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Waving or drowning? Amy Jenkins on her debt to Stevie Smith: 'this is not what feminists want to hear' Waving or drowning? Amy Jenkins on her debt to Stevie Smith
(about 1 month later)
Dripping laurels, Palmers Green, the tea trolley, a maiden aunt, damp suburban woods, unsatisfactory love affairs and a rich death feeling: welcome to the world of Stevie Smith, a dank 1930s existence of sad November days and brittle leaves that whisk up under your nose in London parks. “Shot up” and elated by rat holes and seeping mud, Smith has “a great nostalgie for an open drain”. Born in Hull in 1902, she settled in the north London suburb at the age of three with her mother, who was escaping a bad marriage, and her unmarried aunt Margaret Spear. Smith’s mother died when she was 16, but she and her aunt, the “Lion of Hull” as Smith liked to call her, remained in the same small terraced house all their days. Not encouraged into further education, Smith settled for a dull job as private secretary to the underemployed son of a publishing magnate. She commuted by underground to her office in Covent Garden where she reportedly reached the utmost limit of boredom, her soul hanging “by a thread over the abyss”. Longing for tea to be trundled in by “the hired girl, that’s like an angel of grace”, she wrote her poems and novels on yellow legal pads to while away the day.Dripping laurels, Palmers Green, the tea trolley, a maiden aunt, damp suburban woods, unsatisfactory love affairs and a rich death feeling: welcome to the world of Stevie Smith, a dank 1930s existence of sad November days and brittle leaves that whisk up under your nose in London parks. “Shot up” and elated by rat holes and seeping mud, Smith has “a great nostalgie for an open drain”. Born in Hull in 1902, she settled in the north London suburb at the age of three with her mother, who was escaping a bad marriage, and her unmarried aunt Margaret Spear. Smith’s mother died when she was 16, but she and her aunt, the “Lion of Hull” as Smith liked to call her, remained in the same small terraced house all their days. Not encouraged into further education, Smith settled for a dull job as private secretary to the underemployed son of a publishing magnate. She commuted by underground to her office in Covent Garden where she reportedly reached the utmost limit of boredom, her soul hanging “by a thread over the abyss”. Longing for tea to be trundled in by “the hired girl, that’s like an angel of grace”, she wrote her poems and novels on yellow legal pads to while away the day.
Nowadays, Smith is only really remembered for her 1957 poem “Not Waving But Drowning”. Twelve lines long, in many ways it sums up her life.Nowadays, Smith is only really remembered for her 1957 poem “Not Waving But Drowning”. Twelve lines long, in many ways it sums up her life.
Those four famous words aside, Smith is much undervalued, in my opinion. She is one of those writers who is always ripe for rediscovery – is intermittently rediscovered and then never quite catches on because, although she is very funny, she is also tricky, to say the least. It was the 1980 Virago reissue of Novel on Yellow Paper that introduced me to her work, so I’m pleased that another Virago edition has now come out. Also, a revival of Hugh Whitemore’s play Stevie is currently playing at the Hampstead theatre.Those four famous words aside, Smith is much undervalued, in my opinion. She is one of those writers who is always ripe for rediscovery – is intermittently rediscovered and then never quite catches on because, although she is very funny, she is also tricky, to say the least. It was the 1980 Virago reissue of Novel on Yellow Paper that introduced me to her work, so I’m pleased that another Virago edition has now come out. Also, a revival of Hugh Whitemore’s play Stevie is currently playing at the Hampstead theatre.
