1.
Kate Jones examines the writing routine of Shirley Jackson.

This writer of inimitably creepy fiction looked after four children, and ran a home... She used domestic chore time to think up her stories. She grabbed moments to write them down. As Jones says: "Finding tiny slivers of our day or week in which to put down words eventually makes the writing happen." It's all about choices.

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2.
A French village tells US Defence Secretary Hegseth he's not welcome.

Marghanita Laski's Little Boy Lost made me think about the effects of the Normandy landings on locals.

So I was interested to find, as the 82nd anniversary of the D-Day push rolled round, that the residents' association of the village of Langrune-sur-Mer, where an afternoon ceremony was due to be held, had suggested that Hegseth didn't come.

"'We found it unbelievable that they could send someone who held views and values contrary to democracy, human rights, peace and Europe,' said resident Chantal Richard. To her, the incongruence felt deeply personal. 'We grew up going to D-day ceremonies, some of us had grandparents or parents whose lives were affected by this war.'"

Association members drew up a short statement, which gained additional traction "after Hegseth sparked global condemnation for using his D-day speech to condemn immigration". Among the responses they received was one from a US veteran, who wrote: "I’m going to find a bottle of French wine and I’m going to toast to you because you’re defending the values we fought for."


Normandy, 1990

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3.
In the wake of Dream Story by Arthur Schnitzler, and 1913 by Florian Illies, a bit of a primer on Sigmund Freud and his dream interpretation came in handy.

"Though it is a treatise on dreams," says Nick Haslam, "Freud’s book introduced a new way of thinking about the mind that reverberated through the 20th century. Although the impact of psychoanalysis has dwindled in the Anglosphere, its ideas continue to shape how we understand mental health, therapy and human nature itself...

"Freud maintained that dreams can only be understood by exploring the dreamer’s personal associations to their content... [He] contended that a wish can always be found at the dream’s core or 'navel', and that the dream represents a fulfilment of that wish."

The "manifest content" of the dream (what the dreamer experiences) must be distinguished from the "latent content" (the dreamer's hidden wish). Within the mind are two distinct systems: One that urges the fulfillment of the wish, and the other that resists it. That's certainly what Dream Story illustrated.

For Freud, interpreting dreams is like solving a puzzle, and Haslam warns that "the sceptical reader will worry that someone of Freud’s verbal and intellectual dexterity could find meaning where none exists". But Freud's view was that dreams demonstrate the reality of the unconscious, and encourage us not to focus unduly on what's in the conscious realm.

Research on dreams and dreaming has moved on, and "the neuroscience of sleep does not support the view that most dreams are disguised wish fulfilments". Nevertheless, "no one now argues that dreams are meaningless or that they tell us nothing about the dreamer. We have Freud to thank for persuading us that even ephemeral experiences carry significance."



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4.
Three scholars reflect on what we choose to read.

Alberto Escalante Varona asks whether the books we read define us, and what the relationship is between our reading identity and our personal identity. Interesting question...

Varona's suggestions: "Reading identity... can be defined as how we see ourselves as readers: What ideas and feelings reading evokes in us, and what values ​​and uses we assign to it. And it's necessarily based on our reading practices. What do and don't we like to read? Are the books we like accepted in our social circles? What part of that identity is private and what part do we project onto others?...

"As readers, we connect the texts we read with others we already know. In this way, our reading identity establishes a 'horizon' of expectations. The content of the text will connect with these expectations and influence how we understand and analyse it. We are not 'passive' agents who merely receive what an author tells us. On the contrary, we are 'active' members of the literary conversation."

He throws out a few thought-provoking questions along the way. If our expectations push us to read what we find interesting, do we end up reading only what already aligns with our own perspective, or is our horizon broader than that? (I like to think I go for breadth...) Is what we read actually less important than the fact that we DO read.? (Hmmm... Maybe...)

"Sharing and comparing ideas," he continues, "enriches learning, both in children and adults. We can't move forward if our own stance isn't critical, if we entrench ourselves in a single viewpoint on the topics we discuss, if culturally we're prone to take sides rather than adopt well-founded positions -- if, in short, our reading identity only coincides with a limited conception of our personal identity."


