Sargeson from his isolation

Press, 14 April 1984, Page 20

Sargeson from his isolation

Conversation in a Train and Other Critical Writing. By Frank Sargeson. Edited by Kevin Cunningham. Auckland U.P./ Oxford U.P., 1983. 220 pp. $18.50. The Hangover and Joy of the Worm. By Frank Sargeson. Penguin, 1983. 315 pp. $10.95. (Reviewed by Owen Marshall) Frank Sargeson did not have an easy life. He struggled with poverty, uncertain health, the indifference of publishers, and the apathy of most fellow New Zealanders (“Who reads us? — alas!”), for many years. It is easy to forget that; it is easy to take the prominence and success he had achieved by the time of his death, and reflect them back down the span of his life. By reading his autobiographical works, his critical writing as well as his fiction, the years of struggle are clearly realised. With this realisation comes the knowledge, too, that the struggle encompassed not only the obstacles mentioned, but something more insidious — a sense of personal isolation. Isolation is seen by Sargeson as “the New Zealand thing,” and is crucial in his work, not just because of his observation of its effects within society, but because of its application to himself. “The isolation of various people and types of people in my work is all connected with the isolation that I’ve felt myself. I feel the two things: that this is a New Zealand thing and it’s particularly so in my case because of the unusualness of my occupation ... I think, for a lot of people in my environment, I was a figure of fun.” For Sargeson isolation could bite even deeper, and not only because of his bi-sexual views. Perhaps the best expression of what I mean comes in comment he makes when discussing Henry Lawson: “It seems clear that he suffered a precocious sense of interior desolation;” and in reference to this a few lines later: “Is there anyone to deny that to be afflicted by that kind of sickness is to experience the worst of human ills?” The isolation of people, even from those intimately associated with them,, is a fundamental theme in both “The Hangover” and “Joy of the Worm.” In the first of these short novels Alan has no meaningful communication with his mother, and ends up killing her as well as others. In “Joy of the Worm” the Bohuns, father and son, have so little understanding of the states of mind of their spouses that neither anticipate the terrible though different deaths that Maisie and Queenie are driven to. So closed a character is Alan that his

motivation remains largely a mystery even to the reader; one of the reasons for “The Hangover” being one of the least successful of Sargeson’s novels. It is not surprising that Sargeson demonstrates bitterness at times — in his autobiography and elsewhere as well as in the works reviewed here. He ends his comments on selections from “Overland,” in “Landfall,” 1967, with: “Who reads? — we all know that reading in the Antipodes is something you do when nothing better offers, a substitute pastime for occasions when the weather is dirty enough to let you down.” But the wonder of it is that bitterness is not dominant in Sargeson, while generosity, sympathy and a comic sense are characteristic. The bitterness is the occasional outcome in his personality of his perseverance against the odds; of his sustained dedication to his artistic ideals in a largely hostile environment. Sargeson would not compromise in the essentials of his work and life. For those were pride and resolution, but he was almost unfailingly humble in his comments on literature and the efforts of others. “I think you will agree that what I am saying opens up some biggish questions, so difficult to answer that I haven’t a hope of satisfying you. But if I throw out a number of suggestions, I can at least hope that I may stimulate you into having a shot at your own answers.” A typical lack of pomposity, and Sargeson could lead a laugh at his own expense, as shown by his delight when he realised, during the interview with Michael Beveridge, that he was confusing Fanny Price of “Mansfield Park” with Fanny Hill. The critical writing in “Conversation In A Train” emphasises some of Sargeson’s most firmly held beliefs by

presenting them at times more unequivocally than the fictions. The sense of human loneliness and Isolation and the nature of artistic commitment have already been mentioned; the spiritual impoverishment of New Zealand society, the inevitability of personality masks to .present to the world, the certainty that fiction can never be life despite the tags of realism, are other beliefs. These convictions are reiterated many times in all the works reviewed here. Sargeson’s writing is not uniformly absorbing in either fiction or criticism. Reservations concerning “The Hangover” have been mentioned, and the technique of extended letters in fiction, used a good deal in “Joy of the Worm,” is one that easily becomes boring. In “Conversation In A Train” the least successful pieces are those in which Sargeson indulges a tendency to ramble. In such mood he has a characteristic quirk of presenting illustrations or examples more obscure than his original statements. But again and again in his comments on individual writers and individual works he shows the shrewd and exact insight or judgment which reveals the depth of understanding he has of the craft; his experience of the difficulties concerned with writing which he witnesses others grappling with. His discerning remark, for example, that the melodrama in Morrieson’s work “should not be taken for a flaw when it is in fact a device,” and his early realisation of the emotional power behind Sherwood Anderson’s restrained style. One of the most attractive of Sargeson’s qualities was his encouragement of other writers: he seemed to see them as fellow travellers rather than competitors. “Conversation In A Train” also provides those nuggets of personal information which, while of no great significance perhaps, interest those who see the process of writing itself as fascinating. For example, Sargeson’s certain knowledge of the exact length of a fiction even before he wrote it, or quite knew what it would be about. Frank Sargeson, and a few of his contemporaries, did a good deal of the spade work necessary to establish an indigenous New Zealand literature: gaining the acceptance of the local idiom as a suitable vehicle for stories was in itself a break-through. Such achievements are increasingly taken for granted as they are capitalised on; an indication of success itself in a wry fashion. Yet Sargeson’s contribution has been in more than style, as a reading of his books will demonstrate.