Smith didn’t want to write novels – her first love was poetry – and she only wrote the novel as a way to get her poems noticed. It was published in 1936 when she was 33 and made her an overnight literary sensation. It was a “foot-off-the-ground novel” as she called it, the talking voice running on, with no punctuation in the manuscript (her publisher made her put some in). She addresses the reader directly and warns that her thoughts come and go and “sometimes they do not quite come and I do not pursue them to embarrass them with formality”. The book has no plot and no real sense of purpose. Her protagonist is a thinly disguised version of herself. Her writing is obtuse, muddled, child-like, eccentric, provocative. It’s also brilliant, funny, courageous and hair-raisingly original – even now, 70-odd years after publication. Her work can infuriate or inspire devotion.Smith didn’t want to write novels – her first love was poetry – and she only wrote the novel as a way to get her poems noticed. It was published in 1936 when she was 33 and made her an overnight literary sensation. It was a “foot-off-the-ground novel” as she called it, the talking voice running on, with no punctuation in the manuscript (her publisher made her put some in). She addresses the reader directly and warns that her thoughts come and go and “sometimes they do not quite come and I do not pursue them to embarrass them with formality”. The book has no plot and no real sense of purpose. Her protagonist is a thinly disguised version of herself. Her writing is obtuse, muddled, child-like, eccentric, provocative. It’s also brilliant, funny, courageous and hair-raisingly original – even now, 70-odd years after publication. Her work can infuriate or inspire devotion.
Novel on Yellow Paper is the musings of a young woman on life, love, friendship and – yes – there was a failed attempt to dismiss it as the oversharing of a “disillusioned flapper”. But it isn’t chick lit. Her work is preoccupied with the politics of the time – especially Germany, which she visited often – with Christianity, the classics and death. She was sent to a convalescent home for three years as a very young child to get over tuberculous peritonitis; as a result of her experience, she was no stranger to suicidal misery. At the age of eight, she decided to think of death as a “servant” who must come whenever called and so, with the power in her own hands, so to speak, made a daily decision to live. She was also not the type to delude herself with romance, although she liked men and sex very much: “Oh how I enjoy sex and oh how I enjoy it.” She was nevertheless distrustful of men’s pretty stories that were “all the time leading up to washing up”.Novel on Yellow Paper is the musings of a young woman on life, love, friendship and – yes – there was a failed attempt to dismiss it as the oversharing of a “disillusioned flapper”. But it isn’t chick lit. Her work is preoccupied with the politics of the time – especially Germany, which she visited often – with Christianity, the classics and death. She was sent to a convalescent home for three years as a very young child to get over tuberculous peritonitis; as a result of her experience, she was no stranger to suicidal misery. At the age of eight, she decided to think of death as a “servant” who must come whenever called and so, with the power in her own hands, so to speak, made a daily decision to live. She was also not the type to delude herself with romance, although she liked men and sex very much: “Oh how I enjoy sex and oh how I enjoy it.” She was nevertheless distrustful of men’s pretty stories that were “all the time leading up to washing up”.
I came across the novel at the age of 20. A girlfriend gave me a copy after a conversation we’d had one day walking in Hyde Park. Mel was about seven years older than me – which seemed a lot then – and I thought her marvellous. Tiny and pale, with exotic black hair partly piled up on her head, partly falling to her waist, she wore hoop earrings like a Gypsy, had dark smoky eyes and the widest, most beautiful smile. She was a singer/songwriter and had appeared on the TV music programme The Tube – the height of credibility as far as I was concerned. I was being resolutely sensible and working as a trainee solicitor in a City law firm and Mel spent a lot of time listening to me sounding lost and unhappy. I came from a family of writers and painters and she thought I should follow their lead. She was right in the sense that I wasn’t daring to do what I wanted to do: I was doing something I could do instead. Nevertheless I put NOYP on my bedside table where it sat unread for many months.I came across the novel at the age of 20. A girlfriend gave me a copy after a conversation we’d had one day walking in Hyde Park. Mel was about seven years older than me – which seemed a lot then – and I thought her marvellous. Tiny and pale, with exotic black hair partly piled up on her head, partly falling to her waist, she wore hoop earrings like a Gypsy, had dark smoky eyes and the widest, most beautiful smile. She was a singer/songwriter and had appeared on the TV music programme The Tube – the height of credibility as far as I was concerned. I was being resolutely sensible and working as a trainee solicitor in a City law firm and Mel spent a lot of time listening to me sounding lost and unhappy. I came from a family of writers and painters and she thought I should follow their lead. She was right in the sense that I wasn’t daring to do what I wanted to do: I was doing something I could do instead. Nevertheless I put NOYP on my bedside table where it sat unread for many months.
