atherton, The Living Present 3.8 to 1

L. M. Montgomery, Anne of Green 

Gables 3.2 to 1

Somerset Maugham, Liza of Lambeth 2.9 to 1

Louis Bromfield, The Green Bay Tree 2.4 to 1

Edith Wharton, The House of Mirth 2.4 to 1

Zane Grey, The Call of the Canyon 2.4 to 1

Temple Bailey, Judy 2.0 to 1

H.G. Wells, Ann Veronica 1.8 to 1

Again, while there are some texts that are highly woman-centered (Sultana’s Dream is, famously, a feminist utopia with men kept in enclosures, while women run the world), the imbalance for romance fiction writers like Elinor Glyn or girl-oriented children’s fiction writers like L.M. Montgomery (Anne of Green Gables) is considerably less pronounced than with their counterparts who were men. 

Given how lopsided Zane Grey generally is, it is interesting to see one of his novels here (a shell-shocked World War I veteran moves to Arizona and has to choose between two different women). It’s also noteworthy to see an instance of H.G. Wells’ “new woman” fiction here. (Again, if anyone would like to see the full / raw data, it is here.) 

Quick conclusions; Next steps in the analysis?

Admittedly, this is a fairly crude method. At most, it shows some general patterns and trends, and confirms (albeit with a very small sample of texts) what Underwood/Bamman/Lee claimed using a much larger statistical model. Here is Underwood in Distant Horizons: 

“It turns out that women are consistently under-represented in books by men. On average, only a third of the words men use in characterization are used to describe feminine characters. Women writers, on the other hand, spend equal time on fictional men and fictional women. This difference remains depressingly constant across two centuries, and it may help explain why books by men tend to have more stereotyped gender roles.” (Distant Horizons, 127)

For me, the next steps might not be more quantitative queries. Rather, I am curious to look at the anomalies and exceptions in the early 20th-century corpus to try and learn more about what might have been going on, perhaps the old-fashioned way (i.e., actually reading the novels in question). For instance, for a writer who was so dramatically lopsided towards men otherwise, how did Zane Grey's  The Call of the Canyon feature women's voices in a 2:1 ratio? What was he doing differently here? (Especially curious since for someone like Hemingway, fiction responding to the psychic effects of World War I was often overwhelmingly oriented to men.)

Also, for writers like E.M. Forster and Wallace Thurman, both writers of literary fiction who lived their lives as closeted gay men, it is intriguing to see they both wrote novels with women protagonists who scored fairly high on the second table above. It might be interesting to gather together other novels written by cis-identified men with women as protagonists. Are there any patterns that can be gleaned from them? 

Finally, I'm curious about the representations of animals in the corpus. It's striking that a big part of the reason Hemingway's "The Undefeated" and Jack London's The Call of the Wild appear so lopsided in terms of gendered pronouns is that the vast majority of the animals are gendered male in both texts (alongside the human protagonists of those stories, of course). It might be interesting to make a small corpus of animal-oriented fiction from this fiction and study how animals are gendered (perhaps adding in more emphasis on non-gendered pronouns...).

New Novel About Ramanujan -- "The Indian Clerk"

There's a new novel about the Indian mathematician Srinivasa Ramanujan by David Leavitt; it's called The Indian Clerk. Leavitt appears to be working with the approach taken by Pat Barker and others, in producing a fiction that is strongly based on actual facts, and which is the product of his own extensive research on the relationship between Ramanujan and the British mathematician G.H. Hardy.

The blog The Elegant Variation recently had an extensive series of posts dedicated to the book, including a long excerpt here and an interview here. I haven't read it yet, though I'll definitely be looking for it the next time I am in a bookstore. Here are a couple of paragraphs, from immediately after G.H. Hardy receives his first letter from Ramanujan in Madras, with several pages of groundbreaking mathematical proofs attached:

Hardy shifts Hermione, much to her annoyance, off his lap, then gets up and moves to his windows. Beneath him, two gowned undergraduates stroll arm in arm toward the archway. Watching them, he thinks of asymptotes, values converging as they near a sum they will never reach: a half foot closer, then a quarter foot, then an eighth… One moment he can almost reach out and touch them, the next—whoosh—they're gone, sucked up by infinity. Now there's a divergent series for you. The envelope from India has left a curious smell on his fingers, of soot and what he thinks might be curry. The paper is cheap. In two places the ink has run.

