Norris seems to hit very precisely on a problem we still struggle with in the US. In discussing the hostile reaction of a Jewish teacher to a Spanish poet in his school, who by reading poems in Spanish had epitomized the influx of immigrants into this previously Jewish neighborhood, Norris discusses our need to cling to that which is the same. She focuses on the tendency of people to exclude other ideas and cultures from their consciousness, and to be offended when those cultures intrude on their well-established boundaries of safety.
She mentions in particular small towns where the makeup of the population has changed very little for hundreds of years, but she also points out that even in a city like New York, people can cling to the sameness of life, excluding the idea that someone from the Midwest, the West Coast, the South might have a new take on this American life.
Having grown up in a small town where Asian and Caucasian culture were at times held in powerful tension, I can see now that the people I most admired in that town were the ones to whom change could never be a bad omen. And the people I most disliked, the foolish students mocking Hmong teenagers for speaking another language and the politically conservative firebrands who confused patriotism with being white and speaking English, were the very people that drove me to seek a new life in Chicago, just as Norris' mentor, Betty Kray, sought a new life in New York City.
Wednesday, July 2, 2008
The Virgin of Bennington by Kathleen Norris
Years ago, when I was still a virgin and still struggling with my faith, I came across a book in a bargain bin entitled The Virgin of Bennington. This in itself did not catch my interest, but the name of the author struck me. I had grown up hearing Kathleen Norris' name, who had written several books on faith that had served as a resource for my mother. But here, in this bargain bin, was a book, intriguingly titled, whose dust jacket promised tales of the "culture of drugs, sex, and bohemianism" in the 1960s. Indeed, I thought to myself. Kathleen Norris and sex. Who knew? Intrigued by the description and the $4.96 price tag, I bought it, placed it my shelf, and promptly forgot I had ever seen it.
Picking it up now, years later, after having had time to mature, to encounter my own culture of drugs, sex, and bohemianism (by comparison a remarkably tepid culture, given its placement at Northwestern University), and having had time to mature as a writer, I was eager to find out what she might have to say. And, surprisingly, I found myself moved and excited by her memoir in a way I have not been in some time, perhaps not since Bird by Bird. I found myself reading intently as Norris described the struggle of a writer in her 20s. She had a smattering of success, giving poetry readings, having a volume of poems published, and found herself frightened, disenchanted, and without inspiration for months. The publication of her book crippled whatever creativity had lived within her, and she was saddened to find that others, writers or no, were so turned off by her success that some stopped being friends with her. She retreated from writing, retreated into her safe administrative job, and it took some time for her to find her voice again.
How very familiar it was to hear that she took comfort in being good at an easy job, that she wondered if all poets had to be depressed in order to be good, and that she often wandered away from writing, trying to find something else that might please her. Having sat in an all-too-easy job as an administrator for two years, and so often losing my way as a writer since starting college, I felt so keenly Norris' struggles as a young poet. I too often wondered if the lot of a writer was to be unhappy, for having found happiness in my own life, I also found that my wellspring of stories and ideas had dried up, until I was left struggling to even fill a page, much less an entire notebook. But I have found, just as I did with Bird by Bird, that another writer's struggle often helps to open that spring again, and suddenly words and ideas are rushing into my mind and onto the page. This, of all the things I can say to recommend Norris' book, is perhaps the most important for any writer. Sometimes you need to know that someone else is out there. Sometimes you need them to tell you the way.
I found Norris' writing to be clear, loving and humble. She has devoted what begins as a memoir of her own life to telling the tale of another, namely her mentor, Betty Kray, a woman who seems to be largely responsible for the flourishing of poetry in the 60s and 70s, at least according to Norris. Certainly, Norris and Kray both met and befriended a great many writers while working at the Academy of American Poets in New York. Other celebrities from the 70s also haunt the book, including Andy Warhol and other semi-famous actors and artists. Norris interacted, danced and partied with people who, in my generation, are legend, urban ghosts who we wish we might have known. Norris' matter of fact tone when writing about such encounters at first seems like name dropping, but perhaps all encounters with celebrities will seem like name dropping in a memoir. But Norris' determination to depict her time in New York with clarity and honesty, to show the good and the bad of free love, free drugs and the struggles of young artists, ultimately carries through, and in the end we see ever so many poets, writers and artists to be what they really are: people.
Norris has devoted her memoir not to herself, but to her mentor, Betty Kray, a woman who gave Norris her start in New York but also pushed her to leave it when it became too comfortable. But it becomes clear over the course of the book that in telling Kray's story, Norris is telling her own. This woman had a profound effect on Norris' life and writing. Kray served as a reader, an agent and a knowledgeable friend, and helped Norris through her revelations of the inherent insecurities and dangers of being an artist. Through her work, Kray taught Norris that to be unhappy might allow one to write more, but was not required in order to remain a poet, and that being published can be one of the most difficult trials a writer ever goes through.
Norris spends her early 20s falling into things: the party scene, drugs, love affairs, poetry; but with Kray's example and guidance, she discovers that unhappiness is not required to make a poet, and that seeking this unhappiness can be ever so dangerous. Using real-life examples of poets who committed suicide or became increasingly susceptible to their own manic moods, Norris depicts just how often artists fall into patterns that ultimately hinder their craft and their enjoyment of their own life. Out of respect for her fellow poets and for Betty Kray, Norris never points out when a poets' work had gone awry, but she does show the many strange insecurities that crop up when poets start to have any sort of success.