One day the phone rang. I hadn’t seen Mel for a while. She’d had a heartbreak and gone off to South America to get over it. On her return to London, we’d missed each other as I’d been setting off on a trip myself. Just back, things were chaotic: my bag half unpacked, belongings strewn everywhere. Disoriented, I remember wandering among the mess looking for the phone. It was an acquaintance on the line, someone I barely knew. He told me that Mel had died while I was away – had thrown herself under a tube train.One day the phone rang. I hadn’t seen Mel for a while. She’d had a heartbreak and gone off to South America to get over it. On her return to London, we’d missed each other as I’d been setting off on a trip myself. Just back, things were chaotic: my bag half unpacked, belongings strewn everywhere. Disoriented, I remember wandering among the mess looking for the phone. It was an acquaintance on the line, someone I barely knew. He told me that Mel had died while I was away – had thrown herself under a tube train.
I immediately had the sensation of being outside myself. I heard myself saying the things you are meant to say. I put down the phone feeling utterly numb. I thought: I’m someone who has just discovered that her friend has killed herself. What to do next? My boyfriend and I had been about to go for dinner. He didn’t know Mel. I discovered that I still wanted to go to dinner. Surely that wasn’t appropriate? What was wrong with me? I stumbled into the bedroom to lie down. There I saw the dark green paperback Mel had given me gathering dust by the bed. I picked it up – initially just to have some kind of contact with her – but then, later, I began to read.I immediately had the sensation of being outside myself. I heard myself saying the things you are meant to say. I put down the phone feeling utterly numb. I thought: I’m someone who has just discovered that her friend has killed herself. What to do next? My boyfriend and I had been about to go for dinner. He didn’t know Mel. I discovered that I still wanted to go to dinner. Surely that wasn’t appropriate? What was wrong with me? I stumbled into the bedroom to lie down. There I saw the dark green paperback Mel had given me gathering dust by the bed. I picked it up – initially just to have some kind of contact with her – but then, later, I began to read.
“Reader do you ever feel sea-sad, loamishly-sad, like Tennyson, with that sadness too deep for words?” Yes – but I don’t want to and don’t like it. And then: “I enjoy these moments of sadness and relish them to the utmost deep.” Really? And on heartbreak: “Suddenly you have lost everything, and the hours are long and only a thousand hours will at all help to heal … he is certainly a slow worker that Time and no anaesthetist.” Although she was describing what I most dreaded, I wondered whether perhaps I could let the feelings in after all … and survive them.“Reader do you ever feel sea-sad, loamishly-sad, like Tennyson, with that sadness too deep for words?” Yes – but I don’t want to and don’t like it. And then: “I enjoy these moments of sadness and relish them to the utmost deep.” Really? And on heartbreak: “Suddenly you have lost everything, and the hours are long and only a thousand hours will at all help to heal … he is certainly a slow worker that Time and no anaesthetist.” Although she was describing what I most dreaded, I wondered whether perhaps I could let the feelings in after all … and survive them.
