July 7th, 2010
Many published novels consist of only a fraction of the words and scenes generated by the writer. The published version of The Book of Love emerged from roughly two hundred thousand words of drafts and redrafts to a svelte eighty three thousand. Many scenes and characters fell to the floor unused, usually because the plot moved in different directions or scenes were cut because they served no purpose or they were rewritten from another character’s point of view in order to better understand what was happening. The Book of Love had many different endings before I selected the one now in print. I’m going to share some of these unused scenes in an occasional series – From The Editing Crypt.
The following scenes show what could have happened if William had believed Robbie’s version of events and the book recovered from the farmhouse in Lucca was not a fake and Sebastian had never followed Lily to Italy. William, having nabbed the book at the farmhouse, returns to the police headquarters in Lucca where Robbie tells him Lily is returning to Sydney with him. William returns to Rome and gives the book to the Culture and Heritage division of the carabinieri - not to Weston’s - and believing Robbie, flies home to London. Lily also believes Robbie’s lies – that William was using her to get the book back - until Robbie lets slip that he’d spoken to William in Lucca and told him that Lily didn’t love him. Realising why William has gone she decides to fly to London and tell him the truth.
The passengers wore their closed up faces. Tapping keyboards, flicking pages, rummaging in bags, all waited for the boarding call. Lily hoped she was doing the right thing. The idea of going home to Sydney and never seeing William again appeared absurd now. It wasn’t the way this should end.
Only the unlucky died young, horoscopes preyed on the dreams of the powerless and you could pass a soul mate on a busy street and never know - sharing a current of air, maybe a curious glance, and then gone. Ahead of you a lifetime of compromise for which no fairytale prepared you. Fate was a con. There was only her and she had to act. If she were wrong about William then humiliation and hurt would be the worst she’d suffer. Those would pass in time.
Rome to London was not a long flight compared to flying anywhere from Australia, so the claustrophobic feeling of endlessly circling the globe in a pressurized cigar didn’t weigh too heavily. Besides Lily was preoccupied with thoughts of what she was about to do. After the folderol at Heathrow of customs and immigration, she headed to the nearest newsagent to buy a map of London and the Underground. People rushed past, but in no hurry herself she dawdled along following signs to the free bus service that would take her to the airport Holiday Inn.
In her bland hotel room she laid the map out on the bed and examined it. William appeared to live in a part of London she had never been to, Bermondsey, near London Bridge. A far cry from leafy Muswell Hill in North London, where she and Robbie had always stayed with Sebastian’s ex girlfriend. Lily juggled the map around, peering at it closely and making notes on a piece of paper - Heathrow to Acton Town, change to the District Line, change at Westminster for the Jubilee line, then off at Bermondsey. Down this road, then left into that road then right here, then slump on the bed and wonder what the hell she was doing.
He might be horrified to see her. He would be at his most polite and BBC- ish. ‘Lily, how nice to see you, yes, we must catch up.’ All the time backing away thinking, ‘How did that tart find me?’ He would turn and walk away. No, no, he would turn and look at Tawny Knickers who, insatiable for foreplay with a gun, had flown over from Rome to be his lover, and they would exchange horrified looks, a wisp of Fatal Attraction in the air. Lily would never boil a bunny, but they didn’t know that.
She sat up, tore the Underground map off the larger map, and folded it with her notes and put it in her handbag. Then, after a quick moment, stuffed the whole map in her bag. She laid out her dress and went to bed with the British Woman’s Weekly Best Ever Jam Recipes supplement.
‘William, come in.’
The mahogany paneling gave off a dull glow. Shelves of art books lined the room, and a small Francis Bacon hung on the wall. The smell of money and coffee lingered in the air. Thomas gestured for William to take a seat. ‘Good to have you back in one piece.’ He sat forward staring intently at William’s forehead. ‘Make sure you put in a claim for that. I’m sorry to hear things got so nasty.’
William shrugged, ‘These things happen.’