This is not the first time that Hardy had received letters from strangers. For all its remoteness from the ordinary world, pure mathematics holds a mysterious attraction for cranks of all stripes. Some of the men who have written to Hardy are genuine lunatics, claiming to have in their hands formulae pointing to the location of the lost continent of Atlantis, or to have discovered cryptograms in the plays of Shakespeare indicating a Jewish conspiracy to defraud England. Most, though, are merely amateurs whom mathematics has fooled into believing that they have found solutions to the most famous unsolved problems. I have completed the long-sought proof to Goldbach's Conjecture—Goldbach's Conjecture, stating simply that any even number greater than two could be expressed as the sum of two primes. Needless to say I am loath to send my actual proof, lest it fall into the hands of one who might publish it as his own…Experience suggests that this Ramanujan falls into the latter category. Being poor—as if mathematics has ever made anyone rich! I have not given the actual investigations nor the expressions that I get—as if all the dons of Cambridge are waiting with baited breath to receive them!

Nine dense pages of mathematics accompany the letter. Sitting down again, Hardy looks them over. At first glance, the complex array of numbers, letters, and symbols suggests a passing familiarity with, if not a fluency in, the language of his discipline. Yet how strangely the Indian uses that language! What he is reading, Hardy thinks, is the equivalent of English spoken by a foreigner who has taught the tongue to himself. (link)

Personally I find this type of approach -- using the novel to work as an outlet for research on real historical problems -- very rewarding. Teaching Barker's Regeneration last spring, I found found that students got a lot out of the cross-referencing of actual historical documents (i.e., relating to Siegfried Sassoon and the development of modern psychology) with the literary text at hand.

"Nawabdin Electrician," in The New Yorker

There's a very interesting short story in this week's New Yorker, by a new Pakistani writer named Daniyal Mueenuddin. It's about an electrician working on a large farm in rural Pakistan, more or less taking care of his business until something dramatic happens. I won't say much about the dramatic thing that happens to Nawabdin (read the story), but here's a teaser to give you a sense of the writing style:

The motorcycle increased his status, gave him weight, so that people began calling him Uncle and asking his opinion on world affairs, about which he knew absolutely nothing. He could now range farther, doing much wider business. Best of all, now he could spend every night with his wife, who early in the marriage had begged to live not in Nawab’s quarters in the village but with her family in Firoza, near the only girls’ school in the area. A long straight road ran from the canal headworks near Firoza all the way to the Indus, through the heart of the K. K. Harouni lands. The road ran on the bed of an old highway built when these lands lay within a princely state. Some hundred and fifty years ago, one of the princes had ridden that way, going to a wedding or a funeral in this remote district, felt hot, and ordered that rosewood trees be planted to shade the passersby. Within a few hours, he forgot that he had given the order, and in a few dozen years he in turn was forgotten, but these trees still stood, enormous now, some of them dead and looming without bark, white and leafless. (link)

In the story as a whole, I think Mueenuddin finds some very congenial ways to convey a poor electrician's point of view. He's got a good sense of comic details, but doesn't depend on them too much. I also liked the ambiguities at the end regarding Nawabdin's character. Any thoughts on this story?

Incidentally, Mueenuddin also has another story online, at the literary magazine Zoetrope. It's quite different from "Nawabdin Electrician"; I think it will be interesting to anyone who has been in a serious cross-cultural or interracial relationship. (I'm happy to discuss that story too.)

"The Good Soldier" -- A Bad Novel

Ford Madox Ford's The Good Soldier (1915) is considered a classic of sorts from the early modernist era. W.H. Auden thought Ford was a great novelist (he had particularly strong praise for Parade's End, which deals with World War I), and so did Graham Greene. From what I can tell, The Good Soldier, which is not a war novel, but a novel about adultery in the British aristocracy, is still widely taught in college classes on British modernism (see here, here, and here); it's also widely cited in the scholarly literature. But it shouldn't be -- this thing is a mess. (Or more politely, "perhaps it's time for a reassessment"?)