Even today, when I open Smith’s books or read her poems, I get a little rush of recall, a little flavour of the revelation experienced back then. Here was a writer whose prose, the very rhythm of it, as well as its raw disjointedness, conveyed a startling freedom of both thought and expression. It wasn’t just her ideas, it was the mood and atmosphere she created, plus the strong sense of kinship I felt. One minute she was joyful, the next she felt the daggers of envy or the clammy sludge of depression. This from her third novel, The Holiday: “This sadness cuts down again upon me, it is like death. And the bright appearance of the friends at the parties, makes it a terrible cut, like a deep sharp knife, that has cut deep, but not yet quite away.” What a relief these sentiments were from the bright, hard 1980s world I was living in: a world of Cosmopolitan magazine, Cindy Crawford, and feeling the burn in pink legwarmers. Smith wasn’t trying to be happy. She’d never heard of such nonsense. “I am a desperate character,” she said.Even today, when I open Smith’s books or read her poems, I get a little rush of recall, a little flavour of the revelation experienced back then. Here was a writer whose prose, the very rhythm of it, as well as its raw disjointedness, conveyed a startling freedom of both thought and expression. It wasn’t just her ideas, it was the mood and atmosphere she created, plus the strong sense of kinship I felt. One minute she was joyful, the next she felt the daggers of envy or the clammy sludge of depression. This from her third novel, The Holiday: “This sadness cuts down again upon me, it is like death. And the bright appearance of the friends at the parties, makes it a terrible cut, like a deep sharp knife, that has cut deep, but not yet quite away.” What a relief these sentiments were from the bright, hard 1980s world I was living in: a world of Cosmopolitan magazine, Cindy Crawford, and feeling the burn in pink legwarmers. Smith wasn’t trying to be happy. She’d never heard of such nonsense. “I am a desperate character,” she said.
Some passages in the book I couldn’t follow or couldn’t understand. I skipped chunks, but the parts that worked for me really worked, and I thought: I want to be a writer! I think it was the way that Smith was so fearlessly and uncompromisingly herself that inspired me. Her prose showed me that I didn’t have to write like other people because, as she says about herself: “I can write only as I can.” This was an exhilarating change of perspective, like suddenly arriving at the coast and looking out to sea after months inland. Mel’s gift to me had been beautifully judged. I left the firm of solicitors and got myself a part-time typing job and a market stall. On my days off, I worked on a screenplay.Some passages in the book I couldn’t follow or couldn’t understand. I skipped chunks, but the parts that worked for me really worked, and I thought: I want to be a writer! I think it was the way that Smith was so fearlessly and uncompromisingly herself that inspired me. Her prose showed me that I didn’t have to write like other people because, as she says about herself: “I can write only as I can.” This was an exhilarating change of perspective, like suddenly arriving at the coast and looking out to sea after months inland. Mel’s gift to me had been beautifully judged. I left the firm of solicitors and got myself a part-time typing job and a market stall. On my days off, I worked on a screenplay.
In 1930, at the age of 28, Smith made a brave decision to turn her back on marriage. In Novel on Yellow Paper her heroine, Pompey, breaks off a love affair with a character called Freddy because she wants to be free. This is a novelised account of Smith’s real-life relationship with Eric Armitage, her lover from Palmers Green. (There had been lovers of a more cosmopolitan kind, but they had been arty types who lived abroad or were married already.) This was an extraordinary choice at the time: “not having any man to wash up for”. She relates how happy she felt with Eric when they were alone together, walking on the beach, for example, because there he was “unfettered”, but then later, back in the “avenues of boredom” she saw that he was wanting to own her and to knock sense into her and bring her down to earth. A life of suburban domesticity loomed. She suffered terribly over the break-up, a “tearing in the belly” as she described it, wishing herself dead. She had loved Eric – although all the while acutely aware of the everyday exasperations of imperfect relationships. She knew all about the chimera that had made her move her dead mother’s engagement ring to the suitable finger on Eric’s request. She wrestled with the issue, but eventually her mistrust of “the matrimonial swamp” meant that Eric broke off their affair. Smith went on to write NOYP and to have literary success. Later she referred to her poems as her children.In 1930, at the age of 28, Smith made a brave decision to turn her back on marriage. In Novel on Yellow Paper her heroine, Pompey, breaks off a love affair with a character called Freddy because she wants to be free. This is a novelised account of Smith’s real-life relationship with Eric Armitage, her lover from Palmers Green. (There had been lovers of a more cosmopolitan kind, but they had been arty types who lived abroad or were married already.) This was an extraordinary choice at the time: “not having any man to wash up for”. She relates how happy she felt with Eric when they were alone together, walking on the beach, for example, because there he was “unfettered”, but then later, back in the “avenues of boredom” she saw that he was wanting to own her and to knock sense into her and bring her down to earth. A life of suburban domesticity loomed. She suffered terribly over the break-up, a “tearing in the belly” as she described it, wishing herself dead. She had loved Eric – although all the while acutely aware of the everyday exasperations of imperfect relationships. She knew all about the chimera that had made her move her dead mother’s engagement ring to the suitable finger on Eric’s request. She wrestled with the issue, but eventually her mistrust of “the matrimonial swamp” meant that Eric broke off their affair. Smith went on to write NOYP and to have literary success. Later she referred to her poems as her children.
