gets the point of The Woman Who Named God — I am so happy to say. Here’s my favorite part of their review: “Most important, the story speaks to the 21st century and its marital ambivalence, dysfunctional family systems, pervasive divorce, as well as to 9/11, the so-called “Axis of Evil,” and West Bank unrest. The author’s vision is that the retelling of this ancient tale might awaken the world to redemption.”
were not as common in the 18th century as the roll call at asylums might suggest. It was dangerous to be a wife in 18th century England. Your husband could clap you into a mad house whenever he wanted. It was his Legal right. And you had no recourse unless he relented. If a woman wanted a divorce, Parliament (literally) had to approve her petition. I am thinking about this because when Mary Wollstonecraft’s younger sister Eliza suffered from post partum depression Eliza’s brute of a husband could easily have had her thrown into an institution. No one would have blinked an eye. Except Mary, of course. No wonder she swept in and whisked her sister away –clandestinely, of course. Today we would applaud her actions. I certainly do. We have entire institutions devoted to the prevention of domestic abuse, complete with safe houses etc. But back then, Mary had to figure it all out on her own. And she was afraid. Would Eliza’s husband find them? Would he be violent if he did?
I was driving home from Needham where I had just spoken to a smart and compassionate group at the Unitarian Universalist Meeting House in Needham (compassionate because they put up with my hoarse voice and my coughs and my need to chew gum and cough drops), when my car began to make a rumbling noise and then a roaring noise, or more precisely, a roaring kind of sound (This is how I described it to my mechanic on his voicemail). When it didn’t explode, I realized it was probably the muffler. Then I had a coughing fit, the kind where I couldn’t see and was worried that I was going to kill myself and others. I reminded myself that this was not the worst thing that has happened to me with this car and that although it felt like this was a new low in my travails, really it was only medium low. For example, there was the time when the car only blew cold air and it was minus seven degrees and my son and I were sick and I cried. Or, the time, the mechanic ordered me out of the car because it had no brakes and I had to rent a car in order to get to school in time to pick up my son. Besides, the muffler is probably my fault and so I feel guilty. I go racing over the speed bumps at Endicott and so this is probably retribution of some kind. The bright spot is remembering the terrific Needham group and the nice man who volunteered to go get my books from my car even though it was raining. I had left them there because I always feel stupid bringing them in for people to buy. Who has the money to buy hardbacks? I don’t. I am worried about finding the money for a new muffler. This nice man is also a Battlestar Galactica fan. And, he is writing about how the brain works. I would like to know how my brain works, so I hope he finishes his book soon.
says my new friend, Andy Pessin, whose new books The God Question and The Sixty Second Philosopher have just been published. He came and spoke to my class at Endicott and cited his three year old as evidence of our innate curiosity: “If you say good morning to my three year old, he asks why.” I liked that someone who writes fluently about the history of philosophy and the nature of god can also reflect on the nature of small children. I wonder about this in myself. Where the curiosity goes. Why I feel it sometimes and why I don’t. I ask this in my creative writing classes all the time. Why aren’t we curious about anything anymore? Are we all too anxious to wonder about the wind (where it comes from), g-d (what is this word, anyways?), death (what happens to us) etc.? That’s where all great writing comes from, I think. There’s some poster of Einstein that says something like, “It’s not how smart you are. It’s how curious you are.” I am sure I have that wrong. But I like my version.
is what I got to write about today. Mary Wollstonecraft was always falling in love with other girls. So, was she a lesbian? That’s what my students always want to know. Mary would not have known what they meant. She thought women should keep “a proper reserve” with one another at the same time that she wanted to set up housekeeping with her best friend. So, did she “have sex” with women? No. Were many of her primary relationships with women? Yes. Were they romantic? Yes, that is in the late 18th/19th century sense, when women danced together, held hands, cuddled, felt feverish passions for one another — and still married men who they also professed to love. There was no contradiction, as far as MW was concerned. There was room for passionate relationships of all kinds. I love writing about this stuff.
