My Christina Stead Book Report

1.

The Australian-born novelist Christina Stead is an author whose reputation perpetually hovers somewhere between apotheosis and oblivion. As a novelist, she was one of those unfortunates whom critics admire in the abstract but often find distasteful or harsh in reality. She never achieved a popular or even a real critical success; during her lifetime she complained, with justification, that each new novel was greeted with cries of disappointment by reviewers, who accused it of not measuring up to her earlier books—books that themselves had all too often met with indifference, incomprehension, or hostility.

In the American literary climate dominated for so many decades by the stylistic dogma of Hemingwayesque simplicity, Stead’s all-over-the-map excess was viewed with puzzlement if not active annoyance, and Stead herself, much as she desired at least a modicum of popular recognition and the financial rewards that accompany it, never even paid lip service to middle-highbrow tastes: “That brainless pamphlet of monosyllables!” she raged when her publishers suggested that she write more in the style of Steinbeck’s latest best seller. When she edited her work she might throw things away, but by throwing away she emphatically did not mean “what is called ‘paring to the bone.’” Her own style was distinctly unfashionable.

The Man Who Loved Children (1940)

It begins … ‘All the June Saturday afternoon Sam Pollit’s children were on the lookout for him as they skated round the dirt sidewalks and seamed old asphalt of R Street and Reservoir Road that bounded the deep-grassed acres of Tohoga House, their home. They were not usually allowed to run helter-skelter about the streets, but Sam was out late with the naturalists looking for lizards and salamanders round the Potomac bluffs, Henrietta, their mother, was in town, Bonnie, their youthful aunt and general servant, had her afternoon off, and they were being minded by Louisa, their half sister, eleven and a half years old, the eldest of their brood. Strict and anxious when their parents were at home, Louisa when left in sole command was benevolent, liking to hear their shouts from a distance while she lay on her belly, reading, at the top of the orchard, or ambled, woolgathering, about the house.

‘The sun dropped between reefs of cloud into the Virginia woods a rain frog rattled and the air grew damp. Mother coming home from the Wisconsin Avenue car, with parcels, was seen from various corners by the perspiring young ones, who rushed to meet her, chirring on their skates, and who convoyed her home, doing figures round her, weaving and blowing about her or holding to her skirt, and merry, in spite of her decorous irritations.’

2.

Keith Duncan, Professor of Politics at Adelaide University from 1950 to 1968, was a pioneering Australian social scientist. Despite starting out with high academic hopes, he would by now be forgotten had he not served as the basis for an unpleasant character in a novel by the writer Christina Stead. He had the misfortune to find himself portrayed by an immensely hostile and persuasive story teller. In 1925, he encountered the starry-eyed future novelist Christina Stead. Their ensuing toxic relationship looms large in the accounts of Stead’s life that have since been published, including the 1993 biography by Hazel Rowley. Stead was smitten with Duncan after she enrolled in one of his extramural classes in Sydney. In 1928, fancying herself in love, she followed him to London where her shy advances were met with coldness and disdain. The self-loathing which this produced was not easily forgotten. To exorcise the pain, Stead decided, when she settled down as a professional writer, to use Duncan as the model for a villainous character in one of her novels. In her 1944 tale For Love Alone he featured as a dyspeptic postgraduate student named Jonathan Crow. A ‘dim-witted, dim-faced, bobbing pedant’, Crow spurns the dreamy Stead-like Teresa Hawkins. Duncan’s callousness was now revealed for the entire reading public of the English-speaking world to contemplate. This was a writer’s revenge indeed.

For Love Alone (1944)

It begins … ‘In the part of the world Teresa came from, winter is in July, spring brides marry in September, and Christmas is consummated with roast beef, suckling pig, and brandy-laced plum pudding at 100 degrees in the shade, near the tall pine-tree loaded with gifts and tinsel as in the old country, and old carols have rung out all through the night.

‘This island continent lies in the water hemisphere. On the eastern coast, the neighbouring nation is Chile, though it is far, far east, Valparaiso being more than six thousand miles away in a straight line; her northern neighbours are those of the Timor Sea, the Yellow Sea; to the south is that cold, stormy sea full of earth-wide rollers, which stretches from there without land, south to the Pole.’

3.

