My writing friends and I were talking the other day about writing techniques. Someone asked, incredulously, if anyone was still writing in longhand.
I do, and a few others, older people, said they did.
There is something in longhand writing that opens up the creative corners in your brain. No matter how stressed, depressed or blocked you are, you start scribbling with your old stylo plume, fountain pen, the ink is flowing and glistening on the paper, and then, suddenly, the words start coming out of you and form into phrases, you start concentrating, you can hardly keep up with the train of thought, you cross out, rewrite, write again, and it all stays in front of you and stimulates more and more and more.
I have three Parker pens and several others. One Amercian-made Parker was given to me for my 20th by my father, ages ago, and I still use it. It has a 'Fine' tip that you can only find in specialist shops, in supermarkets it's mostly 'Medium' which I don't like much. The Parker always reminds me of the junior school teacher who was so appalled by my hand-writing that she made me write pages of exercises on what was called 'clean-writing' — чистописание. My handwriting improved but I got into the habit of chewing on the plastic tip of the Parker.
After having had to replace two relatively expensive pens my mother was desperate, and secretly smothered the tip in mustard! It was a shock, but then I rather liked it, so it didn't work. What did work was when my Parker was replaced with a ghastly open-tipped Sheaffer pen. Its wide plastic top wasn't chewable at all, I hated it. And ever since then I have hated open-tipped pens, even Parkers.
Oh well, at least I don't chew my pens anymore.
Just today, a Russian friend on Facebook, a well-known writer, was complaining that some cafes in Moscow are limiting the time you can spend sitting at a table without another order. She got used to using one for working on her laptop and for meetings while waiting to collect children from their activities. One commenter wrote that he couldn't understand people with laptops or ipads in cafes, thought it was just showing off.
Everybody in the thread remembered Hemingway and others, who wrote in cafes. The writer poster also quipped that JK Rowling used to write in an Edinburgh cafe. Yes, she did! I remembered. And she did write in longhand, partly because she couldn't afford a type-writer or a laptop and partly because she liked it. (See here and here.)
iPads or not, should literature survive the cafes must allow people limitlessly to sit and think, and write. Preferably with ink on paper. (Kick out the smartphone users, if you must!)
Fyodor Tolstoy the American. Photo of C19 o/c portrait by Shakko.
Tolstoy based Dolokhov, a curious secondary character in 'War and Peace", on several real-life men. One of them was Fyodor Tolstoy the American (Толстой-Американец), Leo Tolstoy's cousin-uncle. As a young boy Tolstoy the future writer knew him personally and was very impressed by his personality and the legends that surrounded him.
Fyodor Tolstoy, among other things, killed eleven people at duels and was demoted to the ranks several times but got restored after feats of heroism in Russia's many wars of the time, including the main battle with Napoleon in 1812, the Battle of Borodino. He got the nickname 'Amerikanets' after taking part in a round-the-world sea expedition.
There is a portrait of Fyodor Tolstoy as a young man in Leo Tolstoy's Moscow house, now a museum.
The new TV adaptation of 'War and Peace,' currently running on BBC 1 and cable channels around the world, plays up the characters of Dolokhov and Sonia to the point of overshadowing the main characters, Pierre, Andrei and Natasha.
At first glance, it may seem a fault with the script author Andrew Davies and director Tim Harper. However, a more careful look at the character of Fyodor Dolokhov makes it clear that 'reading up' Dolokhov is a valid choice that may explain a lot in Leo Tolstoy's novel and the reappraise the comparative weight of characters in the book.
In a sense, Dolokhov is as much a Leo Tolstoy as Pierre, into whom the writer and thinker put most of himself, as conventional interpretation tells us. A writer, especially a great one, cannot help splitting his soul and putting bits of it into the characters he creates. Dolokhov is a kind of horcrux of Tolstoy himself. He reflects the character of Tolstoy the man as much as the floppy humanist Pierre. The cold fury, the anger against conventions, the scornful nationalism, the desire to be accepted rivalling only the desire to humiliate the accepting, the grand society, — those are the traits that were driving Leo Tolstoy too, in life and in writing.
The writer, before his marriage, was not alien to excessive drinking, partying with the gypsies and losing and winning, though mostly losing, in card games.
Tolstoy's appearance and peculiar mannerisms bear striking resemblance with that of Dolokhov. Here is how WS Maugham describes Tolstoy:
"He was irritable, brutally contradictory and arrogantly indifferent to other people's feelings. Turgenev has said that he never met anything more disconcerting than Tolstoy's inquisitorial look, which, accompanied by a few biting words, could goad a man to fury."
Tolstoy challenged Turgenev to a duel and friends had difficulty in preventing him from actually fighting while reconciliation took more than ten years. Tolstoy's stare, that unnerved Turgenev so much, is the same as Dolokhov's: "Dolokhov looked at Pierre with clear, mirthful, cruel eyes, and that smile of his which seemed to say, 'Ah! This is what I like!'" (from Garnett's translation.) This is from the scene at the English Club in Moscow when Pierre challenges Dolokhov to a duel.
