The lady herself; or Jane fix part III

More than any other author in English literature, it seems, Jane Austen stymies her biographers.* There really shouldn't be any reason for this: we have letters and some manuscripts in her hand, numerous family recollections have been passed down, and she lived in a family and an age with an almost obsessive need to record their experiences for posterity. Yet it's always so tempting to ascribe the experiences of her heroines to the author. It's hard to imagine someone who wrote so convincingly about relationship battles having nothing in her own life that came close. Claire Tomalin's 1997 bio of Austen avoids the temptation to depict Austen as a real life version of her various characters, but she does do an excellent job portraying how Austen's life, both the tragic and comic phases, constantly influenced her writing. Jane Austen: A Life may not be revolutionary in its conclusions, but I can honestly say that it read as easily as any of Austen's novels, and with more than a few figures that could be directly drawn from Emma, Persuasion or any of the other novels.

Austen herself is always at the center of the bio, obviously, but Tomalin gives considerable attention to the figures surrounding Austen (and, mercifully, a complete family tree to keep all of the similarly named Austens straight). Other than Cassandra, Austen's sister and confidante, no one gets more attention than her colorful cousin, Eliza. Born in India of indeterminate parentage, Eliza married a supposed French count, only to see him go to the guillotine. Eliza later married Austen's brother, the charming but flighty Henry. Another brother, Edward, was adopted into a wealthy landowning family, not unlike many of Austen's heroes. The eldest of the Austen brood, James, and his pushy wife are portrayed as an inspiration for Emma's Mr. Elton and the odious Augusta Elton.

This oblique portrait of Austen only underscores how little is actually known about her, in spite of her letters. Much of what has been assumed about Austen is due to memoirs left behind by her family, flavored by their Victorian-era censorship. There are hints, here and there, of Austen's alienation from the social scene (Tomalin notes the sharp satire of Austen's letters regarding Edward's Kentish relations, whom she considered snobs and only found companionship there with the governess). And there is the undercurrent sense that many of Austen's contemporaries didn't quite know what to make of the author. Austen's obvious cleverness sometimes rankled friends and relations, especially if that barbed wit were directed towards them. We can only assume that sharp wit was the reason Austen's niece, Fanny, burned many of her aunt's surviving letters.

Tomalin doesn't go into great detail in critizing each of the novels, which was my only complaint about the book. She must assume that her audience is more familiar with the films (which do not receive much comment, and that limited to notes) than the books, as she provides plot summaries for Mansfield Park and Persuasion. Coupled with the fluid writing, the well-written endnotes and generous images, Jane Austen: A Life is a good starting point for those interested in the author but aren't ready to delve into more scholarly works.

*With the exception of Shakespeare, of course. At least there's no debate over who wrote Austen's novels.

Who are these tacky people?

I confess, I'm entirely transfixed by the idea of royalty. I'm most interested in what went on with powerful families of the past, especially when it came to their penchant for turning against each other, but the current incarnation of the reigning elite does hold a certain fascination. Jeremy Paxman, journalist with the BBC, has something of a royal hang up too. A familiar with some of the swankier circles of society, Paxman uses his access to navigate through the mystique to figure out just who these people are in his 'polite inquiry' On Royalty--and more importantly, whether the modern world really needs them.

Although he considers other nations' royal families (including the recently hired-yes, hired-royal family of Albania), Paxman, not surprisingly, pretty much sticks to The Royal Family: the Windors. The central premise about royalty is something of an oxymoron: how to appear constantly in the public eye, yet maintain enough of an exclusive aura so as not to clue the hoi polloi into the fact that really, there isn't that much that is terribly extraordinary about these people. To be sure, there have been some sovereigns who were gifted in statecraft or scholarship, but the relentless pursuit of hunting is a more accurate picture of a royal pasttime. In fact, they are terribly mundane in many ways (Paxman notes the heavily creased copies of Fredrick Forsyth novels in the Queen's library). But in describing Prince Charles, Paxman gets to the central tragedy of today's royalty: "The prince had consistently misunderstood or ignored a basic truth at the heart of the relationship between royalty and the people. He seemed to believe that his significance lay in what he believed and did. The truth was simply that his significance lay in who he was."

I use the word tragedy as that's the tone that finally emerges. It's perhaps odd to refer to a massively wealthy and priviledged group of people as tragic, but the added pressures of public scrutiny on an already disfunctional (and therefore normal) family, coupled with the expectation that they go through life without expressing the opinions that everyone else is entitled to makes for something of a tragic tale. On the public side, is the magic of royalty really worth the funds spent on maintaining their lifestyles? Paxman makes a well researched, readable argument, regardless of whether you agree with him or not.

Of course, the whole discussion of whether royalty is relevant today owes much of its origin to Princess Diana, possibly the most documented person of the latter twentieth century. Tina Brown, former editor of Tatler, The New Yorker and various other high brow glossys, adds her take to an already crowded field of Diana bios. I found The Diana Chronicles to be a tremendously frustrating book, although I stuck with it to the bitter end. Brown's journalistic take on Diana's life not surprisingly focuses primarily on the princess's manipulation of the press in manipulating her image--an obsession so vital to her that the Wales's marriage was less a menage a trois but a duel between Camilla et al versus Di and the entire press corps. All the well-known details are here, but Brown's portrayal of Diana suggests a much more desperate woman who used downright mean tactics to achieve the sort of stable life that she had always been denied. A convincing argument? Brown bases some of her conclusions on her own conjectures and disclosures which may never be proven definitively, but with a subject like Diana, such sources are the norm. It's as good an argument as any of the other Diana bios out there, at least for now.