Trailer: John Ford’s ‘They Were Expendable’

Trailer: Mervyn Leroy’s ‘Madame Curie’

In the late 1920s, Stead met the American broker Wilhelm Blech, who became her lifelong partner. They eventually married in 1952 when Blech was able to get a divorce. Blech was a Communist and Stead adopted his political views. In the early 1940s Stead worked in Hollywood as a screenwriter for Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer studios, contributing to Madame Curie, directed by Mervyn Le Roy, and They Were Expendable, directed by John Ford and starring John Wayne and Robert Montgomery. Many of Hollywood’s writers were Communists, and they formed a community of sorts. Of all these Hollywood Communists, with their luxurious houses and lavish parties, one of the most colorful was Ruth McKenney, famous as the author of My Sister Eileen. McKenney and her husband Richard Bransten were eventually expelled from the Party; the story of their apostasy and downfall fascinated and horrified Stead, and they became the subjects of I’m Dying Laughing, probably her best book along with The Man Who Loved Children. I’m Dying Laughing was not published in Stead’s lifetime. She became overwhelmed with the drafts and revisions, which she lugged around with her for years, apparently incapable of pulling the book into shape.

I’m Dying Laughing (1986)

It begins … ‘The last cable was off, the green lane between ship and dock widened. Emily kept calling and waving to the three below, Ben, a press photographer, her brother Amold and his wife Berry. Amold was twenty- three, two years younger than herself; Berry was twenty-four. Arnold was a dark fleshy man, sensual, self-confident, he fooled around, had never finished high school. From Seattle he came to New York after her and she had helped him out for a while. He now was working on a relief project for the WPA and earning about a hundred dollars a month. Berry was a teacher, soon to have a child. She was a big, fair girl, bolder than Amold. She had already had a child by Amold, when they were going together, had gone to Ireland to some relatives to have it. Arnold had never seen it, but Emily regularly gave them money for it. It was a boy four years old and named Leonard.’

4.

5.

Hazel Rowley, author of Stead’s autobiography, notes that “Stead’s fiction, angrier, more relentless than ever, did not appeal to 1950’s war-scarred sensibilities, which celebrated femininity, family and hearth. From now on, her fiction offered neither moral integrity nor hope. Instead, it confronted readers with poverty, corruption and self-deception—things they preferred to forget.” Her late books include A Little Tea, A Little Chat (New York, 1948; London, 1981), Cotter’s England (published in America under the title Dark Places of the Heart— New York, 1966; London, 1967), The People With the Dogs (New York, 1952; London, 1981), The Puzzleheaded Girl (New York, 1967; London, 1968), and Miss Herbert (New York, 1976; London, 1979). None of them was exactly snapped up by publishers; London publishers were even less confident in her marketability than New York ones, and she generally had to shop her manuscripts around for many years.

6.

By the time her husband Bill died in 1966, Stead had herself become an object she had despised in her novels — a lonely, unloved woman. Unattractive, even ugly, in youth, she had cultivated the persona—in which, perhaps, only she believed—of a man’s woman. “I adore men,” she said. “While there is a man left on earth, I’ll never be a feminist.” She always flirted boldly with the attractive men around her. As long as Bill was in the background she had felt secure, but with him gone it became all too evident that she was not sought after by the male sex. The lack of romance in her life prompted her move to Australia, but once there she unsurprisingly found it difficult to make a place for herself within the family she had so decidedly rejected a half-century earlier. Nor had she any really good friends in the country.

The Little Hotel (1973)

It begins … ‘If you knew what happens in the hotel every day! Not a day passes but something happens. Yesterday afternoon a woman rang me up from Geneva and told me her daughter-in-law died. The woman stayed here twice. We became very friendly; though I always felt there was something she was keeping to herself. I never knew whether she was divorced, widowed or separated. The first time, she talked about her son Gerard. Later, Gerard married. There was something; for she used to telephone from Geneva, crying and saying she had to talk to a friend. I was looking for a friend too. I am always looking for one; for I never had one since I lost my girlhood friend Edith, who married a German exile and after the peace went to live in East Berlin with him. But I can’t say I felt really friendly with this woman in Geneva; I didn’t know enough about her. My girl friend Edith and I never had any secrets from each other; We lived in neighbouring streets. We would telephone each other as soon as we got up in the morning. On Saturdays we rushed through our household jobs to see each other; we rang up all day long and wrote letters to each other when we were separated by the holidays. Oh, I was so happy in those days. When you grow up and marry, there is a shadow over everything; you can never really be happy again, it seems to me. Besides, with the servants to manage, the menus to type out, the marketing to do, the guests to control and keep in good humour, the accounts, I haven’t the time to spend half an hour on the telephone, as I used to. I used to dread this telephone call from Geneva. Still, if a person needs me I must talk to her, mustn’t I? You never know. People live year after year in a hotel hke this. We have their police papers, we know their sicknesses and family troubles; people come to confide in you. They tell you things they would not tell their own parents and friends, not even their lawyers and doctors.’

7.

Christina Stead became one of the greatest writer’s Australia has produced and one of the great writers of the twentieth century. Her books, especially The Man Who Loved Children (1940), have attracted admirers throughout the English-speaking world and have been translated into many other languages. Through her long life she cared nothing for publicity or reviews.

