Call for submissions for our new series of guest posts. First up: Paul Murphy on turning points

Nanette here with some exciting news! The OCLW publicity team would like to announce a new series of life-writing guest posts and book reviews, for which we are now accepting submissions. Our guidelines are as follows:

  • Style: a critical style (not necessarily academic), which might include book reviews and explorations of research questions around broader themes within life-writing. We are not opposed to you having fun with your topic and an up-beat humorous tone appropriate to a blog would also be welcome.
  • Word limit: approximately 500-1000 words
  • About you: a brief intro, a link to your own blog/website
  • NB: We reserve the right to accept or reject submissions and we will not submit feedback
  • Updated: Send submissions to the publicity team in an email titled ‘Guest Blog Post Submission’ to our new email address: oclw(at)wolfson.ox.ac.uk
  • We look forward to hearing from you!

To begin, below we have some reflections from Paul Murphy on what it is like to write a biography about a literary hero, and on exploring the feeling of having that hero fall in one’s esteem.

——

I had never been much interested in biography until life intervened. Redundancy. Divorce. Bereavement. I then did feel a need to seek out truths, journey into the past, find myself through others.

I have just completed a book* about Laurie Lee. The 1930s, before, during and after the Spanish Civil War, changed him forever. I first read his memoir As I Walked Out One Midsummer Morning as an adolescent.

It tells the tale of a walk made through Spain in 1935 and into the eye of a perfect storm of a civil war. In April 2012 I set out to retrace his journey, to better understand a man who had always been a hero. During the journey, I realized I was also looking for myself, and grieving for a father who had died years before. I came to understand that heroes can have feet of clay and that writers and fathers often lie. 

I recently attended the Oxford Centre for Life-Writing Weinrebe Lectures. It was fascinating to listen to Blake Morrison and Richard Holmes discussing the many forms that the “I” can take in Biography: both writers having influenced my book. Despite protests from university tutors and publishers, I had chosen to write my life of Lee in the only way I felt I could, through the prism of my own life experience and my Spanish journey. I open my book by going to a point high above the place where Lee first set foot in Spain and describe his arrival as if it were happening before my very eyes. I then suggest that he looks up at me and our eyes engage.

It is important for me to feel a connection with my biography subject, even if it is a fictional one. It is a two-way process. Alain De Botton wrote of Proust:  ‘A genuine homage to Proust would be to look at our world through his eyes, not look at his world through our eyes’.

I cannot change Lee through my journey but he has changed me. I need to share a space with my subject even if I cannot redeem the time difference in occupying such a space. The occupying of the same physical space seems to sharpen the senses.

The turning point in my book occurs in Valdepenas. Lee describes it as an oasis of gentility in a harsh desert. I found it run-down and depressing but it is what happened next in Lee’s account that seemed to hit me hard.

Lee had written in his memoir of an encounter with an under-age prostitute in a brothel in this town run by the girl’s grandfather:

The girl’s wandering finger, tipped with precocious cunning, seemed the only thing left in the world, and moved absently about me, loosening knots in my flesh, then tying them up again.

When I first read this passage, I got caught up in the beautiful prose. I  missed what the episode was telling me about Lee as a person.

I had stopped at an old bodega in the town. A perfect place, I imagined, for the siting of a 1930s brothel to sate male needs with a steady supply of young female grape pickers on tap. I rewrote the scene:

He coughs, spits, shuffles across on his board, strong gnarled wrists propelling him along, reaches up high, slips the latch and lets the customers in. Encarnacion lies with Julio, mute but not unresponsive, examining her hands and feet, scratched by the rough vine roots. Round and round goes the wine press mangle, squeezing, crushing, draining the skin, till finally leaving it lifeless, limp, spent.

She goes to Lorenzo, the English boy. It is quick. She likes him for that.

The candle has burned to the stub, the customers have gone, she waits for the scrape on the ground, the pumping of thin, wiry wrists. She waits for him to come for her as she knows he will.

I felt for the first time that I was judging Lee rather than observing him. I had gone from being a detached member of the audience to an active member of the players on stage. It did not feel good.

My journey was motivated by personal loss and grief but driven also by a strong emotional connection and empathy with Lee. Richard Holmes, a great believer of placing the self centre-stage when tracking heroes, says of those whose footsteps we follow in, ‘If you are not in love with them you will not follow them-not very far anyway.’

As a writer, attempting a first biography, I see now that this turning point was critical to my book becoming biography. The ‘girl’s wandering finger’ had shaken me out of a sense of sentimentality that had enveloped me over the years;I saw Lee for the first time as a man of imperfections, a flawed specimen. I had reached a biographical point of no return, moving away from a pre-biographic state to a place from which I could realistically endeavour to identify Hermione Lee’s ‘vivid sense of the person’. In the words of Richard Holmes I had arrived at ‘the moment of personal disillusion, the moment of impersonal, objective re-creation’. 

I have created a very personal portrait of Lee and accept the possible charge of unreliable narrator. Yet is not most biography the sum product of subjective third party narration? Blake Morrison confessed that he almost called his seminal book As If, on the James Bulger 1993 murder case, The Worst Thing I Ever Did. In an attempt to bring perspective to the actions of the perpetrators, he had taken us into the complex mind of an average young heterosexual boy’s mind, his own. He was charged with the sin of making the story about himself.

I have taken a risk too, in placing myself at the centre of my narrative alongside Lee, and have trusted in my ability to speak to, and perhaps for, a generation of smitten Lee followers.

 

Works Cited:

  • Richard Holmes, Footsteps: Adventures of a Romantic Biographer.
  • Hermione Lee, Body Parts: Essays on Life Writing
  • Alain De Botton, How Proust Can Change Your Life. 

*As I Walked Out Through Spain in Search of Laurie Lee. Publication date June 14 www.silverwoodbooks.co.uk

Laurie Lee Centenary www.laurielee.org

Paul Murphy Blog: www.thelittlesummerofthequince.wordpress.com

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3 thoughts on “Call for submissions for our new series of guest posts. First up: Paul Murphy on turning points

  1. Paul’s transformation from biographical devotee to autobiographical craftsman bears witness to literary agony in all its forms. Such an investigative and psychological discernment of self and subject matter invites elemental forces to awaken in the subconscious. The living dead arise. Intellectual vampires have a drink problem and variously thrive upon human suffering. Needless to say, Paul’s deliverance came when he unearthed the primal power of judgement and passed sentence upon his subject; a dragon despatched, a personal and mythological triumph over an amoral power. An initiation and deliverance. The moral oft forgotten is that our demi-gods will all eventually let us comp[ltely down. Biography is intuition-squared. The biographer’s relationship with his or her subject the sweep of an angel’s wing; a journey to an unseen world if our hearts are pure enough to see, if not, the excellent mundane will do for the former will strike us dumb. The healing power of biographical writing has its equal only in the greatest of the works of Divinity where water pure washes over the likes of the poetic stones on the riverbed of Lee’s tormented desire,’Oh, the hopeless acid in the mouth, the fear, the madness the anger’ as he waited camped out in his tin caravan in Binstead Woods for Laura Gorman to arrive in her Bentley in the dead of night.

  2. Pingback: #16 Pinning the Butterfly* – Random Lincs

  3. Pingback: An early Easter fair-Books,Books and Books and a chocolate treat ! | thelittlesummerofthequince

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