In 1817, in a letter to his brothers, the poet John Keats wrote
it struck me what quality went to form a Man of Achievement, especially in Literature, and which Shakespeare possessed so enormously—I mean Negative Capability, that is, when a man is capable of being in uncertainties, mysteries, doubts, without any irritable reaching after fact and reason—
When Michèle Roberts’ most recent novel is turned down by both her agent and her publisher she is devastated. Entering what she calls a fugue stage she tries to grasp at something that will help her to make sense of the position that she is in.
The only thing I could think of doing was to make a narrative. Write. I hung onto this idea as onto a rope thrown to me where I was drowning in the sea. I would put the split, split, scattered images of the previous day back into time. The hours of the day, arbitrary in my present diffused state but meaningful for making a helpful pattern, would form the backbone to the narrative, and I’d marshal events and feelings towards that.
With that resolution behind her she starts a journal, in the early stages of which she recalls Keats’ letter and decides that Negative Capability is, for her, a country in which I had to live all the time. This current book is comprised of extracts from that journal, one for each month of the year. As she moves from entry to entry so we follow the progress of Roberts’ coming to terms with the need to practically re-write her novel and the struggle that she has both to find an agent to represent her and to convince her publisher to give attention to the reshaped work. We also gain an insight into her daily life, both in London and in France, her friendships and the ever present influence of the troubled relationship she had with her mother.
When I read the reviews of this book it seemed to be exactly the sort of thing that I would find interesting, if not actually enjoy. However, I had a very mixed reaction to it. I think it would be fair to say that while Michèle Roberts and I appreciate many of the same things, psychologically we are very, very different people and there were times when I found myself very much lacking in sympathy with what can seem to be a plethora of self pity. If you work in academia you have to get used to the fact that you may put a great deal of effort, indeed a great deal of yourself, into creating a piece of work only then to have it rejected by either the funding body you’ve applied to or the journal to which you’ve offered it, and reshaping and reconsidering what you’ve written is a fact of life. Because of this, I have to say that I found the early chapters really quite difficult at times and so decided that what I would do is concentrate on those elements of the writer’s life with which I could identify.
Principal among these would obviously be her enjoyment of books and of her friends from the literary world. The journal entries are littered with references to well-known people with whom she has spent time and not in a namedropping way; she is simply recording, with pleasure, occasions shared with people she has known for a long time and whose company she enjoys. Linked with this is the relish with which she describes the lunches that she prepares for and eats with her acquaintances. I hadn’t realised until I read this just how much satisfaction I get from sharing a meal, particularly lunch, with my friends and how much I’m missing being able to do that in our current situation. Another pleasure we have in common is walking through cities.
I caught the 68 bus, got off at Holborn Tube, took a backstreet route north, twisting and turning and doubling back. I got lost once or twice, which pleased me, meaning I just had to trust my sense of direction and guide myself back on track. Most of the time in cities I don’t get lost, I have a clear sense of north and south.
Me too. In fact the only time I haven’t been certain of where north lay was at the top of Glastonbury Tor and I was so disorientated that I practically fell down the slope in my attempt to get away from what was, for me, such an unnatural and disconcerting, feeling.
Finally, there is her recognition of the importance of narrative and of pattern, both of which have been at the very core of my personal and professional life.
Making a narrative of this past year, I had proved to myself that I could live inside time, think one thought at a time, link them in strings. My mind might often whirl like a Catherine wheel, I might often feel and think everything all at once, but I could also make patterns, make order, put one sentence after another.
As an insight into the dilemma of one particular writer, and into the way of life that has fed her writing, this is an extremely interesting book. If I couldn’t always be as sympathetic as perhaps I ought, that doesn’t stop me recognising that many readers will find a lot to take from this work, especially those who, like myself, are of an age with Michèle Roberts and know of many of the people she writes about and remember many of the events that she recalls.
With thanks to Sandstone Press and NetGalley for a review copy.