Things at the School of Canadian Irish Studies are getting crazy these days (in a fun way), as we await the climax of Montreal’s Irish “Green Season”. There have been balls, luncheons, poetry readings, film screenings… and now we’re all getting ready for Sunday’s 190th St Patrick’s Day Parade down Rue Ste-Catherine.
I got into the spirit as well — in both official languages (mostly). Click here to read my op-ed piece in The Montreal Gazette this morning about the new faces of the Irish Diaspora. Click here to read Prof. Michael Kenneally’s op-ed on the changing landscape of Irish Montreal. And click here to hear me discuss the diaspora since 2008 en françaison Radio-Canada Toronto’s “Y a pas deux matins pareils”.
I had become aware that my daily routines were becoming increasingly ingrained: that I’d begun to glare at hapless scholars who had taken ‘my’ desk at the British Library; that my day couldn’t really begin unless I’d had coffee in a particular mug; and that I could only use a special kind of notebook for research notes.
Duff argues, quite rightly, that academics might rely on zany, superstitious, and downright territorial writing behaviour because academia can be extremely stressful, competitive and precarious as a career choice; the result is (I’m paraphrasing here), we’re all a little nutty.
So, as I’m about to start the major research phase for my next book, I thought I would take her advice and look at my own writing/researching quirks to see where I fall in the pack. (An academic engaging in navel-gazing? Perish the thought!)
1) When at the British Library, I must work in Humanities 2, preferably close to the reference desk, but not so close that I am bothered by the queue of people retrieving whatever they were working on yesterday. Will Hodgkinson has said that HUM2 is both “smaller than its vulgar neighbour” and also where “its occupants can literally look down on the plebs in Humanities One.” Amen. Some people have tried to seduce me to move over to Rare Books — where the real crazies are — but I haven’t made the leap yet.
2) If I have to use a book weight, I want it to be one of the ropes, not the device Victorians used to beat misbehaving children or stroppy servants.
This…
… not this:
3) When writing/reading, I can’t drink coffee after 11am. 10.30am, okay; 11am demands tea. With milk.
4) Note-taking — by hand or in Word — must be done beginning with a large idea on the far left of the page and working on a diagonal slant with subsequent points until there is either a new major point or I run out of room. Quotes reset the whole business. I tried to demonstrate, but WordPress doesn’t like my style choices. Fitting.
5) When it comes to music while I’m working, I need instrumental pieces or music where I cannot understand the language (German, Italian, Elvish, etc.). Accidents can happen otherwise, like how Axl Rose inadvertently ended up in Ulster’s Men. I have written, in both my PhD thesis and the eventual monograph, that the Battle of the Somme had an appetite for destruction that treated all Irishmen equally. After also paraphrasing Yoda and Théoden in later chapters because I had the DVD player on for white noise, the instrumental only rule is fairly sacrosanct. This also, however, involves making a specific playlist for each article/book chapter I’m working on, which takes a good three or four hours to put together. Procrastination is a true work of art.
6) Being an academic and, even worse, an historian, I tend to leave piles of books all over the place. That said, I need lots of pacing space when I’m writing, so there’s always a long day of tidying before I can actually make my way to the desk. I also have realized that I need to buy a new pair of large headphones: nothing made me write so much in London as when I was literally tethered to the computer.
7) Self-bribery is a wonderful motivator. “If you work on this paragraph for twenty minutes, you can check your email. Or Laineygossip.com.
8) Finally, I have to unplug every phone in the house (or now, I guess, switch-off). If I’m writing, leave some food for me outside the door and don’t expect an answer to anything that actually makes sense/matters because not only am I in my own little world, but I always feel like I’m having to sweep away the layers of dirt and dust from something that already is out there… somewhere. In the ether. I know that probably sounds like some sort of Michelangelo-and-his-marble paraphrase (“In every block of marble, I see a statue as plain as though it stood before me…”), but it actually has much more to do with that opening paleontology scene from Jurassic Park.
So now, I suppose, the question becomes, is there a skeleton of the next book ready for me to find once I have all my quirks sorted out, or do I have to do more digging?
Mr Darcy is 200 years old today. That’s a lot of candles on the cake. If Bridget Jones is capable of drinking something real tonight, I’m sure she’d pick something celebratory… maybe a Moet or a Veuve Clicquot. Or a stiff vodka, knowing Bridge.
One of my fondest memories (so far) of being in a classroom is of my “8 o’clockers” at Birkbeck College – one of my first seminar groups. They graciously allowed me to legitimately bring Colin-Firth-as-Mr-Darcy into every class discussion for the entire year… and then, at the end of our months together, they gave me a copy of The Making of Pride and Prejudice to tell me how much fun they’d had. That was fantastic.
To be honest, I find it hard to believe that Pride and Prejudice has now been in existence for two entire centuries. That means that it’s been eighteen years since Colin Firth Mr Darcy first entered my life. Where did all the time go?
