Why read Fernando Pessoa?

Fernando Pessoa by unknown photographer, Public Domain via Wikimedia Commons

A focus on long reads

One recent Proust participant described the Salon experience like this: “ . . . thoroughly enjoying the Proust. Exactly what I anticipated and wanted. It’s the stimulus of the discussion I find motivating. I’m not that interested in the reading round it. The group is warm and tolerant enough for me to utter things that I quickly realise are wrong (a long-standing way of learning with me) and I can readjust. I guess the dialectic approach has always appealed to me and it is great to be in a rich environment in which I can indulge it without irritating people (too much anyway!) and deepen my understanding. Basically a blast! “

Iain MacGilchrist The Matter with Things

Why read Marilynne Robinson?

Marilynne Robinson — winner of the Pulitzer Prize (2005), PEN/ Hemingway Award (1982), Women’s Prize for Fiction (2009), National Book Critics Circle Award (2015, 2004) among many others — is considered one of the world’s greatest living novelists. She was Barack Obama’s choice for philosophical discussions to help him in his Presidency of the USA, and she has been cited as an inspiration by many recent writers of fiction and non-fiction. Even so, I am surprised to find very well-read people who have not heard of her or who have never read her.

For me, reading Robinson’s novels is like being immersed in a mountain stream after an arduous, sweaty hike. She goes directly into what is tormented and messy in the human heart and, through her crystalline prose, finds what glows there. Robinson is drawn to the places of paradox in the human psyche. For example, in the Gilead Quartet one of her questions is how a community, historically defined by a fierce commitment to the Abolitionist movement, might evolve in a later generation to disregard the racism at the core of the American project (and therefore at the heart of apparently ethical small-town, Protestant America).

Robinson’s theology is an essential part of her vision. While this may put some readers off, what Robinson does with her faith is to employ it in her muscular inquiry of human behaviour. How is it, for example, that some of those who are most committed to a monotheistic code of a life of good values, end up becoming rigid and dangerously dogmatic in their views? How is it that the Christian values of charity and grace seem to grow into prejudice and harsh judgements of neighbours?

A recent Salon discussion around Home (published 2008) became one of the most respectful and rich interfaith exchanges I have had the privilege to experience: the group comprised practitioners of the Jewish and Muslim faiths, an Anglican priest, a few raised in the Catholic church, an atheist, several agnostics and a few who follow Buddhist principles. Because Robinson creates a community of faith that she then uses to consider how faith may be used – or misused – in translating values into living, we as a group found material that helped us consider how our various theological imprints shaped our view of the world, specifically in the realms of forgiveness, salvation and grace. As Nicky Von Fraunhofer, co-facilitator for the Robinson studies commented: “Jack’s position in the family is the provoker of questions about the family’s faith and attitudes, especially over the theology of guilt and sin. This plays very directly into the story of the Prodigal, but Marilynne extends it here, to what happens after the son comes home.”

A recent piece in the New Yorker gives a precise reading of what Robinson offers, particularly in reflection of the tormented story of American history:

Her nonfiction had taken on the thunderous tones of a prophet, but in her fiction she found the range of the psalmist, sometimes gentle, sometimes wild, and always full of empathy and wonder. “I have a bicameral mind,” she says, explaining that her lectures and essays are a way of “aerating” ideas that often originate in agitation or outrage, whereas the novels are a different exercise entirely. The essays are the most explicit expression of her ideas, the novels the most elegant. “With any piece of fiction, any work of literature, the assumption is that a human life matters,” Robinson says. For her, this is a theological commitment, a reflection of her belief in the Imago Dei: the value of each of us, inclusive of our faults. “That is why I love my characters. I can only write about characters I love.”

Casey Cep, The New Yorker

Robinson’s vision, as expressed in her fiction, honours the immediacy of life; rendering the details of sensation and thought with a lyric and respectful attention. Her view is intimate and direct to the quiet inner lives of her characters, but from that personal space, she takes in huge questions – around faith, family, homelessness, hypocrisy, grief, identity, ecology – engaged with the natural world, but always in respectful and exploratory mode that invites the reader in.