One of the oft-repeated chestnuts about The Good Soldier stems from Ford's early relationship as an editor and collaborator of Joseph Conrad. Ford, it is said, aims to use a version of Joseph Conrad's nested narrators with their various, idiosyncratic approaches to the "truth." But if Ford is aiming for a Conradian effect, it's poorly done, to the point of unrecognizability. The Good Soldier has only one narrator, and the multiple points of view that emerge in the text are never fully explained (in Conrad, by contrast, the different narrators are usually in dialogue with one, primary narrator). The narrator in Ford's novel at once knows implausibly much about what his friends and family were thinking at various moments, and far too little -- it seems unthinkable that he could be such a poor judge of character (more on that below). Moreover, instead of creating a sense of suspense for the reader, the unraveling of the story merely creates confusion, as the story slides back and forth chronologically without leading to new insights on why the characters do what they do in the end.

I won't do a detailed plot summary (see Sparknotes for a refresher), but suffice it to say the novel is about two couples, the Dowells and the Ashburnhams, and the narrator is one of the husbands, John Dowell. Florence Dowell has an affair with Edward Ashburnham that goes on for several years, which John Dowell fails to notice for most of that time. (He also fails to notice that his and his wife's flatmate in Paris is his wife's former lover. For two years.) Leonora Ashburnham, on the other hand, notices it right away -- in fact, Edward is a serial philanderer, who is constantly getting himself into trouble over his various entanglements with women of both high and low classes. Leonora hopes (more implausibility) that her husband will reform and come back to her, and Ford keeps insisting that she loves him despite everything. Florence commits suicide, not when she's discovered by her husband, but once she realizes that Edward has fallen in love with some new floozy. And Edward himself also eventually commits suicide, for reasons that never really make sense.

There are numerous things in the plot and characterization of The Good Soldier that defy logic, and there are some major flaws I haven't even mentioned, but what really bothers me about this book is the way it stacks the decks to make its own narrator unreflectively passive -- to the point where he might as well vanish altogether. What Ford really wants to do is celebrate Edward Ashburnham, whose treatment of women by both Edwardian and our own standards ought to make him a clear villain. It might be understandable if Ford had some kind of point to make about sexual addiction, or some kind of Freudian explanation for Ashburnham's behavior. But in fact, he doesn't -- there's strikingly little psychological reflection in this novel, especially if you consider that both Conrad and Woolf were contemporaries, and many of the writers and artists in Ford's circle were by 1915 smelling Freud. In effect, while the The Good Soldier is often read as an exposé of Victorian Aristocratic mores (with their inherent misogyny), it actually celebrates them by making Ashburnham's suicide the "true" tragedy in the story.

What The Good Soldier does have is moments of "brilliant" writing, paragraphs that clearly suggest Ford was, at least temporarily, in control of things after all. Take the following, which comes near the end of the story:

"I have, I am aware, told this story in a very rambling way, so that it may be difficult for any one to find their path through what may be a sort of maze. I cannot help it. I have stuck to my idea of being in a country cottage with a silent listener, hearing between the gust of the wind and amidst the noises of the distant sea, the story as it comes. And, when one discusses an affair--a long, sad affair--one goes back, one goes forward. One remembers points that one has forgotten, and one explains them all the more minutely since one recognizes that one has forgotten to mention them in their proper places, and that one may have given, by omitting them, a false impression. I console myself with thinking that this is a real story, and that, after all, real stories are best told in the way that a person telling a story would tell them. They will then seem most real."

(Incidentally, Google reveals that Theodore Dreiser quoted the same paragraph near the end of his hostile review of the novel, back in the day.)

When I read the above paragraph, I thought, "yes, rambling -- that's exactly what this damn novel is." At the start the above paragraph seems like a kind of apology; if it seems like I'm doing a bad job, well that's just part of the reality of talking about one's romantic history (or in this case, one's wife's lover's romantic history, since John Dowell has the libido of a bump on a log). While there may be some truth in the idea that memory is rarely truly linear, if this is how the novelist is explaining his method, it falls flat. The reader doesn't want the raw, uncooked reality, but art. It need not be a matter of a conventional beginning, middle, and end -- this is modernism, after all -- but would it be too much to ask for a sense of direction, or perhaps a point? It's entirely possible for a story to be carefully constructed (or crafted) and still "seem most real." Ford Madox Ford doesn't seem to have understood that.