Rock and a hard place...

Maria Duran Eusebio asks: "Should we should stop consuming the cultural products of creators whose personal or political decisions we don't agree with?" Is it even possible to separate the author from the work? The "separate" argument is based on Roland Barthes's idea that once a work is in the public domain it lives a life of its own. Perfectly possible, then, to disassociate it from its original creator. In the other camp are arguments that the personal IS the political; the two are inextricable. This doesn't automatically mean "cancellation", however. It's more a question of "demystification", which can open doors to a more critical relationship with culture, and the possibility for the public to develop "an intermediate position that combines aesthetic appreciation and ethical awareness".

There's no one simple answer, Eusebio emphasizes: "Perhaps the most honest approach is to acknowledge that cultural experience unfolds in a terrain that's fraught with tensions and contradictions. Navigating it involves accepting this complexity: Thinking critically, questioning what we consume, and, at the same time, continuing to find in art a space for reflection, emotion, and dialogue."

Julian Novitz begins with an anecdote from his university literature class. The students were asked what they were reading. One mentioned "an infamous work of white nationalist speculative fiction". Nothing else about the student ever gave any cause for concern, but the disclosure made him "cautious". Should it have done, he wonders...

To a certain degree, we've always associated what someone reads with the kind of person he/she is. But it's all so much more public now. A variety of platforms now encourage us to share what we're reading on line; "performative reading" is apparently a thing. "Are there," wonders Novitz, "books that we are proud to display and identify with? Or books that we dread being caught with in public?" Is it fair to label some books "red flag" (ie, reading them is indicative of a personality that's problematic in some way)? Probably not, but then the examples he gives do make you think... I'd struggle to be friends with someone who likes Elizabeth Gilbert's Eat, Pray, Love... (Kidding.)

Novitz, too, looks at the "problematic authors" dilemma. If we find the views or actions of certain creators objectionable, then "we may reasonably decline to support them financially through book sales, or enhance their visibility by discussing or promoting their work". Novitz admits he finds it impossible to return to certain authors, having become aware of their "reprehensible actions or behaviour". Nevertheless, what they have created still has value. And we also run the risk of limiting our perspective if we're so insistent on "purity" that we engage only with "overly cautious or antiseptic art".

At the end of the day, it's down to the individual. But we should probably not be too prissy: "Reading is ultimately a social as well as a solitary activity. The publishing industry depends on crucial 'word of mouth' discussions and personal recommendations. Sharing our reading interests, impressions and experiences -- no matter how problematic or 'performative' they may be -- is important in keeping literacy alive. Our reading is a part of us, but it does not simply define us. We can all probably afford and accept a few 'red flags' on our bookshelves."


Red flags OK

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5.
Here's some stuff to squirrel away for next June.

Approximately a year ago, I did a wonderful group read of Virginia Woolf's Mrs Dalloway, in the company of Henry Eliot and his group. I concluded that post: "I'm wondering about doing another re-read in the middle of June next year. If I'm spared..."

Well, I was, but I didn't. Maybe next year... If so, these resources will be fab:

a) A two-hour, self-guided walk; and
b) A fascinating post, with a map of "sounds and paths crossing" and a "visual narrative" of the book.

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6.
There's a new doco about artist Georgia O'Keeffe (1887-1996), called The Brightness of Light.

I'm not sure I'll ever be able to access it, but the trailer alone is worth watching, and there's an incisive review here.

A reference to O'Keeffe cropped up in Zelda Fitzgerald's Save Me the Waltz, and then she appeared again in association with Frida Kahlo. The two artists met during Diego Rivera's exhibition in 1931: "Both women shared things in common; both were married to older and famous men, and both were part of the modernism movement of the early 20th century. Their relationship included mutual admiration and sympathy. During O’Keeffe’s 1933 nervous breakdown, Kahlo wrote a letter expressing her affection and health concerns."

O'Keeffe is an interesting person. Worth following up some more.