The book is worth reading if only to gain a better understanding of where our current literary culture has come from. As an artist, it is also worth reading to understand the struggle of an artist in their 20s. There are drugs, depression, mania, self-absorption, egotism, and despair, and Norris tried several in her unknowing search to find out how to be a better poet. In the end, Kray urged Norris to seek a peaceful place within herself out of which to create her poems. Kray may not have approved when Norris found this peace in religion, but she only hastened to offer caution about the let-down of religious ecstasy, to urge Norris to write from these feelings and about these feelings without giving herself wholly up to them, lest she swing back down and lose her creative drive once more. Ultimately, Kray taught Norris by example how to be a writer, and reading this book passes on such useful insights that I would urge many young writers to read it, poet or no. There are certainly many ways to be writer, and though Norris never preaches that one way is best, she certainly offers many examples of the pitfalls along the way.
Picking it up now, years later, after having had time to mature, to encounter my own culture of drugs, sex, and bohemianism (by comparison a remarkably tepid culture, given its placement at Northwestern University), and having had time to mature as a writer, I was eager to find out what she might have to say. And, surprisingly, I found myself moved and excited by her memoir in a way I have not been in some time, perhaps not since Bird by Bird. I found myself reading intently as Norris described the struggle of a writer in her 20s. She had a smattering of success, giving poetry readings, having a volume of poems published, and found herself frightened, disenchanted, and without inspiration for months. The publication of her book crippled whatever creativity had lived within her, and she was saddened to find that others, writers or no, were so turned off by her success that some stopped being friends with her. She retreated from writing, retreated into her safe administrative job, and it took some time for her to find her voice again.
How very familiar it was to hear that she took comfort in being good at an easy job, that she wondered if all poets had to be depressed in order to be good, and that she often wandered away from writing, trying to find something else that might please her. Having sat in an all-too-easy job as an administrator for two years, and so often losing my way as a writer since starting college, I felt so keenly Norris' struggles as a young poet. I too often wondered if the lot of a writer was to be unhappy, for having found happiness in my own life, I also found that my wellspring of stories and ideas had dried up, until I was left struggling to even fill a page, much less an entire notebook. But I have found, just as I did with Bird by Bird, that another writer's struggle often helps to open that spring again, and suddenly words and ideas are rushing into my mind and onto the page. This, of all the things I can say to recommend Norris' book, is perhaps the most important for any writer. Sometimes you need to know that someone else is out there. Sometimes you need them to tell you the way.
I found Norris' writing to be clear, loving and humble. She has devoted what begins as a memoir of her own life to telling the tale of another, namely her mentor, Betty Kray, a woman who seems to be largely responsible for the flourishing of poetry in the 60s and 70s, at least according to Norris. Certainly, Norris and Kray both met and befriended a great many writers while working at the Academy of American Poets in New York. Other celebrities from the 70s also haunt the book, including Andy Warhol and other semi-famous actors and artists. Norris interacted, danced and partied with people who, in my generation, are legend, urban ghosts who we wish we might have known. Norris' matter of fact tone when writing about such encounters at first seems like name dropping, but perhaps all encounters with celebrities will seem like name dropping in a memoir. But Norris' determination to depict her time in New York with clarity and honesty, to show the good and the bad of free love, free drugs and the struggles of young artists, ultimately carries through, and in the end we see ever so many poets, writers and artists to be what they really are: people.
Norris has devoted her memoir not to herself, but to her mentor, Betty Kray, a woman who gave Norris her start in New York but also pushed her to leave it when it became too comfortable. But it becomes clear over the course of the book that in telling Kray's story, Norris is telling her own. This woman had a profound effect on Norris' life and writing. Kray served as a reader, an agent and a knowledgeable friend, and helped Norris through her revelations of the inherent insecurities and dangers of being an artist. Through her work, Kray taught Norris that to be unhappy might allow one to write more, but was not required in order to remain a poet, and that being published can be one of the most difficult trials a writer ever goes through.
Norris spends her early 20s falling into things: the party scene, drugs, love affairs, poetry; but with Kray's example and guidance, she discovers that unhappiness is not required to make a poet, and that seeking this unhappiness can be ever so dangerous. Using real-life examples of poets who committed suicide or became increasingly susceptible to their own manic moods, Norris depicts just how often artists fall into patterns that ultimately hinder their craft and their enjoyment of their own life. Out of respect for her fellow poets and for Betty Kray, Norris never points out when a poets' work had gone awry, but she does show the many strange insecurities that crop up when poets start to have any sort of success.
The book is worth reading if only to gain a better understanding of where our current literary culture has come from. As an artist, it is also worth reading to understand the struggle of an artist in their 20s. There are drugs, depression, mania, self-absorption, egotism, and despair, and Norris tried several in her unknowing search to find out how to be a better poet. In the end, Kray urged Norris to seek a peaceful place within herself out of which to create her poems. Kray may not have approved when Norris found this peace in religion, but she only hastened to offer caution about the let-down of religious ecstasy, to urge Norris to write from these feelings and about these feelings without giving herself wholly up to them, lest she swing back down and lose her creative drive once more. Ultimately, Kray taught Norris by example how to be a writer, and reading this book passes on such useful insights that I would urge many young writers to read it, poet or no. There are certainly many ways to be writer, and though Norris never preaches that one way is best, she certainly offers many examples of the pitfalls along the way.
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