* * *

One final bit of wrongness. This blogger has a quote from one of Ford's many critical essays:

To him, you will address your picture, your poem, your prose story, or your argument. You will seek to capture his interest; you will seek to hold his interest. You will do this by methods of surprise, of fatigue, by passages of sweetness in your language, by passages suggesting the sudden and brutal shock of suicide. You will give him passages of dullness, so that your bright effects may seem more bright; you will alternate, you will dwell for a long time upon an intimate point; you will seek to exasperate so that you may the better enchant. You will, in short, employ all the devices of the prostitute. If you are too proud for this you may be the better gentleman or the better lady, but you will be the worse artist....[T]he artist is, quite rightly, regarded with suspicion by people who desire to live in tranquil and ordered society.

While Ford perhaps starts out with some valid points about the necessity for contour, he goes wrong -- I think, fatally -- when he compares writing a novel to a sort of prostitution. That's just a really sad bit of very bad advice to give an aspiring writer. (Sorry, Peking Duck!)

Two Passages Briefly Compared: "Ulysses" and "To the Lighthouse"

This spring I'm teaching a course on Modernism, and I have many things I've been hoping to post about.

One topic we discussed might be described as "comparative stream of consciousness," though I generally don't emphasize the term "stream-of-consciousness" very much, since it is virtually impossible to define satisfactorily. In-class, I gave students two passages relating to the sea, one from Joyce's Ulysses, and the other from Virginia Woolf's To the Lighthouse.

Here's a passage from the end of Section I of Joyce's Ulysses ("Telemachus"):

Woodshadows floated silently by through the morning peace from the stairhead seaward where he gazed. Inshore and farther out the mirror of water whitened, spurned by lightshod hurrying feet. White breast of the dim sea. The twining stresses, two by two. A hand plucking the harpstrings, merging their twining chords. Wavewhite wedded words shimmering on the dim tide.

A cloud began to cover the sun slowly, wholly, shadowing the bay in deeper green. It lay beneath him, a bowl of bitter waters. Fergus’ song: I sang it alone in the house, holding down the long dark chords. Her door was open: she wanted to hear my music. Silent with awe and pity I went to her bedside. She was crying in her wretched bed. For those words, Stephen: love’s bitter mystery.

Where now?

Joyce caresses the music of the "wh" sound; this is virtually poetry. (Incidentally, at the end there, Stephen is beginning to remember the death of his mother.)

And here’s Woolf’s To the Lighthouse:

So fine was the morning except for a streak of wind here and there that the sea and sky looked all one fabric, as if sails were stuck high up in the sky, or the clouds had dropped down into the sea. A steamer far out at sea had drawn in the air a great scroll of smoke which stayed there curving and circling decoratively, as if the air were a fine gauze which held things and kept them softly in its mesh, only gently swaying them this way and that. And as happens sometimes when the weather is very fine, the cliffs looked as if they were conscious of the cliffs, as if they signaled to each other some message of their own. For sometimes quite close to the shore, the Lighthouse looked this morning in the haze an enormous distance away.

‘Where are they now?’ Lily thought, looking out to sea. Where was he, that very old man who had gone past her silently, holding a brown paper parcel under his arm? The boat was in the middle of the bay.

This comes from near the end of To the Lighthouse, after Mrs. Ramsay's death. Lily has been working on her painting near the Ramsay's summer house, while Mr. Ramsay, Cam, and James have gone on a day-trip to a lighthouse that is distant, but visible from where Lily sits. Augustus Carmichael has remained on shore with her, and figures here as the "very old man who had gone past her silently."

Both Woolf and Joyce aim to find meanings and moods in the landscape that are psychic rather than objectively descriptive. Both short passages also contain some kind of emotional or subjective turn, leading to a question ("Where now?"/"Where are they now?") But the two passages also show important differences in Woolf's and Joyce's respective styles, along the lines of sentence structure, theme, and sound of the prose.

Both Woolf and Joyce trade in moods, animating nature with reflections of human emotion. But Woolf's aim is to create a singular image (a "fabric") of grandeur, while Joyce seems more interested in doublings, pairings, and rhythm. Woolf meditates on the disappearance of the other through distance, while Joyce weaves the music of spoken language with the sound of water: "wavewhite wedded words shimmering on the dim tide."

Other interpretations? Are there parallels (or telling dissimilarities) I've missed?

Magic Realism on TV: "Heroes" vs. "Midnight's Children"

Am I the first person to think of shows like Lost and Heroes as the television equivalent of "magic realism" in the novel? These shows have elements of science fiction and fantasy, but remain grounded in realistic narration and human relationships. As a result, they can achieve mainstream respectability and broad popularity, while true Sci-Fi remains somewhat of a smaller, niche market.