‘Quite.’ Thomas leaned back in his leather chair and looked at his watch. A young man with a flop of hair over one eye brought in a tray carrying two gold-rimmed cups and saucers brimming with coffee, a pot of sugar, and a small jug of cream.’
‘There are some issues with this ah … last retrieval.’
William said nothing as he stirred his coffee.
‘Do you know how much we were paid to get that book back? And you give it away? Of course the Italians are thrilled with our largesse, but it wasn’t your decision to make.’
‘No, it wasn’t. But-‘
‘If we run about retrieving artworks and giving them gratis to museums we will be out of business. No one will hire a company who gives away the assets they are hired to retrieve. You’re not fucking Robin Hood, you know.’
William smiled and sipped his coffee, replacing the fine porcelain cup in the saucer with a chink.
‘You want to be careful the client doesn’t slip a horses head into your bed,’ Thomas continued with a snort. ‘They’re furious upstairs, absolutely outraged. Weston’s comes out looking like a responsible corporate citizen, returning national treasure, yes, but where’s the money?’
He waited for a response from William then continued after a faint sigh.
‘Got one in Barcelona for you, same collection. A cache of statues. That’s if you want to go head to head with the lads from Sicily,’ he said. ‘No pun intended. And bring the wretched things home with you, don’t donate them to the Prado.’
‘No, thank you, Thomas. I’ve had enough. I’m resigning from today.’
Thomas blinked and said nothing for a moment as he studied William. ‘More money?’
‘No. Burnt out.’
‘Back to Collection Management? Because your name is shit at the moment, and I don’t think they’ll have you.’
‘No.’ William shook his head. ‘Out all together.’
‘Can we talk about it? Have a drink with me later and …no?’
‘I have some business in Australia, urgent business. So if we can get the paperwork out of the way…’
Lily found her way to the street that held his apartment. Fear prickled her insides. It was tempting to turn around and go back. She found the right house number and looked up. It was not a house but the upstairs flat of an Art Deco building from the nineteen thirties. No doubt the interior was all polished wood and stainless steel with empty spaces, lots of sleek, camouflaged technology and one image on the wall - a black and white Mapplethorpe photo of the back of someone’s head, perhaps. The bed would be half a white cube and a television screen would be mounted on the ceiling above. All would be cool and contained.
It was early, around eight am, and she knocked on the door. She saw the buzzer for his flat and pressed it. No answer. Swallowing with difficulty, she tried again. Still no answer. Maybe he was asleep? Her shoulders tensed. He had to be there. If he’d never left Italy she was wasting time, money and valuable heart space.
Her fall back plan was to try Weston’s in Little Bond Street. Searching London in a summer dress with nothing but a thin beaded cardigan and kitten heeled sandals smacked of poor judgment. An English spring was not like the Italian spring. Her teeth chattered and a little voice whispered, ‘Give up, think of warm and cosy Heathrow, a standby air ticket back to Australia, cosseting by the cabin crew, hot towels, free gin and tonic, warm blankets.’
There was no answer, no matter how many times she buzzed. He wasn’t there. She took the piece of paper with the Weston’s address out of her bag, and her Underground map and studied them. If she got on at Bermondsey she could get off at Bond Street without needing to change lines, and a short stroll should take her to Weston’s. Maybe he’d gone to work, but as far as she knew he was on contract and it very unlikely he’d have an office there. However they could get a message to him. She’d come all this way; she had to give it her best shot.
The offices of Weston’s were as expected, the Fiona’s were all around her, only not plump with pearls, but sleek in tight suits with their sexy heels sinking into lush carpet, their haughty faces reflected in the polished mahogany. The girl at reception stared at Lily’s beaded cardigan and sandals. What could a raggedy boho want with Weston’s? Must be one of the cleaning staff. Lily blinked and raised her chin. In the coldest voice she could muster she said, ‘Lily Trevennen, I’m here to see William Isyanov.’