I, too, had some success with my writing and, like Smith, became fashionable for a moment. Emboldened by this – and no longer following Smith’s example – I fell in love, got married, had a baby. I’d never been happier. Weren’t we meant to have it all? How lucky I am, I told myself, that I’m able to combine work and motherhood so easily. How lucky to be a self-employed artist working from home. I was writing less but I told myself this was because I saw motherhood as a welcome sabbatical. Nappy changing might be boring and repetitive, but at least there’s a formula – so different from the challenges of the blank page – but then my son got older and started nursery and went on to school and I turned back to writing only to find that everything had changed.I, too, had some success with my writing and, like Smith, became fashionable for a moment. Emboldened by this – and no longer following Smith’s example – I fell in love, got married, had a baby. I’d never been happier. Weren’t we meant to have it all? How lucky I am, I told myself, that I’m able to combine work and motherhood so easily. How lucky to be a self-employed artist working from home. I was writing less but I told myself this was because I saw motherhood as a welcome sabbatical. Nappy changing might be boring and repetitive, but at least there’s a formula – so different from the challenges of the blank page – but then my son got older and started nursery and went on to school and I turned back to writing only to find that everything had changed.
Last year Tracey Emin said: “There are good artists who have children. They are called men.” She added that some women obviously did succeed in being both artists and mothers but that she needed to give whatever she was doing 100%. This raises the question: does “good” art need 100%? And if your art is not your absolute No 1 priority can it really be great? And if it is your absolute No 1 priority and you have children – what does that do to the children?Last year Tracey Emin said: “There are good artists who have children. They are called men.” She added that some women obviously did succeed in being both artists and mothers but that she needed to give whatever she was doing 100%. This raises the question: does “good” art need 100%? And if your art is not your absolute No 1 priority can it really be great? And if it is your absolute No 1 priority and you have children – what does that do to the children?
All of this is quite reductionist, I realise, and not what feminists want to hear. (Although, as a writer who is achieving less than she used to, it is, kind of, what I want to hear.) Perhaps it’s not really a zero-sum equation: Sylvia Plath always claimed to be creatively inspired by motherhood. Perhaps it’s all about proper childcare. And don’t men make their children the priority too? Well – I’m sure many do, but cultural pressure would have a man achieve at work in order to be a good father. This is rarely true for women; arguably the opposite is.All of this is quite reductionist, I realise, and not what feminists want to hear. (Although, as a writer who is achieving less than she used to, it is, kind of, what I want to hear.) Perhaps it’s not really a zero-sum equation: Sylvia Plath always claimed to be creatively inspired by motherhood. Perhaps it’s all about proper childcare. And don’t men make their children the priority too? Well – I’m sure many do, but cultural pressure would have a man achieve at work in order to be a good father. This is rarely true for women; arguably the opposite is.
It’s an existential issue. Before becoming a mother, I would sometimes have one of those days: the kind when you stare out of the window at this unfathomable world and ask yourself: “What the hell am I doing here?” As a writer, the answer sometimes comes: “You know that thing you’re writing ... That thing you want to say … ” and clutching desperately at this, you stagger to your desk.It’s an existential issue. Before becoming a mother, I would sometimes have one of those days: the kind when you stare out of the window at this unfathomable world and ask yourself: “What the hell am I doing here?” As a writer, the answer sometimes comes: “You know that thing you’re writing ... That thing you want to say … ” and clutching desperately at this, you stagger to your desk.