There are passages in her fiction that I just relish (I have been known to pull out her book in the midst of a dinner party and subject the guests to a reading):

“For need can blossom into all the compensation it requires. To crave and to have are as like as a thing and its shadow. For when does a berry break upon the tongue as sweetly as when one longs to taste it, and when is the taste refracted into so many hues and savors of ripeness and earth, and when do our senses know any thing so utterly as when we lack it? And here again is a foreshadowing — the world will be made whole. For to wish for a hand on one’s hair is all but to feel it. So whatever we may lose, very craving gives it back to us again. Though we dream and hardly know it, longing, like an angel, fosters us, smooths our hair, and brings us wild strawberries.” 

Marilynne Robinson

Robinson’s work generates energetic, even passionate discussions as the exploration in her fiction goes deeply into the contradictions of contemporary existence and the history we have inherited. Housekeeping, her first novel, asks us to consider how a model of parenting that is – quite literally – outside the social spaces might be right and appropriate for a grieving young woman.

In the coming months, we have several Marilynne Robinson texts on offer — coming soon, her first work Housekeeping you are warmly invited to join our own exploration.

Between the Acts – a novel for our times?

Virginia Woolf at Monk’s House, photo courtesy of Harvard University Library, public domain, via Wikimedia Commons

As I re-read Between the Acts in preparation for our first study based on the novel this autumn in St Ives, I wonder why it is probably the least-known and read of Virginia Woolf’s works. This was her last book – completed shortly before her suicide in 1941 and published posthumously – and I can’t help speculating about her thoughts and mood as she wrote it, what extremes of ambivalence and ambiguity it reflects.

In this book I hear an agonised, desperate cry against the forces – both external and internal – that were closing in on Virginia Woolf. Forced to move permanently to Monk’s House, her beloved country home in Sussex, to escape the bombings of London, she found the bucolic retreat that was so nourishing to visit became claustrophobic as a permanent home. This novel, written in the echoes of the bombing raids, in the knowledge that, as she wrote in her journal ‘each fine day may be the last’ helps us to understand the strangeness, the jagged vision of the book. The narrative is not apparently about the war, but the war informs the author’s vision in singular ways. 

Woolf’s rendering of a village pageant—the awkward but majestic vision of Miss LaTrobe as she tries to mirror back to a complacent people the enclosure of their history and a stagnant view of Britishness—becomes the central character in the book. This feels like a response from Woolf to her predicament: forced from her lively urban world into the constraints of a rural space, immersion in the ostensibly ideal village community threatens to suck her dry artistically.

Set in an English country house shortly before the Second World War, the opposing themes of unity and dispersal are invoked to consider how, in a moment between two horrific wars, people may find meaning in a changing world. These themes are figured in the characters of Bart Oliver and his sister Lucy Swithin. Bart is a ‘separatist’ by action and outlook, he misses the adventure and heroics of his previous life in India and his preference for excitement and unpredictability is exemplified in his impetuous Afghan hound. In contrast, Lucy is a unifier who brings together those around her and her home to create harmony, and whose faith speaks to her of comfort and an all-inclusive vision.

While unifying ties bind lovers and family, there are many moments in this work when those ties are critiqued or broken. The unity of vision that can be so compelling is also what underlies a fierce nationalism that threatens violence against those not included.  Unity may provide comfort, but it can also be suffocating, while the disruption caused by dispersal may offer possibility in its chaos.

Front cover of the first edition

Characters, events and thoughts disrupt the action of the novel, at the heart of which is a pageant intended to draw together the literature and history of England, as though in a requiem. The position of the play within the novel, the interaction between the performance and its audience, the scatterings of stories and voices across the production, all explore the role of art as reflective or interrogative of our lived experience.  As Julia Briggs suggests:

“The pageant expresses the need to forge a relationship with the past and its narratives, yet the impossibility of doing so at a moment of national crisis, when the familiar is giving way to the unknown . . . Living in an old country, writing in an old language, Woolf found its ancestral voices both seductive and inhibiting.”

Julia Briggs, Virginia Woolf: An Inner Life

Theatre is, by definition, a shared experience: group involvement in the apprehension of an artistic moment. The pageant strikes a balance between comedy and lament for a lost culture; it provides a unifying moment for its audience through the spell of language, just as its content tells of the progressive loss of community through a series of fragments and pastiches that the audience struggles to grasp. The title of the book shifts our focus from the play itself to the world that drives inexorably through the performance—between the acts—even as the play continues. Where do we find the real performance? How can art depict the present moment? 

