By Vivian Gornick
Gornick on V. S. Naipaul, James Baldwin, George Gissing, Randall Jarrell, H. G. Wells, Loren Eiseley, Allen Ginsberg, Hayden Carruth, Saul Bellow, and Philip Roth and the intimate courting among emotional harm and nice literature.
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Sample text
Imagine (as I can all too readily), the joy of that cold passion with which she, having seen the feminist light, pronounces, no equality in love? I’ll do without! Children and motherhood? Unnecesssary! Social castigation? Nonsense! Between the ardor of Rhoda’s rhetoric and the dictates of flesh-and-blood reality lies a no-man’s-land of untested conviction. ” How chastening to experience the uncontrollable force of feeling that steadily undermines these defiant simplicities. As Rhoda moves inexorably toward the moment when she fails herself, she becomes a walking embodiment of the gap between theory and practice: the place in which so many of us have found ourselves, time and again.
Now, he was something like the doctor in Chekhov’s novella Ward Six, the one who couldn’t understand what it meant to be bodily confined until he himself was so confined. Had Jane suffered jealousy? Or any of the other women he’d made care for him, and then been flagrantly unfaithful to? Whenever one had complained or made a scene, he’d simply considered her an irrational hysteric. Now, however, he began to see that scientific socialism would not be as easy to achieve as he had originally thought.
Passion—yes, there must be passion at all events to begin with. [But] be a woman what else she may, let her have brains and the power of using them . . ” At the same time, an appetite for mastery exerts as strong, if not stronger, a pull on him. Side by side with the pleasure Rhoda’s intelligence gives him, his thoughts yet linger on how much “a contest between his will and hers would be an amusement decidedly to his taste . . It would delight him to enrage Rhoda and then to detain her by strength, to overcome her senses, to watch her long lashes droop over the eloquent eyes .