In other words “I have something to say” was my somewhat fragile raison d’être. The problem with becoming a mother was that it gave me a raison d’etre so much more robust that it trampled on the old one and sent it scurrying away. This new raison d’etre had a beating heart and a warm skin and noisy lungs. It was right now banging on the kitchen table demanding multigrain hoops. It wasn’t better, or nobler, or anything like that – but it was certainly much more pressing. The question “what am I doing here?” was now very easily answered: “I  am getting the multigrain hoops.”In other words “I have something to say” was my somewhat fragile raison d’être. The problem with becoming a mother was that it gave me a raison d’etre so much more robust that it trampled on the old one and sent it scurrying away. This new raison d’etre had a beating heart and a warm skin and noisy lungs. It was right now banging on the kitchen table demanding multigrain hoops. It wasn’t better, or nobler, or anything like that – but it was certainly much more pressing. The question “what am I doing here?” was now very easily answered: “I  am getting the multigrain hoops.”
Clearly I needed a new reason to get down to work. “For the money” or “for something to do” are both very fine reasons, but different from a reason that defines you. I struggled. Firstly, I might be halfway through composing a sentence when the words “bananas – juice – wet-wipes” would pop into my head. Second, I was tired because of being up in the night. Third, my working day ended at 3pm because I wanted to be at the school gate. Fourth, I could now only manage one project at a time (and in the TV industry they say you need at least five). Fifth, I joined the PTA – what I really wanted was to go to school with my son, but that wasn’t allowed. Sixth, I spent a large chunk of my morning arranging his play-dates by text. Seventh, I took on a newspaper column, which is something I hadn’t done in the past in order to conserve writing energy – it seemed a sensible option under the new regime. And so it went on. I’m not saying this sort of loss of focus happens to every mother – but it happened to me. The real truth was that I needed a new reason to write (beyond the obvious financial one).Clearly I needed a new reason to get down to work. “For the money” or “for something to do” are both very fine reasons, but different from a reason that defines you. I struggled. Firstly, I might be halfway through composing a sentence when the words “bananas – juice – wet-wipes” would pop into my head. Second, I was tired because of being up in the night. Third, my working day ended at 3pm because I wanted to be at the school gate. Fourth, I could now only manage one project at a time (and in the TV industry they say you need at least five). Fifth, I joined the PTA – what I really wanted was to go to school with my son, but that wasn’t allowed. Sixth, I spent a large chunk of my morning arranging his play-dates by text. Seventh, I took on a newspaper column, which is something I hadn’t done in the past in order to conserve writing energy – it seemed a sensible option under the new regime. And so it went on. I’m not saying this sort of loss of focus happens to every mother – but it happened to me. The real truth was that I needed a new reason to write (beyond the obvious financial one).
In fact, I found myself so creatively bereft that I was thinking of giving up writing altogether. One day, casting around for inspiration on my book shelf, I pulled down that same old laurel-green copy of Novel on Yellow Paper. I read it again and then, with fascination, Frances Spalding’s Stevie Smith: A Critical Biography. I began to see that, having given me lessons on how to write, Smith’s life and work might also provide answers as to why to write.In fact, I found myself so creatively bereft that I was thinking of giving up writing altogether. One day, casting around for inspiration on my book shelf, I pulled down that same old laurel-green copy of Novel on Yellow Paper. I read it again and then, with fascination, Frances Spalding’s Stevie Smith: A Critical Biography. I began to see that, having given me lessons on how to write, Smith’s life and work might also provide answers as to why to write.