The girl raised a perfectly plucked eyebrow. ‘I’ll check if he’s in.’ She tapped a few buttons and spoke into her headset while Lily drifted across the foyer to look closely at a painting. She didn’t like the painting, but wanted to appear unconcerned.
The girl glanced over at her trying to disguise a giggle into her headset. She was probably saying, ‘One of Will’s indiscretions has turned up,’ or ‘You should see what she’s wearing …’
‘I’m sorry, Miss, er…’
Lily didn’t answer.
‘Mr Isyanov is away at present. Would you care to leave a message, or can we help…in any other way?’ She said this as if it were highly unlikely.
‘No. Thank you.’ Lily hesitated, then asked, ‘Is your name Prudence or Fiona?’
‘I beg your pardon?’
Lily turned back to the front door. ’Never mind.’ No way would she leave a letter for William with that girl. She’d probably take it to the staff room and have a good titter with the office staff at lunchtime.
Unable to lie there any longer, William turned the music off, left the flat and walked up the road in the cold morning air. At the newsstand he scanned the headlines and realised he couldn’t give a toss about the rest of the world. Sitting in his flat, alone with his thoughts held no appeal, so he kept walking up to the Thames. He would go and book an airline ticket to Sydney today. No point in waiting until he felt better, he could be dizzy and nauseous on a plane, just as he could at home. And he wouldn’t come back without her. At the Thames embankment he turned around and started back.
She buzzed his door again, and again there was no answer. With the letter in her hand she walked across the road and looked up at the window of his flat one more time. Then she saw him, tall and lean and lovely, his face still battered, but the black eye had gone down and he appeared able to see. He’d turned the corner and was looking down at the pavement; hands in the pockets of a black woollen jacket. And Tawny Knickers was not with him.
Lily wanted to run across the quiet street and hurl herself at him, and despite her fear and uncertainty, she smiled with the sheer pleasure of seeing him. He looked up, saw her smiling at him and stopped, a look of shock on his face. Lily crossed over and walked right up to him, still smiling.
William had taken his hands out of his pockets and simply stared at her, almost with disbelief, then ran his hand through his hair and looked at the sky, then back at her. ‘You look very cold. Would you like a cup of tea?’
So formal, so very English. A disconcerting start, but he needed time to gather his thoughts. He held his feelings in so tightly she wasn’t sure what would happen, so she nodded; get the cup of tea out of the way. She followed him into the old house and up the stairs to his flat. Neither of them spoke as he opened the door. The flat appeared to be one large space with tall ceilings, polished floorboards, Persian rugs and books on every wall. A large desk, covered in paper stood in one corner, and behind an ornate Chinoiserie screen in the other, she could see a double bed. There was a small kitchenette and two lounge chairs by a gas fire. Surrounding the gas heater was an original Art Deco fireplace, and on the mantle piece a selection of Art Deco Gouda vases, a riot of colour and pattern.
Her eyes lit up when she saw the vases. ‘It’s just what I imagined when I first met you, only without the red velvet drapes and painter’s easel.’
He stood by the closed door watching her. She could see the pulse racing in his neck.
‘William,’ she chided, ‘there’s not a scrap of Bauhaus austerity in this room.’
‘Lily-‘
‘I’m sorry, I blather on,’ she said, looking back at the fireplace
‘Francesca gave you the address, didn’t she?’
‘Yes,’ Lily said, ‘You’re not cross, are you?’
‘It depends why you are here.’
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March 9th, 2010
“William grabbed the bottle from her hands, put it on the ground where it rolled away, gin splashing out onto the asphalt. He pushed her back up, saying nothing, got back in the drivers seat, pulled out onto the autostrada, gunning the engine, his knuckles clenched white on the steering wheel. The headlights switched on automatically as they raced north, Lily lapsed into a stupor, eyes shut, breathing out pure alcohol. William’s eyes were wide open. They passed the exit to Florence turned west and sped past Pistoia and on to Montecatini, where he turned off the autostrada and onto a back road.”