That same straight, cruel inquisitional look follows Dolokhov in all his appearances in the novel, all the way to the last episode with him, when he orders that no French prisoners should be kept alive. Before that final scene with Dolokhov, he and Denisov, both commanders of small partisan troops that raided Napoleon's army behind the lines, have a fierce argument about the treatment of the prisoners. It appears that Dolokhov, unlike Denisov, was systematically slaughtering them. Denisov is repulsed by that.
But where does Tolstoy, the great humanist, stand in that argument? Curiously, when Pierre meets Prince Andrew on the eve of the Battle of Borodino and listens to his friend's famous monologue on the 'latent patriotism' of the Russians, Prince Andrew says exactly what later Dolokhov says to Denisov, even with greater clarity and ferocity: "One thing I would do if I had the power," he began again, "I would not take prisoners. Why take prisoners? It's chivalry! The French have destroyed my home and are on their way to destroy Moscow, they have outraged and are outraging me every moment. They are my enemies. In my opinion they are all criminals. And so thinks Timokhin and the whole army. They should be executed!" And later, in the same monologue: "Take no prisoners, but kill and be killed!" Pierre looks at Andrew, both frightened and compassionate, but agrees with everything he said.
Horcruxes are from JK Rowling's Harry Potter. They are magical objects where the dark wizard hides parts of his split soul. In Somerset Maugham's essay on Tolstoy in the book 'Great Novelists and Their Novels' (1954) there is a shrewd observation:
"There is a point in the writer's psychology that I have never seen mentioned, though it must be obvious to anyone who has studied the lives of authors. Every creative writer's work is, to some extent at least, a sublimation of instincts, desires, daydreams, call them what you like, which for one cause or another he has repressed, and by giving them literary expression he is freed of the compulsion to give them the further release of action. But it is not a complete satisfaction. He is left with a feeling of inadequacy. That is the ground of the man of letters' glorification of the man of action and the unwilling, envious admiration with which he regards him."
Applying this to Dolokhov, it becomes apparent that the character is part of Tolstoy, the part that the writer couldn't admit in himself or couldn't allow in himself, and so decided to give it to his literary creation.
And yes, JK Rowling took her Antonin Dolohov, a Death Eater, one of the cruellest wizards, from Tolstoy's 'War and Peace.'
Note: Wikipedia has an article on Maugham's book, referring to it as 'Ten Novels and Their Authors' of 1954. My American paper edition of the book is titled 'Great Novelists and Their Novels' with copyright dated 1948.
In this video Dolokhov and Pierre duel, from Sergey Bondarchuk's cinema version (1965-67) -
The Borodino Battle, 1972 series, Prince Andrei's monologue with 'No quarter!' at 24 min. into the video -
I struggle to keep up with my children's reading. I have long tried if not to read in full, but at least to leaf through their books. It's been two years since I last read to them at bed-time. They now read a lot themselves, already progressing from children's books to 'serious' literature. My son has just finished 1984 and my daughter's bookshelf is heaving. So I am falling behind miserably.
But we all have kept affection for J.K. Rowling whose books kick-started my children's reading as they did for many others. I am an old embarrassing parent. I don't dig quick enough. That's why I got so excited when, on the last book of Harry Potter, I realised that the house-elf Kreacher's name is a phonetic transcription of Creature.
So excited, in fact, that I decided to try and find a good translation of his name into Russian since the edition of Harry Potter we have renders him just as it is - Кричер, which sounds like a German name. No link to 'creature' there.
The first word that comes to mind in Russian is существо. But it doesn't sound as a name. And the phonetic play on words is also lost.
Креатура? No, this is from bureaucratic lingo. It means someone is under patronage of someone else higher up.
There is a synonym: творение (creature, creation). Again, it's too long and doesn't sound either like a name, or like a nickname. But the stress in the word falls on E which makes the O in the root sound like A. So, the root part phonetically is TVAR-. That's something interesting.
We have the word тварь (thing, creature). Close, may be, but it's too direct. And the usage of that word doesn't fit. It's either used as an imprecation, or in a Biblical or Dostoyevskyan context. And Rowling's phonetic joke is lost.
Russian is strong in affixes. What can we do with тварь? Here is one: тварюга (shaggy dirty thing, shaggy creature). It does sound like a nickname and the length of the word is close to Kreacher. Make it Тварюг? No, it feels awkward to a Russian tongue. Тварюго? No, that's silly, we don't want to make Kreacher into someone sounding like doctor Zhivago.
Then, is it possible to capture the play on words Kreacher-Creature? There is another word ending with -юга: ворюга (burly intimidating thief).
Put together тварюга and ворюга to get ТВОРЮГА (Tvoryuga). This sounds right. Can spit it out like a nickname. The sense is there and the thieving grumpy character of Kreacher is reflected. The word is as solid in your mouth as Kreacher's pride in his master's house. And, best of all, Rowling's trick is there. You read the word and see the ВОР (thief) bit, you say it - and you hear just the 'creature' bit. I hope I got there.
Here is the thread from Kreecher to Творюга once again:
