Why Men Great Til They Gotta Be Great

Lizzo got me with this lyric. It’s such witty and well-formed sentence, such a sharp observation of the bewilderment engendered by errant behavior, such an unimpeachable demonstration of how capturing verbal usage can empower grammar, such a good piece of writing. I’ve had it running through my head all week as I have been rereading In the Margins by Elena Ferrante in preparation for a seminar on the Neapolitan novels I’m teaching this semester. I’m there for Lizzo, I’m there for all essays on why I write, and lately I’m also there for transcriptions of lecture series, which this book is. Ferrante was invited to give three lectures at the University of Bologna as part of the Eco lecture series (established by Umberto Eco.) The talks were delayed by Covid but finally performed by an actress (available on YouTube) for reasons of the author’s pseudonymity. They are gathered in a small book along with a fourth essay about Dante and his creation of Beatrice. I want to talk about them over the next few newsletters.

The subtitle is “On the Pleasures of Reading and Writing,” I notice now. I also notice the design on the cover; a treatment in black, white and red, the colors of the notebook paper Ferrante used as a school child—that flimsy soft paper with black lines running horizontally and vertically over the whole page and red vertical lines establishing margins on the sides. There is a drawing of a tiny figure of a woman with russet hair and a black dress and black flats standing on the red line of the right margin. She’s seen from a distance, her back to the viewer, apparently facing a black swath of—what? The unknown? The words that exist beyond the margin? Two oval shaped white lozenges appear to be staring back at the woman. She is making contact, it seems, with a creature that either is in the darkness or that is the darkness. Its eyes are very spooky, and very familiar. It’s a nice depiction of what Ferrante is writing about—and what many writers feel—the tension between her good, orderly learned writing that ends as she was taught at school at the right margin on her paper, and the writing that exists beyond the margins, which might get at the truth, especially the truth of women’s lives as written by a woman. The further along she gets with her writing the more she wrestles with this tension, but along the way she finds inspiration, clues, and solace in the writing of other women. In the end she comes to a stirring conclusion, and a simple one; all writing by women is necessary to making way for a women’s writing.

“I now think that if literature written by women wants to have its own writing of the truth, the work of each of us is needed. For a long span of time we’ll have to give up the distinction between those who make only average books and those who create inevitable verbal universes. Against the bad language that historically doesn’t provide a welcome for our truth, we have to confuse, fuse our talents, not a line should be lost in the wind.”

She has gone into the wilderness on a quest and brought back an important message to the village: if we really want to get somewhere, all our efforts are needed. Everyone, every word matters. We need to understand that we are all part of one transmission. In a sense, there is one woman writer out there beyond the margins, in the dark, and we are all part of the work. We need Ferrante and we need Lizzo and we need Danielle Steele and Jane Austen, they are all writing a women’s writing that is seeking a women’s writing.

It strikes me that so many deep inquiries arrive at the same conclusions; we are all connected, and/or there is something out there. If great thinkers end up in these same simple places, what they arrive at must be either the truth or we are seeing demonstrated the limits of our thinking—where inquiries sputter out, leaving love and grandeur.

I must say Ferrante argues well, no surprise, and makes a case that persuades that at the very least this is how her writing developed, or this is the narrative she has developed to explain the stages she has passed through. As I said above, I love stories of “how I became a writer,” they are as compelling to me as stories of “how I became a saint.” (I’ll add here that part of my early morning reading right now is also a reread but from when I was a teenager, The Life of Teresa of Jesus. She is also an excellent writer, and tough-minded, and critical of herself. It’s a great start to the day and pairs well with Ferrante.)

I’ll describe each lecture in future weeks. I can’t help but think as I read the book about other writings that go beyond the margins and depend on a collective to create a full, rich language. This fall in my craft class when we discussed The Hero’s Journey and its limits for application to lives other than those of potential heros, (I have yet to read Spare by Prince Harry, but I’d be surprised if it doesn’t fit the formula) I suggested that students observe in their reading or create in advance of writing other versions of the journey, The Heroine’s Journey (it has been done but not enough yet) The Trans Journey (I’d love to see this formulated if anyone has come across such a diagram), for example. Even a Non-Journey Journey would be an infusion of energy into the albeit already decommissioned canon.

Speaking of Teresa of Jesus, I was inspired this week by by Trish Harrison Warren’s column called “This Year, Try Organizing Your Life Like a Monk.”

This Year Try Organizing Your Life Like A Monk

She suggests that rather than making goals and resolutions, to create a rule (such as Teresa did) that will guide you to shape the days to make the life you want to live. I am going to do as she suggests; the concept appeals to me. I have been working for a while on a rule for writing, my writing—everyone needs their own rule. It serves to remind me when I forget due to time away from my desk what works for me, so I can get back to it without angst. (At this point in my life I want zero angst.) Now I have my own personal craft book and it helps tons. It’s a living document, open to additions and changes, and feels like a supportive companion. Yes to a rule for life as well. It will be helpful now and in old age, when firm habits can bridge gaps in cognition. My model is my grandparents who always got up and dressed in their nice clothes and kept their house neat and ate at regular times until none of this was possible, but I think it was possible for longer because they lived by a rule. I’d love to know if you do this, or if you create one.

And here’s Lizzo, in a Gucci dress! Til soon.