The Book of Love, Hachette Australia, April 2010
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February 11th, 2010
Strumpet and Pink, Garden of Earthly Delights panties
Photo by Chantal Thomas
Photo by Javier Vallhonrat for Vogue UK
Photo by Chantal Thomas
Photo by Chantal Thomas
Photo by Javier Vallhonrat
Strumpet and Pink, swan's tale panties
Photo by Dirk Messner
Photo by Polly Wreford
Photo by Giorgio Z Gatti
all images via Frou Frou Fashionista, luxury lingerie blog (see links page)
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Tags: book of love, imagination, Lily, lingerie, William | 1 Comment
October 7th, 2009
All images from Dorothea’s Closet Vintage Archives (see links page)
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September 7th, 2009
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My heroine has to attend a black tie event in Naples, but she has nothing to wear, so I took her shopping and we had the best time. All of these shoes have been drooled over, but the orange sandals with the satin ribbon are the final choice, only in green.
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July 27th, 2009
Herb Ritts
Robert Mapplethorpe
Robert Mapplethorpe
Robert Mapplethorpe
Robert Mapplethorpe
Robert Mapplethorpe
Mark Shaw
Robert Mapplethorpe
Herb Ritts
Robert Mapplethorpe
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July 5th, 2009
VA Serov, Girl with Peaches
I am stewing rhubarb tonight. I always associate rhubarb with darned brown jumpers and Formica tables. I was canny enough to avoid eating it as a child, but as an adult I am rather curious. What was it I was avoiding? Is it really the old knitted sweater of fruit? I lift the lid of the pot and sniff. It has a sort of earthy, hessian smell. I think of boiled rhubarb in a wooden dacha somewhere east of Moscow.
But it’s not too bad - a stringy slush to be served with custard, or porridge. But most of the pleasure was in the making and dreaming. The process of preparing a dish of stewed fruit, of making an art print or a page of writing is often more fulfilling than possessing the finished product. If you pay attention to moments in the process, sometimes a communion of sorts occurs, one that can transport the maker away in space and time.
Lawrence Durrell wrote the phrase, ‘As old as the taste of cold water.’ It has lived in my mind for many years because it suggests this communion, and I often remember it when I cook. Capturing the ‘tastes’ of long ago has always intrigued me, but you can’t really recreate the tastes of the past. We have no way of knowing what they were, and invariably when you try an old recipe, it tastes just as you expect and no revelation is forthcoming. It’s the process of making that is more likely to get me closer to what I seek.
Traditional processes are fading from the modern world. A devout and committed minority struggle to keep them alive in various enclaves on the planet. But many of the old ways are doomed. An example of this is the process of producing art prints using acid etching. The fumes, as the acid bites into the zinc or copper, will kill you - sooner rather than later. So artists have turned to solar plate etching. Solar plate etching, to my mind, has a less crisp line, but more importantly one loses the centuries old processes of the acid etch. Processes using copper, beeswax, organza, swansdown, powdered pine resin and other materials full of poetic resonance. However, a clutch of prematurely dead artists is too high a price to pay for those crisp lines.
I used to make a Seville Orange and Brandy marmalade when I had access to an orange tree. I made buckets of the stuff every winter, but I never ate it because I’m not keen on marmalade. For me making it was a potent symbolic act linking me to the earth, and the tree and all jam makers who have come before me. I loved to think of centuries of people doing as I was doing - watching the jam change colour, the way the orange peel becomes translucent, the luxurious, syrupy bubbles, and enjoying the perfume of the cooked orange rind filling the house.
Cezanne, Apples
Lily, the heroine in The Book of Love, is a jam maker. She makes jam to feed her imagination more, I suspect, than to feed people. Below is an extract from the book…
“She buttered the toast, spooned some marmalade on to it and passed it to him, watching closely as he put it in his mouth.
‘Well?’
‘It’s good, very good. Bitter and chunky.’
‘I knew you’d like it,’ she said smacking the table. ‘Try this one.’ She scampered into the kitchen and returned clutching five jars in a variety of shapes and colours.