More than eight decades on, I find Woolf’s evocation of the human condition remarkably resonant in our own troubled times and Alex Clark’s article on the BBC Culture website is illuminating. I look forward to discussing the book, the past and the present with other enthusiastic readers in Cornwall on our Between the Acts study later this year and there are still places available if you are interested in joining us.

Writing Through the Seasons: Summer

Photo by Annie Spratt on Unsplash

Praying

It doesn’t have to be
the blue iris, it could be
weeds in a vacant lot, or a few
small stones; just
pay attention, then patch

a few words together and don’t try
to make them elaborate, this isn’t
a contest but the doorway

into thanks, and a silence in which
another voice may speak.

Mary Oliver
from Thirst, © Beacon Press, 2007


At the LitSalon’s Reading the Body retreat in Umbria earlier this month, I was reminded how intimidating creative writing can be for many people — even the most intelligent, eloquent and accomplished.  

As fifteen of us gathered and got acquainted in front of the villa, with its many varieties of trees and birdsong, I knew there’d be no shortage of inspiration for our writing together. Not to mention the literary discussions and daily yoga practice. Yes, we’d be not only reading the body but writing it too.

A few people pulled me aside to say that they would not be joining the writing workshop. More than a few were hesitant: it wasn’t their thing; they’d been scarred at school; they weren’t creative enough; it’s intimidating . . .  But, like Mary Oliver says, ‘it doesn’t have to be.’ 

The way we write together in these workshops is more about noticing, connecting, and playing with words.  Because I gently direct the writing, participants can be released from pressure and be spontaneous and intuitive — the opposite of the kind of writing we did in school. There’s no concern for grammar, spelling, punctuation, ‘You don’t even have to use words — you can doodle if you want,’ I say.  We’re not concerned at all with perfection.  It’s precisely the imperfection of spontaneity that’s at the heart of this playful writing, and I reckon that’s why it feels so good.

It feels good because there’s no critique, no judgment, just reflection. It isn’t a contest; it’s listening to our inner voices and knowing that everyone has something to say. Sharing and noticing the process of writing, not the writing itself.  Of course, you can read your words if you want to. And sometimes, but not always, there’s a bit of magic in what emerges.  

By the third workshop, word had spread like our laughter in the air. Almost everyone had given it a go.  We made pantoums (an ancient Malaysian poetic form), sankalpas, metaphors, a collaborative poem . . .  As a facilitator I was grateful for the bravery and creativity of all who participated and I like to think it added to their retreat experience. I wrote in my own reflections, ‘the Salon is as full of curious, creative women as the place is full of aromas — herbs, grass, rain. Fruits are ripening. Are we?’

If you feel curious or inspired, why not join me online for the next set of workshops in the ‘Writing Through the Seasons’ series? Summer starts on Tuesday 27 June.

Editor’s note:

Below, hot off the press, are two reviews of Alison’s writing sessions in Umbria.

‘An unexpected bonus for me was Alison’s writing groups. I went with a lot of trepidation, wanting, but not expecting to be able to write anything creative – even though I have wanted to do so for years. I have come back with a notebook full of fragments, embryonic poems, and ideas. We were told to dismiss our inner critic, and thanks to the time limits- (5 minutes to write a poem!) – my ‘busy old fool’ – (a Welsh Methodist superego) – never got a chance to stick his thin nose into the process, or to sniff disapprovingly at my unruly spontaneity.’

‘Alison proposes a writing experience which works just as well for a seasoned writer as it does for a beginner. Her exercises are uniquely tuned to take away inhibitions and provide participants with the confidence they need to express themselves freely. I found the writing that emerged could be as surprising as it was effective. Alison’s natural empathy immediately makes everyone feel comfortable. It’s about harmony; she creates a little circle of concord. She provides the wings we need to fly. And we do!’

Little Women: dreadful title, wonderful book?