In her long life, she only agreed to one filmed interview. This is it. Over two days at the home of Mary Lord in Melbourne, Christina Stead spoke frankly about her life and times, her work, her travel through post war Europe and America and the cultural scene in Australia.

What emerges is a unique portrait of one of Australia’s literary giants. Whilst there are written pieces about her; seeing her as she speaks, adds immeasurably to our understanding of her personality and attitudes. Her emphasis, wryness and quiet humour are revealed and her steely intelligence is always on show. Her only request was that the film not be screened until after her death.

Watch it on kanopy

8.

Thanks to the efforts of writers like Patrick White, the leading Australian novelist, Stead was welcomed to the Australian literary community rather than resented as “un-Australian,” as had been the case in the past. But she was old, imperious, and difficult: “She had strong views, strong prejudices, some of which she maintained in the teeth of all evidence,” said one acquaintance, and her friends secretly totted up the number of times in an evening she would begin a statement with “My dear, you’re wrong.” White thought her the greatest writer Australia had produced, but her arrogance infuriated him; her family tolerated her, but she hardly went out of her way to be pleasant. She died in 1983, striking out at her long-suffering family even in death by asking that her sisters not attend her funeral. She had few mourners, and no one returned to the crematorium the next day to claim her ashes.

Stead was a judgmental writer. Indeed if there is any dominant motivation for her writing it is rage. But she understood and accepted the unpalatable truths of human relations. “I can’t get over how cruel human beings, not are, but must be, to each other—for ever and ever, I suppose. It is a real inferno we are born into.”

* The above texts were extracted from ‘A real inferno: the Life of Christina Stead’, by Brooke Allen, Australian Authors @ middlemiss.org, Christina Stead @ Books and Writers, and ‘A Steadfast Revenge: Dr. Duncan and Mr. Crow’, by Stephen Holt.