‘It’s from a nineteenth century French cookbook. Plum and Brandy, heavenly when you use it to stick chocolate cakes together.’
He buttered another piece of toast, and Lily rushed back to the kitchen and threw more toast into the toaster. He spooned the plum jam onto the toast and ate it, nodding to her.
Her eyes blazed. A fellow jam enthusiast. ‘And now, you must have this Pear and Vanilla conserve.’
He ate that as well and she put more toast in the toaster, and three more jars on the table. ‘Here, you can’t leave until you have had this Lime and Lavender Marmalade, and this, truly lip-puckeringly amazing - Cranberry and Gin.’
‘You make all these yourself?’ he said, smelling the contents of the jars.
‘Let’s have another coffee,’ she said, fiddling with the machine again. ‘I like to try old recipes from some of the books that pass my way and I make up my own. Believe me, I’ve had some disasters. I found a recipe called Cranana, mashed banana and cranberry, it was awful, but sometimes you simply have to go for it. And then there was the great Calves Head Jelly incident last year.’ She sat down with her coffee, ‘like a horror movie, only-‘
‘Lily, can I ask some more questions about the book.’
‘Yes, it’s French, not from Provence, more a northern-‘
‘No,’ he said gently. ‘The Cesar Fanin book.’
She looked a little disappointed. ‘Oh, that. Sure, go for it.’
Apple tree
A nineteenth century jam and preserves book. How I would love one of those, if only for the pleasure of reading the names of the jellies and jams and the fruits that went into them. The names of apple varieties from the nineteenth century and earlier are like miniature haiku - Buckinghamshire Sheep’s Nose, Knotted Kernel, Summer Pearmain, Belle Agathe, Rambour Franc, Black Gilliflower and many more.
Apple and Geranium Jelly.
You need twelve leaves from a rose geranium. This plant, originally from Egypt, also goes by the name of Rose of Bengal, Lady Plymouth or Cinnamon Rose. If you can, choose your apples from the Black Gilliflower variety. You will need two kilo’s of them. But if the Black Gilliflower proves too elusive, try simple, firm cooking apples and pretend.
Peel and chop the apples and place in a saucepan with 12 leaves from the Rose of Bengal. Add four cups of water and simmer until the apple is soft. Discard the spent leaves.
Place the apple pulp into a jelly bag, or muslin, and allow the juice to drip into a bowl overnight. This part is the tricky bit. I built a precarious structure on the kitchen table of chairs stacked high to give me a place to tie my sodden apple filled muslin, but perhaps a less extravagant arrangement will suit you. Do not be tempted to hasten this process by squeezing the bag – your jelly will be cloudy. This I know.
Next morning, take a cup of sugar for every cup of juice and place in a pan. Add the juice of a lemon. Perhaps a Berna lemon of Spanish origin, Place over heat and stir until the sugar dissolves. Boil rapidly until setting point is reached, then spoon into heated sterilized jars and seal.
And while you stir, breathe in scents redolent of botanic gathering expeditions in Africa, and ponder the triumph the early settlers of America must have felt when they created the Black Gilliflower from the seeds of apples left behind in the quiet orchards of England.
The Book of Love by Phillipa Fioretti will be published by Hachette Australia in April 2010
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June 1st, 2009
Poster for Cocteau's film
Why the gloomy posts on the death of Eurydice and Orpheus’ doomed quest to bring her back from the underworld?
Well, it’s a myth that has always fascinated me for its exploration of human frailty, our inevitable poor judgement at times. And like most of the Classic myths it has inspired a plethora of creative work. Tennessee Williams and Orpheus Descending, Jean Cocteau and his trilogy of Orphic films, Seamus Heaney and his poem Midnight Verdict, Sarah Ruhl and her play Eurydice, the operas La Boheme, Orpheus and Eurydice, Baz Lurhman and his film Moulin Rouge.
