Disclaimer
A few years ago, friend of mine served on a committee to discuss research at the university. At the first meeting, a biologist announced that “the only real research, the only objective research” was being done in the sciences. When my friend asked him who funded his research (which was largely proprietary), he threw a tantrum. His presumption of objectivity was in no way unusual among people who do research and write, not those who are well funded and are well regarded or among those who are simply novices in the trade. And none of them, being merely human, is purely and simply objective and writing results in the third person only makes it seem so. Change to the first person, and the writing is the same. As a very wise man once said: “You can change the names on the gravestones as often as you want, but the bodies stay in the same place”. And that place for writers is in human minds and bodies which, as Tennyson said of Ulysses, we are a part of all we have met.
Distinguished scholars make critical interpretations of Shakespeare turn upon a pronoun; Mysoginests find St. Paul a fair and just man; fascists think Hitler did some b ad things but don’t discredit his methods; Calvinists find libertines engaged in a deep struggle with their consciences, I don’t intend to dismiss, or slight, the scientific method, merely to observe that it is employed by human beings, who should begin every inquiry with a reflection on the self: what one knows and what one likes. Quite likely, and hopefully, I am preaching to the choir. But I don’t expect anyone to mimic the well funded scientist at faculty meetings who sat in the amen corner, raising his hands and shouting “Yes, lord, I believe” whenever the president delivered a proclamation – no matter how banal.
Then, too, the problem of a rhetorical approach exists: to discuss an experimental writer, who clearly espouses non-rational realities, in an undisguised Aristotelean manner not only takes the gilding off the lily but snips off its reproductive bits as well, making what been a provocative and reproductive work into a literary castrati. In “The Scholars” W.B. Yeats may have been unkind, but he wasn’t wrong. And, yes, lord, I have sinned in the past and probably will again. But I’m trying to walk in the light.
So, then, what follows will be as nearly as I can make it a work that reflects the contradictions and the complexities of Durrell’s own writings—and in some cases his paintings. This, then, is more of a homage than a critical study, more of a meditation than an analytical study. And when I screw my objectivity to the sticking point, I will try to discuss Durrell’s art by not imposing terms on it. I will not, I hope, be driven by gender theory or post-colonial theory, though the temptation to do so may bring me even past the edge of the bed. I know that I will not overcome the indoctrination of a lifetime, and I know I don’t have the intelligence or ability to reflect what Durrell did. He was, and perhaps still is, the most intelligent person I ever met. And as a longtime friend of mine observed: “Frank, you’re high average”. Perhaps so, but I’ve always worked off the bubble, so maybe I, too, need to be measured by a different ruler.
As did Durrell, I will construct a central concern and then let the analogies and ambiguities gather like metal bits and pieces around a magnet, Not all will be germane to the argument, as all were not rationally relevant to Durrell’s narratives. They were overlays of what interested him or obsessed him. Sometimes they were pieces in a game designed to bring the reader to an understanding, not always a comforting one. At least not for those of us born and bred in the Aristotelean west to honor a reality that is reasonable and predictable. Fortunately, the right brain people have devised a means for me to create overlays, as long as I respect the demands of a linear reality and don’t muck about with it too much. There will be side trips, little video visits, small asides, large arguments to the contrary of my own, meditations on resonances in my life to Durrell’s and to his art. After all, what is art without the readers to respond to the ringing of the bell? Of course, I will use my links to explain why Durrell’s many bells evoked my response, not always like Pavlov’s pups but at times to a similar ringing in my own being. Yes, yes, I know: “He’s got a ringing in his head. That’s for damn sure.”
Though I did not know Durrell as long or as well as many who have written about him, I did love the man and his art. And I will incorporate conversations I have had with him, both before and after he died. What comes about, I hope will be fluid, interactive, and not annoying. But if it annoys, get over it. After all, I got over Tunc and Nunquam and even became fond of them after an initial hissy fit.