*

p.s. Hey. ** Thomas Moronic, Mr. T! Hey, buddy! It’s going somewhat okay here to put a positive spin on it. Aw, thanks for listening to my visit to the Island. And of course thank you ever so much for the kind words about ‘Flunker’. I’m highly honored, and I do remember our smokey conversation. How about that? Writing going (well) is the main thing, you got it. I’d love to talk. Zoom? Or, if you’re heading over here, face to face. I think we’re past the heatwaves phase, and Paris is once again resplendent. So cool to see your type! Lots of love to you! ** Misanthrope, I keep waiting for a Katherine Hepburn wobble to destroy my teenage vocal likeness, but not yet. As far as I know. The Craw: As you’ll see, there are good reasons why he is no longer in the pop culture firmament. ** David Ehrenstein, Quite a concert there yesterday! ** Poecilia, I still bump into Mr. Decloitre, and I will spread your warm greeting in his direction. Wow, that’s a beautiful piece of art too. I’m bowing — while sitting in a desk chair, mind you, which is not easy. Thank you, thank you! Keep gifting the world.  Everyone, another beautiful artwork by the ultra-gifted Poecilia is luckily right here.** _Black_Acrylic, Haha, I wondered if you might have a remark about that escort. Oh, no re: Leeds. Is football/soccer like baseball in the sense that teams can make player trades whenever they want? That does sound a bit needed? ** Jack Skelley, You with a tear-splattered face, awww. I read your Interview interview yesterday. She was very fresh with you, or compared to how she was with me, I think. Nice read! Everyone, Mr. Jack Skelley has been interviewed for Interview about ‘Myth Lab’, etc. by the estimable Whitney Mallett, and it’s a fun tete-a-tete and highly recommended. Hereabouts. Soon can’t be soon enough. Moi. ** jay, The commenters are kind of like the choruses in Greek plays. Uniqueness is always the goal, am I wrong? Maybe I am. Yes, yes, ‘The Return’, I’ll try to de-block myself. ** Diesel Clementine, What a serious pleasure to get to see your art! All beautiful. I especially loved the second one too for some reason. The talent around here is off the charts. How can the blog be so lucky? It’s almost weird. Everyone, Diesel Clementine has shared a few pieces of their art with us, and they’re a true discovery, so do partake. Oil on pavement-sourced-plywood (snapped in half), Oil on the other half (unfinished), and Oil on unprimed linen. Thank you, thank you! ** Lucas, Hi. I wonder if their handles are their go-to handles on every site. Might explain the odd. The lights at Xmas here are revered for good reasons, I have to say. I know, I’m shocked I haven’t seen ‘The Return’ too. Everyone I know is shocked. Their mouths hang open and stuff. I’ve heard of ‘Veep’. I assume it’s about a … well, veep. Your weekend probably doesn’t need good vibes input, but I’m willing them to your weekend just in case. ** nat, Your description of your thoughts make me realise how mechanical and based in practicality my thoughts are at the moment. I’ve never played a Final Fantasy game, always have wanted to. They’re not very Nintendo friendly, and that’s my only system. Yeah, I mean, learn drawing, why not? I bet you’re already learned. ** Måns BT, Måns! I know, I know, about my insanity. Being the organised person I am, I will have to carefully plan for the time it will take me to watch it, and that may take me a bit. But, yes, I will gain sanity. I’ve heard quite a bit about it from friends because all of my friends — except Zac who hasn’t even seen the first two seasons — use ‘The Return’ as a constant reference point. I do like Harmony Korine. The only film of his I don’t like is ‘The Beach Bum’, which seems like a huge mistake by him. And the only Larry Clark films I like more than just vaguely are the ones Korine wrote. Sweden used to be known as the big purveyor of arty porn in the US, at least when I was quite young. ‘I Am Curious (Yellow)’ caused a huge sensation in the States during my teens. For instance. Yes, a great pleasure to be in your proximity. Excellent Friday! ** Dev, Congrats on the successful interview. Cadaver dissection … like a real one? Like a human real one? How was that? How dead was it? I mean, was it recently dead or was it stored in a freezer for years, or … ? Wow. Oh, you must do Halloween haunted houses. Soon enough the blog will start badgering you with haunted house things to get you in the mood. I’m primarily vegetarian, but I go vegan for periods, sometime long periods, sometimes short ones. Resisting cheese is hard for me. What is your dietary preference/decision? Apologies if you’ve said so before. ** Justin D, Thanks! Yeah, the nose guy was a highlight. My Thursday and my Wednesday were weirdly almost identical. That’s not good. I’m seeing pals and doing stuff today, so today will differ at least. Solar panels: you’re a good citizen. Did your playlist drown out the racket or at least score it interestingly? ** Nicholas, I’m down with the cigarette bumming grindr knockoff. I don’t use apps on my phone, but I might in that case. Copyright that fucker. Hm, I think there are a lot of songs I think are perfect. But … let me think. I remember thinking ‘I Don’t Wanna Go Down to the Basement’ by The Ramones was a perfect song. I remember thinking ‘My Feet Keep Dancing’ by Chic was a perfect song. I remember thinking ‘The True Wheel’ by Eno was a perfect song. I remember thinking ‘Brand New Love’ by Sebadoh was a perfect song. I could go on, but there are four. And your perfect song is …? ** Harper, Very rarely I see someone I know on those sites who I only then discover is escorting, but I never co-opt those. That would seem unfriendly. I do know some Webcam people. They make some solid bucks. Not bad. Your theory on why people objectify themselves for others makes utter sense, of course. Brian Wilson is a god, and ‘Smile’ is a god. That recent documentary about The Beach Boys wasn’t much as a documentary, but it does have some interesting new stuff and unseen footage and so on. ** Bill, I didn’t know Harpers Ferry was in West Virginia until I made that post and got curious. Give me the good and bad or so-so word about ‘Cuckoo’. I’m not tempted at the moment. ** Thomas H, Hi. Yeah, not an uninteresting lot this month. Enjoy Seattle, obviously. And I hope it ponies up some gay stuff for you. And do let me know what in the world that Reeves/Miéville thing is, yes, thank you! Stay safe and excited and all of that good stuff. ** Darby🫠, Because Halloween is a/the societal treasure trove. I would imagine the Olympics only drew in more pigeons than normal since the ground was probably more littered with food than usual. The Fuzzy Needle is a superlative name for a bookstore. Yeah, sure, ‘Fear and Loathing’ is big fun. I heard that John Doe book is worth a gander. Hot springs … you mean like where you can sit in the spring and luxuriate and stuff like that? Sure. They usually serve very healthy food, so no problem. My favorite is this place called Therme Valle in Switzerland. But I heard they’ve now overbuilt it and fucked it up. Animals … I don’t remember. Just the usual, I think. Never been to Spokane. Noted! ** Oscar 🌀, Goofy was always my favorite precisely because he freaked me out. Ha ha. When I was a kid, my parents would sometimes invite famous people over for dinner, and one time their guest was a famous fashion designer of the time, and when my mom opened the door to let him in, she said, ‘Hi, Mr. De La Renta’, and he said, ‘Please, no need for such formalities’, so my mom rephrased her greeting. I think you would need a whole lot of money to get with Onlyrichpeople, but maybe he’s kidding himself. Oh, gosh, I think I’d be scared to poll the blog about the favorite book of mine. Seems like that would be just like asking for trouble. May your Friday wave like your freak flag. ** Right. As an exercise, I pretended I was in high school and wrote, or, rather, stole, a book report on Christina Stead, and I think I would probably have gotten a D or maybe a D+, but what the hell. See you tomorrow.