Yes, but don’t you write romantic comedy, my reader asks. The fate of Eurydice and Orpheus is not funny, it has to be said, but myths often provide the template or structure for a story and writers are always poking around looking for motifs or metaphors. And so I have settled on this old favourite of mine, but with the twist being my male protagonist takes the role of Eurydice, and my female has the Orphic quest ahead of her.
As with all myths we can assign our own meaning and our own personal mythology. I was moved when reading last week of one of my favourite Australian sculptors, Ken Unsworth, and his installation, ‘A Ringing Glass (Rilke)’ on Cockatoo Island in Sydney Harbour, which he has turned into a tribute to his dead wife. Unsworths installation, ‘The Forest of Wistful Thoughts,’ has stayed with me for twenty years, and I am eager to take the boat to Cockatoo Island as soon as I can.
Ken Unsworth
His wife Elizabeth was a musician and Unsworth’s muse for fifty-three years. As Unsworth has personalised the myth with homage to his creative and intimate relationship with his lost Elizabeth, I am using the themes of loss, descent into the underworld and redemption as the basis for a romantic and humorous story. Perverse, maybe, but without perversity there is often no challenge and without a challenge there is no writing.
Even though the myth ends in the deaths of both Orpheus and Eurydice, as I pick over the myth for my own purposes, I know the deaths can be whatever I want them to be - symbolic or metaphorical. Because the myth also explores, according to Baz Lurhman, ‘Idealism and adulthood, and the recognition that life throws up things beyond our control: the death of loved ones, relationships that don’t last…according to the Orphean myth, this will either destroy you or you will go into the underworld, face it and return having grown from the experience.’
Orpheus showed his human frailty through his momentary lack of faith. This loss of discipline and his second guessing caused him to turn back, thus losing Eurydice forever. This loss of faith is a large stone that many couples stumble and fall over. When you lose trust and belief in the other, if only for a moment, then usually your judgement fails as a consequence. We act in ways we regret, seek solace elsewhere or do something that inevitably in hindsight we wish we had never done. Redemption and renewal rarely come and a lifetime of regret awaits us. Orpheus sought solace in his music but eventually died, torn apart by furious Maenads, as many of us end old and alone with our memories to tear us apart instead.
This test of faith in one another is the obstacle without which a good romantic story dwindles into a tedious recitation of who, how and where, ending up in front of the telly with a cup of tea and a digestive biscuit. Where would Romeo and Juliet be without that wretched balcony? Scarlett and Rhett without their pride and stubborness, Mr Bingley and Jane with their chronic niceness. And will my lovers redeem themselves and mend their love? I don’t know, because I’m only halfway through writing the manuscript.
Here’s an extract….
A small ancient Roman relief of a woman struck Lily as being similar to the woman on Steven’s frieze. She stared at it, unmoving, until William wandered over to her, and putting his hand on her waist said, ‘That’s Orpheus and Eurydice.’
‘It’s like Steven’s frieze.’
He could see where her mind was traveling and kissed her neck. ‘Yes, Hermes is taking Eurydice back to the underworld, back to the darkness. And he takes the woman on Stevens frieze to the boatman who will row her to-‘
‘I know the rest,’ she said, giving a shiver.
‘Do you know the story of Orpheus?’
She shook her head.
‘On his wedding day to Eurydice she was bitten by a snake and died. Orpheus descended to the underworld to beg Hades to return her. He played and sang so sweetly Hades agreed, on one condition that as he led Eurydice from the shadows he was not to look back at her. But he couldn’t resist and she returned to the ghost world.’
Lily blinked. ‘All these myths are sad,’ she said, wiping a tear away.
He laughed. ‘You are a soft touch, crying at an old sculpture. Or maybe you’re hungry.’ He looked around for the exit. ‘Lets have some lunch.’
They left the Academy and as they emerged into the daylight and the bustle of Piccadilly Circus, Lily said, ‘Well, it is a sad story.’
‘It gets worse,’ he said, taking her arm as they crossed the busy road. ‘There’s an Italian place over here you’ll like. It’s a bit late but I’m sure we can get something.’