I am coughing as I write about the tubercular Fanny Blood, Mary Wollstonecraft’s “perfect” friend. It’s a strange kind of mimesis. I don’t like being sick, but I like picturing their first meeting. Fanny is eighteen. Mary is sixteen. Mary’s completely smitten by the older girl. “I could dwell forever on Fanny’s praises,” she writes. Fanny can play the piano! She can draw! She is pretty and delicate and so gentle with her younger brothers and sisters! Mary wants to run away with Fanny. It is love at first sight. Who cares if Fanny’s engaged. Mary’s certain that Fanny will see that life with Mary is far preferable to life with her lukewarm fiancee. Of course, that is not what happens. And Fanny will die as a result of the silly choice she makes. Alas.
After years of reading 18th century novels, it’s a pleasure to write about this time. So much easier than the biblical landscape. I have been steeped in this material most of my reading life. The female “romantic friendship.” Male suiters. Independent women finding a way to succeed in the midst of societal restrictions. All my favorite things.
was not a smart move for the independent eighteenth century woman. Here’s what the 18th century novelist Fanny Burney has to say about weddings: “How short a time does it take to put an eternal end to a Woman’s liberty!” Wives were not allowed to own their own property. They had no rights to their own earning, nor to their children. Husbands were allowed to torture, imprison, and abuse their wives. One of my favorite female characters in an eighteenth century novel says, “the marriage contract was, in short, nothing but giving up of liberty, estate, authority, and everything to the man, and the woman was indeed a mere woman ever after — that is to say, a slave.” No wonder Mary Wollstonecraft hated marriage. She grew up watching her father beat her mother. I am filled with righteous anger, just like Mary. What I hate the most is that marriage was (and still is) glorified as a moral act. And so Mary was (and is) viewed as immoral for warning women against marriage and endorsing “free love.”
was dark last night when I drove up to give my talk. The windows were dark. The front yard was dark. I didn’t know how to get to The Carriage House, where I was supposed to speak, so I walked down the quiet gravel front path to the house and cut across the yard. Without lights, without tourists, without a tour guide (interpreter), I got that chill that so many of us get when we are in places like this. This is how it was when they were here. This is what Abigail saw at night. These are her lilacs. That is her garden. I wanted to stay outside in the dark and quiet. But then I was glad to go inside and see the wonderful interpreters who had invited me to come talk about Mistress Bradstreet. This is one of my favorite places to talk about history. How it is important for those of us who write about history to acknowledge what we don’t know. How to be a good student of history, you must use your imagination, and then accept the limitations of what you can know. It is in those gaps where the past actually lies. To say all this and have an audience nod in agreement — what a pleasure.
when I found myself swerving into to the dunkin donuts parking lot to purchase something. ANYTHING. Three tidbits or whatever those little things are called. I was tired. It was late. I wanted the little ones I’d seen on the table at the talk I gave. They had halloween sprinkles crusted on them. At the time, I had refused them. Well, I’d had two of them and had refused to take more with me. What was I thinking? I wanted them now. I was nervous when I walked across the parking lot. Not that I would get mugged. I was worried that I was getting doughnuts. But doesn’t all of America stop at dunkin donuts and get themselves a snack? Why should I be any different? l was coming home from talking at the Adams homestead and it occurred to me that they never had to think about things like junk food. They were always riding or walking or weeding. And they ate things like apple cake, but only after smashing up the apples and hauling the water and the wood and pounding the grains. All I have to do is take out my wallet and worry. It was closed, though. which is probably good.
is the key to Larry Volk’s images of his mother’s experience in the Holocaust. He came and talked to my class today and showed us the images he has made that are based on his mother’s life. My students were interested in how the complexity of his work represents his mother’s fragmentation. I was interested in how the broken and interrupted pictures make us curious. He creates mysteries we want to solve. My first editor told me that that is what successful books need to do. Raise questions in the minds of readers, questions that they want to answer.