Anne Boyd Rioux

I recently had to confess to our new facilitator, Anne Boyd Rioux, author of the highly acclaimed Meg, Jo, Beth, Amy: The Story of Little Women and Why it Still Matters, that I have never really warmed to Little Women. This is in spite of its strong credentials as the archetypal feminist fiction and a book that has inspired countless women – many of them (including luminaries such as Simone de Beauvoir, Patti Smith, Coretta Scott King and Zadie Smith) celebrated for their talents and tenacity – to emulate the character of Jo March in forging their own brilliant careers.

On reflection I wonder to what extent my feelings are based on an instinctive distaste for the title (even as a child I thought it demeaning) and that of its sequel Good Wives. Anne patiently explained to me that in the US Little Women was first published in two volumes, the first in 1868 followed by Little Women Part Two in 1869, soon thereafter becoming a single book following its huge success. However, here in the UK (and the rest of the English-speaking world), the publishers – rather than the author – persisted in maintaining two volumes: Little Women and Good Wives.

Further confusion was caused in 1880 when the US publisher produced a new edition in which much of the language of the original text was ‘improved’ by, for example, amending the March girls’ use of the “ain’t” to “am – or is, or are – not”, in the process robbing the original prose of its vitality! For this reason Anne urges readers to seek out the original text and recommends the Penguin Classics Deluxe Edition (ISBN: 978-0143106654).

All of the above (further encouraged by this New Yorker article) has led me to the conclusion that I should re-read Little Women (in its original form) with an open mind and, if my schedule allows it, join her Reading Little Women study starting on 29 March!

Away from it all . . .

Photo by Mauricio Muñoz on Unsplash

Even though days are getting longer, mornings lighter and sunsets later, February can be a grind. As we await the arrival of Spring we’re looking forward to getting away from it all in the coming months, so here’s a reminder that this year we have more opportunities to read great literature in evocative locations than we’ve ever offered before.

Some of our travel studies – Jacob’s Room on the Sussex Downs, The Oresteia in Greece, ‘Reading the Body’ in Umbria – are already fully booked, but there are still a few places left to read Homer’s Odyssey on the gorgeous Greek island of Agistri, and Virginia Woolf’s To the Lighthouse and Between the Acts in St Ives.

Some feedback from participants in previous travel studies gives an idea of what to expect:

The Odyssey on the island of Agistri, April/May 2022

“Discussing Homer whilst gazing out at the Aegean . . . heaven!”

“Rested? Not really, as there was simply so much to do, all of it interesting. Energised? Definitely . . . “

“Agistri and Rosy’s provided a wonderful setting which was both peaceful and invigorating. I so appreciated being surrounded by the beauty – bees buzzing in orange blossom – and being by, and in, the sea. This scenery that Homer would have known really enhanced the experience of studying the text.”

“The group was amazing and I loved your insights and questioning of the text. It was an amazing and enriching experience.”

“It was a wonderful trip . . . I think the landscape, especially around the islands, is so seductive that you can see how these wonderful texts were written.”

To the Lighthouse in St Ives, September/October 2022

“The collaboration between facilitators and participants was rich indeed and I wonder how it was accomplished that everyone in the group was so insightful and intelligent and I might even say soul-searching.”

“Wonderful . . . The studio where the discussion took place is a beautiful, extraordinary place, the participants were imbued with the light and landscape, creating a friendly and committed atmosphere. The two facilitators were wonderful – knowledgeable and sensitive, understanding in depth not just the book but the group as a whole.”


Meanwhile, if writing is your preferred route to escaping the February blues, your creative juices are stirring and you fancy some armchair travel, there is still time to register for Alison Cable’s ‘Writing for Wellbeing’ workshop Journeys beginning on 20 February.


Email us if you are tempted by any of our studies and would like to know more!


And, last but not least, although it’s not part of our own schedule, we’d like to mention Salonista Harriet Griffey’s Writers’ Retreat in Spain from 10-17 June. Harriet explains:

Writers’ retreat with Harriet Griffey at Las Chimeneas, Spain, 10-17 June 2023

Whether you are completely new to writing or are trying to begin, develop or complete a piece of work, this writers’ retreat facilitated by Harriet Griffey (ex-publisher and author of Write Every Day) offers creative space to do so, along with one-to-one feedback and optional group opportunities to share and discuss your writing progress.

Set in the peaceful village of Mairena in the beautiful Alpujarra region of Spain, prices including full board and airport transfer (excluding flights) for a week’s retreat range from €860-€1050. Further details and booking at:

www.writersretreats.org

What is Wide Open Reading?