This is going to sound blasphemous, but Heroes in particular actually reminds me a little of Midnight's Children in some ways. Remember this passage from Rushdie's novel:

From Kerala, a boy who had the ability of stepping into mirrors and re-emerging through any surface in the land--through lakes, and (with greater difficulty), the polished bodies of automobiles . . . and a Goanese girl with the gift of multiplying fish . . . and children with powers of transformation: a werewolf from the Nilgiri hills, and from the great watershed of the Vindhvas, a boy who could increase or reduce his size at will, and had already (mischievously) been the cause of wild panic and rumors of the return of Giants . . . from Kashmir, there was a blue-eyed child of whose sex I was never certain, since by immersing herself in water he (or she) could alter it as she (or he) pleased. Some of us called this child Narada, others Markandaya, depending on which old fairy story of sexual change we had heard . . . near Jalna in the heart of the parched Deccan I found a water-divining youth, and at Budge-Budge outside of Calcutta a sharp-tongued girl whose words already had the power of inflicting physical wounds, so that after a few adults had found themselves bleeding freely as a result from some barb flung casually from her lips, they decided to lock her up in a bamboo cage and float her off down the Ganges to the Sunderbans jungles (which are the rightful home of monsters and phantasms); but nobody dared approach her, and she moved through the town surrounded by a vacuum of fear; nobody had the courage to deny her food. There was a boy who could eat metal and a girl whose fingers were so green that she could grow prize aubergines in the Thar desert; and more and more...

Ah, Rushdie: the old passages don't disappoint. Of course, the different magical powers don't map precisely to the characters in Heroes, but there are certain overlaps:

Claire Bennet (Hayden Panettiere), Mr. Bennet's adopted daughter, who lives in Odessa, Texas, and has a healing factor.

Simone Deveaux (Tawny Cypress), an art dealer and gallery owner whose skepticism and complicated romantic life are tested. She was killed by Isaac, who was trying to kill Peter and hit the wrong target.

D.L. Hawkins (Leonard Roberts), Once an escaped criminal, he has the power to alter his physical tangibility and phase through solid objects, both inanimate and organic.

Isaac Mendez (Santiago Cabrera), An artist living in New York who can paint future events during precognitive trances. He also writes and draws a comic book called 9th Wonders! which has also been shown to depict the future.

Hiro Nakamura (Masi Oka), A programmer[7] from Tokyo with the ability to manipulate the space-time continuum.

Matt Parkman (Greg Grunberg), A Los Angeles police officer with the ability to hear other people's thoughts.

Nathan Petrelli (Adrian Pasdar), a New York Congressional candidate with the ability of self-propelled flight. He is Claire Bennet's biological father.

Peter Petrelli (Milo Ventimiglia), A former hospice nurse and Nathan's younger brother. He is an empath with the ability to absorb the powers of others he has been near and can recall any ability he has used in the past by focusing on his feelings for those from whom the abilities originate. He has shown that he is capable of manifesting multiple abilities simultaneously.

Micah Sanders (Noah Gray-Cabey), D.L. and Niki's son and a child prodigy, Micah is a technopath, allowing him control of electrical signals, which gives him control of machines and electronic devices.

Niki Sanders (Ali Larter), The wife of D.L. and mother of Micah. A former internet stripper from Las Vegas who exhibits superhuman strength when her alternate personality, Jessica, surfaces.

Mohinder Suresh (Sendhil Ramamurthy), A genetics professor from India who travels to New York to investigate the death of his father, Chandra. Through his investigations, he comes into contact with people his father listed as possessing superhuman abilities. link

Mohinder Suresh, oddly enough, resembles Saleem Sinai, in that he is the person who ties it all together. And Cihlar, as the villain, resembles Rushdie's Siva. Perhaps Clair Bennett as Parvati-the-Witch? Niki Sanders as a less villainous "Widow"?

I'm not saying the quality of the show could be compared, even remotely, to Rushdie's novel. It's more the idea of a large group of people who have supernatural gifts whose broader function isn't entirely clear. In Rushdie's novel, it becomes clear that the disintegration of the M.C.C. is a metaphor for the challenges to Indian nationalism -- and Saleem Sinai's special humiliation might be the humiliation of the first generation of India's ruling elite. But what social or political message is Heroes trying to convey? It hasn't become clear yet.