‘How does it get worse?’
‘Poor old Orpheus, lost his true love twice, and the second time it was his stuff up that did it. Now that would be hard to live with.’
They entered the restaurant and were seated within a minute. Lily left the food to William and wiped away the tears that wouldn’t stop.
‘Why are you crying, Lilushka?’ he said, taking her hand.
‘But what about Eurydice? It must have been hard for her too? Life as a ghost on her own.’
He sighed. ‘Well Orpheus gets torn to pieces by Maenads.’
‘What’s a Maenad?’
‘They were the female worshipers of Dionysus, insane women who couldn’t be reasoned with. They tore him apart in a frenzied orgy of sex and violence.’ He held her hand and played with the pearl ring on her finger. ‘You remind me of a Maenad when you’re hungry, about to tear me to pieces.’
She snatched her hand away. ‘I am not a Maenad.’
A bottle of water and some fresh rolls were brought to the table. Lily glared at William over the white linen table.
‘No, you’re not a Maenad. Have some bread.’
She picked up the roll and bit into it, chewing and staring at the tablecloth. ‘Dionysus was the’-‘
‘Can we move on to another topic?’ he said.
‘Wasn’t he the Greek version of Bacchus, the plump one with the grape vines?’
‘Bacchus is the Roman copy of Dionysus. Dionysus is much wilder, more deadly, abandoned and ecstatic. ‘
The waiter served two bowls of spinach risotto.
Lily asked, ‘What shall we do after this?’
Taking a deep breath he replied, ‘I think a good lie down is in order, don’t you?’
She laughed and sipped her water, ‘A Dionysian romp?’
He watched her for a moment as she ate. His chest filling with an ache for her, as if she had already gone back to Sydney.”
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May 16th, 2009
Egon Scheile
Romantic Comedy.
Those words go together like flowers and chocolate, breakfast and Tiffany’s, vodka and razor blades, pillows and tears. But where is the comedy in romance? Is it like happiness, only discovered when looking into ones’ past or is it anticipated in the future? How many people would look back on their romances and remember the comedic nature rather than the pain of such episodes?
It’s only long afterwards, (and in some cases, never), that one can see the humour in it all. Occasionally one can see folly and wasted emotion while in the grip of it, but never humour. To have a laugh often requires people to share your situation, to be in the trenches with you. But mostly you are in that foxhole alone because the one doing the sniper firing is usually your loved one. This could be funny, depending on the nature of the bullets. But usually it’s not.
The writer of romantic comedy attempts to make the most painful scenes of loss, confusion and disappointment appear funny. Writing about the reality of romantic turmoil is one for the literary guys out the back with their overflowing ashtrays and quest for truth.
The truth that love does not triumph, people lose what they had, or wanted or needed. The truth that in the real world, love is quite often not enough, or it dies quietly while no one is looking or dwindles into deadening habit. How can we make that funny?
‘He went up into the bedroom and saw her dress hanging up at the foot of the bed. Then, leaning against the secretaire, he remained there till it was dark, lost in sorrowful meditation. After all, she had loved him.’ *
Where is the humour in this passage? It’s almost too painful to read.
And this,
‘Yes,’ he said dreamily, ‘an extraordinary woman. It’s not her cleverness, but she has such wonderful depth of feeling. I’m awfully sorry for her.’ **
Or this,
‘Lily lay on the unmade bed staring at nothing, empty of feeling. Robbie was selfish, Robbie put himself first, he’d betrayed her with other women, but never this. He’d always tried to clean up his own messes, tried to keep it from her, wept with remorse when she wept.’ ***
One of these quotes is from a romantic comedy. But there is nothing funny about any of them.
According to Wikipedia, ‘Clerical critics (in the middle ages) often deemed romances to be harmful worldly distractions from more substantive or moral works.’ Well, they would say that wouldn’t they? In the modern world we crave distraction, diversion, amusement,anything that provides an easy escape from the days concerns. Think of the insubstantial nature of free-to-air television, and think of the rows of best selling books in bookshops. All of them worldly distractions from the daily plod.