All her life Smith soldiered on with her art despite having a full-time job, despite going in and out of fashion, despite crippling depressions. After the success of NOYP, she wrote two more books in the same vein – both with flashes of brilliance – as well as hundreds of poems published in several anthologies. She continued to work as a secretary for 30 years until, it seems, there was a muddled suicide attempt. Spalding reports that she may have lunged at her boss with a pair of scissors and then turned on herself and cut one of her wrists. After that Smith retired and soon found herself looking after her aunt, a role reversal that was inevitable with age.All her life Smith soldiered on with her art despite having a full-time job, despite going in and out of fashion, despite crippling depressions. After the success of NOYP, she wrote two more books in the same vein – both with flashes of brilliance – as well as hundreds of poems published in several anthologies. She continued to work as a secretary for 30 years until, it seems, there was a muddled suicide attempt. Spalding reports that she may have lunged at her boss with a pair of scissors and then turned on herself and cut one of her wrists. After that Smith retired and soon found herself looking after her aunt, a role reversal that was inevitable with age.
Smith may have been clever enough to circumnavigate marriage – but the patriarchy got her in the end. In later years, she was overlooked – her poems dismissed as light verse – and she was denied membership of the canon. I can’t help thinking she was sidelined for having become a plain and eccentric spinster. For years her novels were out of print and she found it hard to get new poems published. It was fitting then that it was Philip Larkin – who suffered none of this despite his own idiosyncrasies – who resurrected her reputation in 1962 by declaring her poems serious in the New Statesman.Smith may have been clever enough to circumnavigate marriage – but the patriarchy got her in the end. In later years, she was overlooked – her poems dismissed as light verse – and she was denied membership of the canon. I can’t help thinking she was sidelined for having become a plain and eccentric spinster. For years her novels were out of print and she found it hard to get new poems published. It was fitting then that it was Philip Larkin – who suffered none of this despite his own idiosyncrasies – who resurrected her reputation in 1962 by declaring her poems serious in the New Statesman.
In 1957 she wrote her masterpiece, “Not Waving But Drowning”. If in NOYP Smith had originally considered herself to be waving – calling attention to herself, showing off – she now realised that all of her art had been a long process of keeping her head above water – not drowning. Spalding quotes her on writing as follows: “I want to get something out that is working away at me inside. It gives proportion and eases the pressure, puts the feelings at one remove, brings the temperature down … ” Smith was writing to metamorphose her pain into something that she could live with.In 1957 she wrote her masterpiece, “Not Waving But Drowning”. If in NOYP Smith had originally considered herself to be waving – calling attention to herself, showing off – she now realised that all of her art had been a long process of keeping her head above water – not drowning. Spalding quotes her on writing as follows: “I want to get something out that is working away at me inside. It gives proportion and eases the pressure, puts the feelings at one remove, brings the temperature down … ” Smith was writing to metamorphose her pain into something that she could live with.
Obviously I can’t go back on being a mother and don’t want to, so it’s interesting to think of writing in this way. Smith was writing for herself and for nobody else. It might sound selfish or narcissistic but it was this necessity that gave her work its searing honesty, an honesty that never simply intended to shock, but was always in search of redemption. “My whole life is in these poems,” she said. Smith made suffering her muse and turned her back on intimacy. She did sense, however, that it needn’t have been like that. In one of her most pain-filled poems, “The Frog Prince”, written at the age of 64, she notes that she has made the best of being “a frog” and living at the bottom of a well, but wonders what might have happened if she had allowed the “royal”kiss:Obviously I can’t go back on being a mother and don’t want to, so it’s interesting to think of writing in this way. Smith was writing for herself and for nobody else. It might sound selfish or narcissistic but it was this necessity that gave her work its searing honesty, an honesty that never simply intended to shock, but was always in search of redemption. “My whole life is in these poems,” she said. Smith made suffering her muse and turned her back on intimacy. She did sense, however, that it needn’t have been like that. In one of her most pain-filled poems, “The Frog Prince”, written at the age of 64, she notes that she has made the best of being “a frog” and living at the bottom of a well, but wonders what might have happened if she had allowed the “royal”kiss:
• Novel on Yellow Paper has just come out as a Virago Modern Classic. Stevie is at the Hampstead theatre, London NW3, until 18 April. hampsteadtheatre.com.• Novel on Yellow Paper has just come out as a Virago Modern Classic. Stevie is at the Hampstead theatre, London NW3, until 18 April. hampsteadtheatre.com.