Mr Darcy at the ripe old age of 182
My father was the one who made me aware of Miss Austen’s masterpiece. He had secretly recorded all of the episodes of the mini-series on VHS and then presented it to me on a long weekend when I really needed a pick-me-up. We watched it together, while my mother kept waving her 1920s-era copy of the hardback at me. If anything needed to convince me that my father was (and is) a Victorian-Edwardian at heart, this was it.
My father introduced me to Mr Darcy and Lizzie. It was a beautiful gift.
I then, over the past few years, have given this gift to my students. Not sure if I can manage to include it in a course on the Irish Diaspora, but if anyone has any ideas how it can fit into the curriculum, do let me know!
Fisticuffs aside, how many of the lines from this novel of 1813 have resounded through the decades? We all know the beginning (It is a truth, universally acknowledged etc.), and I know at least two dear friends who can – at will – quote Lizzie’s rejection of Darcy verbatim. It’s quite impressive, really.
Impressiveness
I was in high school when Pride and Prejudice (The Firth Edition) debuted. It became one of the most singular bonding experiences for the girls of KCVI in my year (or at least those I hung out with). In fact, our mutual love of Austen became the thing that bridged the possible yawning chasm between myself and one of my dearest friends: she, a confirmed Texas republican conservative; myself, not quite any of those (though definitely small ‘t’ Tory at times when thinking about the preservation of Big Houses in Britain and Ireland and the niceties that accompany high tea, dressing for dinner, proper dances, and men half-standing when a lady rises from the table). Pride and Prejudice gave me one of the most treasured friendships of my life. I’ve thought about that a lot today.
The world’s most famous wet shirt
That said, I have to be in the minority when it comes to Pride and Prejudice‘s most famous post-modern moment. That shirt is hardly see-through.
*As a total aside, how awesome/horrifying is it that the official BBC Youtube account refers to this as “Colin Firth Strips Off.” Holy hell.
I understand that part of the attraction of this scene (which I sincerely doubt Miss Austen ever envisaged to such a degree [let alone its cultural fallout]) is all about understated restraint and the man of every woman’s desire being en déshabillé, but for sheer pubescent sexuality, I’ve got to give the edge of the late Patrick Swayze.
Johnny Castle has much to learn from Fitzwilliam Darcy, obviously, but his black jeans – in my opinion – have raced more teenage hormones than the master of Pemberley’s undershirt. Also, Solomon Burke singing in the background really helps.
Am I going to get any feedback on that ever-so controversial opinion??? Hmm…
Darcy wins in terms of frustrated agony, but, in the same vein, P&P might need a bit of maturity from its readers (and eventual viewers) in order to really make its mark. Trust me: watch Dirty Dancing first, and then move on to the Austen canon (both on the page andthen — and only then — the cinematic possibilities).
It is a truth, universally acknowledged, that a young woman in possession of an active imagination must be in want of a well-rounded education in fan-girl worship.
Also, this made me howl with laughter the first time I saw it. Sheer brilliance.
(Plus, I [whilst a groundling] saw this Darcy live on stage playing Macbeth at the Globe in 2010, and he smiled at me… twice. And then again in the bar after the show. I have a completely trust-worthy witness who can back me up on this. Ergo, I am biased in his favour as a silver medalist behind Firth.)
Mr Darcy, and his relationship with Lizzie Bennet, has perplexed, flummoxed, fascinated and obsessed millions of people for 200 years. I think it’s wonderful that this particular literary anniversary has garnered as much attention as it has; that more people will discover the author that has influenced so much of modern society; that more informed fans will join me — and many others — in believing that Colin Firth is the only true cinematic Darcy, all kudos to Matthew MacFadyen and Laurence Olivier; and that no one any more can be snide about Jane Austen’s indisputable place within “The Western Canon” — whatever power it and its many incarnations might still have in an English classroom, a university syllabus, or the vortex of literary criticism.
And if Pride and Prejudice continues to be so popular, then even more people will discover my own favourite Austen novel. If Mr Darcy continues to lead the masses to Captain Wentworth, then long may Pemberley’s reign continue!
The wound is still fresh. I am waiting for the happy day when memory fails.
For those of you living under a rock (or in major areas of Canada), Notre Dame was defeated by Alabama in the BCS Championship Game on Monday night, 42-14. Defeated is too kind, really. Crushed. Annihilated. Destroyed. Held under water while flailing uselessly against the cruelties of fate. Something more along those lines.
My favourite comment of the night was from Coach Kelly himself, during the half-time interview:
“Where do the fixes need to come in the second half?”
Kelly: “Uh, maybe Alabama doesn’t come back in the second half.”
You have to respect a man who can tell a joke and a heavy truth in the same sentence.
This hasn’t been an easy forty-eight hours for Irish fans. We are a wounded tribe, staring in disbelief at all the heartbreaking, soul-searing instant replays. That was an ugly game. We couldn’t even catch the damn ball, let alone score a touchdown. All credit to ‘Bama — they were amazing. We, on the other hand… were not.
But now, as the shock fades, one realizes just how much history hurts at a time like this. Is this a more storied team in college football than the Fighting Irish? How many tales have been told about the glory days in South Bend? And now, the team of 2012-13 that looked like it would join the ranks of Lou Holtz and Rudy and The Gipper and Knute Rockne as legends to be passed on to future generations has to square itself with the fact that it just didn’t measure up.