Photo by Katie Doherty on Unsplash

As 2023 begins we are launching ‘Wide Open Reading’, a series of occasional studies that will be slightly different to those we have traditionally offered, embracing a broader and more diverse variety of writers and texts. Initially focusing on fiction and poetry, every study will comprise 2-4 weekly meetings in London led by facilitators who are continually exploring and developing their in-depth knowledge of these relatively new works.

Our goal is to feature writers ranging from the mid-twentieth century to the present day, traditional or experimental in style, voicing the experiences of people from an unlimited range of places, communities and perspectives. This may include South Asia, the Caribbean, Africa (north, south and central), the Middle East, people of colour, displaced peoples, indigenous peoples, post-colonial experience, exiles, migrants, LGBTQ+ and more . . .

We aim to be genuinely wide open and invite you to join us with a correspondingly wide open mind. Our first title is Mohsin Hamid’s 2007 novel The Reluctant Fundamentalist, with meetings starting in February.

The Mutilated World

The Wawel Cathedral, Krakow, Poland, © Toby Brothers, 2022

Andy and I have travelled to Krakow to meet our daughter, Madeline, who has been working outside of Lviv. She has been doing humanitarian aid work for a small local NGO that is providing food, power and medical supplies to the eastern part of Ukraine that has been destroyed — and then re-destroyed — by Russian missile strikes. I gather her fiercely in my arms, but no encompassing hug, no comforting words can erase the reality of war that she is living. And that reality, despite my over-active imagination, I cannot truly comprehend as I have only read about it. What she speaks about in her time with the Ukrainian guys she works with is their laughter, their teasing, their attempts to understand her feminism against their more traditional gender roles — how they meet the logistical challenges of moving truckloads of donated items across war-torn spaces.

We are reconnecting with her as we wander around the beautiful city of Krakow. I learn more specifically about the cycles of the portioning of Poland and the vast and violent re-drawings of empire that this land bears witness to. We enter the Wawel Cathedral and, amidst the relics of saints and royals, we find the Crypt of National Poets. And there on the wall is a poem, shared with me many years ago in the wake of the 9/11 attacks by my Athenian colleague Lisa Haney, and returned to when the horrors of history and the moment well up in me: Try to Praise the Mutilated World by Adam Zagajewski.

Try to praise the mutilated world

In reading that poem again — in marble, on the wall of this crypt, next to my weary daughter — I feel how the layers of unliveable history shape us. Zagajewski connects the daily acts of praise of living with the web of struggle and loss that we inherit.

You must praise the mutilated world

This is a call, a demand that in spite of the mutilation we should find beauty and coherence. The horror must be included in the blessing. I don’t know how. And I want to turn away. And I know we are all called to learn, to seek understanding where there is grief, to see the scars of the past on the earth.

Praise the mutilated world

I remember first reading this poem in the aftermath of 9/11 and thinking — briefly, self-indulgently — that I had an understanding of living in war. Such an American indulgence! My understanding has become more layered as I contingently watch what happens in Ukraine. As a citizen of London, I am learning all the time how the aftermath of war has shaped and shifted time and place, how it reframes our lives today. The poem reflects how deeply and desperately the mind holds the everyday miracle of living in equilibrium with injustice and violence. The poem connects me to past reckonings with history’s wrath — and gives me the breath of the light of living.

Solstice is a celebration of the necessity of the darkening days with the shift towards more light in our daily cycle. This poem meets that primal movement with the historical movement between times of peace and times of struggle. Zagajewski catches the experience of using our imagination as a way into other stories (the eternal role of the creative arts), other histories. Isn’t this in part why we wander through old buildings, tapestried halls? And it is not really the moments of triumph we seek, but a map of how to negotiate the exiles, the griefs — the blasts into the work of living. 

In The New Republic, the poet Robert Pinsky wrote in 1993 that Mr. Zagajewski’s poems, in a collection titled Canvas, were “about the presence of the past in ordinary life: history not as chronicle of the dead, or an anima to be illuminated by some doctrine, but as an immense, sometimes subtle force inhering in what people see and feel every day — and in the ways we see and feel.”

More on Zagajewski can be found in this New York Times obituary from March 2021.

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