Few, these days, read for self-improvement or seek out books to provide moral instruction. We can get that from The Simpsons. And while Australia may have very high book sales per capita we are not talking about Thomas Aquinas or Noam Chomsky. Reg Hunt’s Fishing Guide perhaps or The Complete Dummies Guide to Doing Your BAS. Or romantic comedy, women’s fiction, cookbooks and the occasional thriller.
Google the word ‘romance’ and a range of items come up, ranging from ‘Sexy Ukrainian Girls’, to Hollywood stars’ tips for keeping romance alive, (eat together at expensive restaurants), to the truly sad advertisement for ‘pre-written love letters.’ On delving further into this article I found tips on writing ‘adoring’ love letters. The author of this article cautions the novice letter writer with this sage advice…
’Much safer to write a passionate love letter if you are engaged or married.’
This, one could assume, means it is safer to write such things if you are married but leaves open the question of whom you send the letter to. Is the author perhaps suggesting that passion needs the obstacle of your loved one’s prior commitment to another?
The concept of romance has changed over the centuries. The idea of falling in love, as we know it in the twenty first century, would be considered outlandish for most of the people who have lived on this planet. The medieval notion of courtly love is the true ancestor of today’s notions of romance, (a quick trot through Victorian times endowed it with cloying sentimentality). Courtly love is described as being ‘a love at once illicit and morally elevating, passionate and disciplined, humiliating and exalting, human and transcendent.’ (1). This is not the sort of love one finds in today’s romantic comedies where the couple are shagging like minks on the first page. Courtly love was to love from afar, to have desire but never have it fulfilled.
To promise faithfulness in adversity was the epitome of romantic sentiment and needed not an expensive restaurant in LA but only a handkerchief, a sigh, a glance and then one got on with the business of marrying for position, fortune and family.
The modern person expects romantic attachment as a prelude to marriage. Erroneous thinking really, as marriage is, the French courtiers knew, about status, fortune and family. Romantic involvement is not the best indicator of a future successful marriage. However, this is our culture and this is how we do it. And there is much money to be made out of such cultural constructs. The desire is created; romance is yearned for, the pain follows and is concluded in a frenzy of retail therapy. And thus there is little profit in commitment. The writer of romantic comedy is well and truly implicated in this cycle, creating expectations and desire. But it is not the desire of courtly love. We would not tolerate perpetual desire with no consummation and all energies diverted to higher pursuits. The remnant institutions of medieval times -– convents and monasteries are almost spent, instant gratification and self-entitlement have taken over and we are all ‘entitled’ to romance. Just as, according to an advertisement I saw in a department store - ‘All Australians are entitled to look good.’
The romantic comedy writer also has a kinder imperative, kinder than kindling unfulfilled yearnings. The writer and the reader run away together, hand in hand escaping the real, the pain and the disappointment. Together they experience what some are too scared of to try, or to hurt to try again, or have never experienced at all. The writer makes it safe and puts a pretty cover on it, manages the reader’s emotions for them, highlight’s the absurdity of it all, and allows the reader to drift away into sleep undisturbed by pain or fevered imaginings.
It’s show business, colluding with the entertainment conglomerates, weaving a shimmering cloth to throw over the inevitable pain and failure of the romantic episode. In the end, however, the writer brings into being a place where they can be alone with their characters, a place where they can construct a better reality than this one, a place they are content to be in, whether a reader comes with them or not.
*Madame Bovary, Gustave Flaubert
** Anne Karenina, Leo Tolstoy
***The Book of Love, Phillipa Fioretti
(it is with extreme humility that I list a quote from my own book next to such giants)
1.Francis X. Newman, ed. (1968). The Meaning of Courtly Love, vii.
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Categories: The Book of Love, on writing |
Tags: Lily, love, reading, writing | 6 Comments
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