They didn’t become national champions.
They didn’t carry Rudy off the field.
And (you probably saw this coming)… they didn’t win one for the Gipper.
After a phenomenal season that had everyone smiling and whispering “team of destiny,” it all flitted away in the space of about five minutes and two bad calls.
I didn’t recognize Monday night’s team. No, wait, I lie. I did recognize them. Brian Kelly’s boys changed in front of my very eyes from the #1 team in the nation into the Toronto Maple Leafs. That was a Leafs’ worthy game. As a life-long (ergo hopeless and pathetic) Leafs fan, I can recognize a team phoning it in. On Monday night, I don’t think Notre Dame even picked up the receiver (which is better than the Leafs are doing these days… in a world of iPhones, my beloved Leafs are still working the rotary dial).
A student dropped by my office yesterday morning to discuss/lament/bewail the game. (I might have gone on a bit in class about ND being undefeated throughout the season. I also put Rudy on the syllabus for my Irish Diaspora Film course this term. Oops.) This student had a great line to sum it all up: “It was men versus boys out there.”
“Very big men,” I added. Watch the footage: the entire Notre Dame defensive line looks like a pee-wee team compared to the Crimson Tide. Still — and I’ve had to work up to saying this for a day and a half — it was a fabulous season. To be precise, it was a fabulous season from September to December of 2012.
Last night, I heard someone say, “Unless something is perfect, it’s wrong.” All right, I admit it — it was Lewis on Coronation Street talking to Audrey just after Nick jilted Leanne at the altar for offering herself to Peter again before their wedding, but Leanne didn’t know that Carla was back from America, and then Eva spoke up during the ceremony and ruined everything. Whatever. The sentiment still fits. Because of Monday night, the 2012-13 season was not perfect; that said, it was still good.
Irish fans are certainly in pain this week, possibly for the rest of the month, and maybe for many years to come. The Crimson Tide washed us away. But it could have been worse: it could have been a shutout. But I really don’t want anyone to say to me, “There’s always next year.” That’s what Leafs fans have said for over 45 years now. It does not help. I fervently hope and pray that any similarities between the Irish and the Leafs ended with Monday night’s game. I’m doing my best to forget that the Leafs were once the Toronto St Patricks: another Irish team (don’t even ask about the lack of apostrophes and/or faulty pluralization in Toronto spelling preferences).
And just as my Notre Dame pain is beginning, ever so slightly, to recede, I awoke yesterday to the news that the hockey lockout is over. I am now, officially, a Leafs fan in a Montreal Canadiens world. Time to pull my toque firmly over my head and avoid direct eye contact. As soon as the Leafs fail to make the playoffs (again), everything will be fine.
But, before I leave ND until next season, I need to hear it again, just one more time:
Yesterday marked the celebrations for the 100th anniversary of the Ulster Covenant, the document signed by nearly half a million Ulstermen and women in 1912 as a protest against the British government’s plans to implement home rule in Ireland. The true anniversary was Friday, 28 September, but like Remembrance Sunday in the UK or Victoria Day in Canada, things get pushed around on the calendar. Nearly all of the news reports have described the covenant as the document that “helped lead to the partition of Ireland.” The New York Times today quoted an Ulsterman saying that the covenant “is the equivalent of our birth certificate” – and I certainly have written the same myself, depicting these men of Ulster who signed the covenant as “the most masculine of midwives for the eventual birth of Northern Ireland.”
I am delighted that yesterday’s events were peaceful – even the weather turned out to be better-than-average, though it, too, was politicized somewhat in the papers:
“When the sun came out before the march, one Protestant quipped, ‘God’s light shines on the righteous.’ Minutes later, on the other side of the police lines, a Catholic looked up at the same sky and said, ‘The devil looks after his own.’”
What astounds me, however, is that there was this much fuss about the covenant at all. You certainly wouldn’t have seen it coming down through the decades, or even in recent years. For nearly a century of the north’s history, the covenant was not what counted at all. A four-year run of importance is hardly the stuff of great historical drama… or is it?
I have a lot of books. I know other people with a lot of books. I also know that I’m going to inherit at least three libraries down the road, so knowing how other people have coped with bibliophilia was one of the great gifts of Bonnet’s book.
Turns out, I’m an emotional librarian in terms of how I catalogue the books I own, as opposed to some of the more alphabetical/genre-ridden/colour-coding options that are written about in Phantoms. Reading this also made me realize that, despite the fantastic speed of digital holdings, I really miss the smell of the card catalogue. Damn.
You see, this is why I don’t write fan letters – I’m rubbish at them. So, don’t think of this as a fan letter; instead, it is a heart-felt attempt to summarize what you’ve meant to me, to say farewell, because I heard the news the other day that I won’t be seeing you anymore. I’m in a bit of shock, because part of me thought you would go on forever, though of course it makes sense that you would withdraw just now.
I may have missed your final curtain call, but I’m hoping that I can get this out before you’ve left the stage entirely.