But for a book based on one of the most photographed woman in the world, the almost total lack of images or plates is an especially frustrating one. Brown bases much of her argument on the manner Diana manipulated her image on specific photos, yet only a few black and white photos are given in endpages. I have a hard time understanding why Brown and Doubleday opted not to include a set of plates (price couldn't have been an issue, given the sure bestseller status). It's an inexplicable omission and one that ought to be corrected in future editions. Also, The Diana Chronicles is very long, and I was never allowed to forget in the course of 400+ pages that Tina Brown is a fabulous person who lives a fabulous life. Luncheons at the Four Seasons with the princess and reminiscences of state dinners are all very well and good to Brown's research, but I think she wouldn't have hurt her argument by cutting out the name-dropping.

Maybe I've proven part of Paxman's argument about needing the magic of royalty--after all, I've just slogged through 800 pages about them. Will the Royal Family ever lose their status? Judging by the popularity of Diana and her story, it's a fair guess that they'll remain an object of fascination for generations to come.

A scientific dispute for the ages.

As a graduate who has earned a degree in the humanities, I tend to regard those in the sciences as having a considerably easier task in tracking down what is real in nature: formulate the hypothesis, test it and if it works, everyone basically agrees that's the way things are. Yet, as the recent brouhaha over the status of Pluto has demonstrated, there can be a surprising amount of decisions that scientists have to make.

Before there was Pluto, there was the issue of what happens to a star in the course of its lifetime. In the early twentieth century, the debate over what the scientific evidence disclosed and what theories raged in astrophysical circles, easily making or unmaking academic careers. On the one side was Sir Arthur Eddington, world-renowned scientist, theorist and practically credited with inventing astrophysics. On the other was a young unknown Indian scientist, Subrahmanyan Chandrasekhar, who formulated the almost unfathomable notion of black holes. Their despute, and the repercussions that it had on the course of astronomy and physics, is the subject of Arthur I. Miller's Empire of the Stars: Obsession, Friendship, and Betrayal in the Quest for Black Holes. Following Chandra, Eddington and their contemporaries through blind alleys, dead ends and false leads, Miller weaves the tale of how the quest to understand the life of the stars nearly cost both scientists their reputations. Only with the advent of the atomic bomb and achievements in observational methods did Chandra's efforts be recognized, and black holes become a physical reality.

Part biography of Chandra, part history of an idea, Miller draws on a trove of sources, especially Chandra's own revealing personal letters. He also traces the many competing theories concerning the lives of stars, taking the story well beyond just Chandra and Eddington. Miller includes considerable back matter, including a glossary, brief biographical sketches, notes and appendices, but for those who may not have a comfortable gasp on basic physical and chemical principals may find Empire to be a bit of a challenge. I personally found the latter portion of the book, which dealt with the observational findings and the development of the atomic bomb to be more interesting. Empire of the Stars probably isn't for everyone, but because of Miller's thorough research, could be quite important to anyone interested in the history of science.

A bona-fide star performance.

Unlike the last book I found while browsing at Memorial, Lee Server's new biography of Ava Gardner was not at all difficult to get through, in spite of its 500 pages of text. Ava Gardner: "Love Is Nothing" moves along swiftly and with as much spirit and vest as its subject. Today, Gardner isn't as well known an actress as her contemporaries Grace Kelly and Katharine Hepburn, but at the height of her career (late 1940s-50s), Gardner was the femme fatale of Hollywood. Her private life often topped her on-screen persona: much of her notoriety came from her affair with the then-married Frank Sinatra, but previous marriages to Mickey Rooney and Artie Shaw had already set the pattern for Gardner's heady and reckless love life.

Server has a lot to work with, detailing Gardner's rise from the North Carolina backwoods to through her rise to stardom and her slow decline as she became disillusioned following failed movies and love affairs. A combination of mistreatment by her studio (MGM almost made it a point to cast her in terrible films) and insecurity about her acting skills led Gardner to develop a legendary drinking habit, even for alcohol drenched Hollywood. In time, her destructive lifestyle would leave her restlessly wandering, searching for a permanent home and a man who wouldn't break her heart. In spite of her flaws though, Gardner remained a compelling figure. Server brings this aspect of the actress alive through a writing style that echoes Gardner's often ironic tone and extensive, explicative-filled quotes from Gardner and those who knew her.

I really didn't have much familiarity with Gardner's work, only having seen her in Mogambo and Show Boat a long time ago. In a way, though, Gardner's greatest dramatic turn was in the making of her own life, with held as much melodrama and triumph as any screen saga. Like the best type of director, Server frames his star so that her character can shine through to tell her own story. And for both author and star, it is a great performance.

A life in full, c. 1785

I recall seeing someone with this book when it first came out waaaay back in 1998, but as all the readers I know who typically read this sort of bio deny ever having laid eyes on the book, it is possible that I've been hallucinating about this book for the past eight years. Maybe.

But now I'm quite glad that I happened upon Amanda Foreman's biography of Georgiana, Duchess of Devonshire. A 200-year dead member of the British aristocracy may seem an odd choice for a modern biography, but Georgiana was a surprisingly modern figure, even for our time. Foreman follows her subject from her marriage at the age of 17 to her death in 1806, at a time when the world of British politics was as much about backroom deals, social backstabbing and sexual intrigue as it was about the proceedings in the House of Commons. At the very center of all this upheaval (and some contemporaries would say the cause of part of it) was Georgiana. She was constantly in the eye of the public, not the least for her controversial manipulations of the Whig party and her savvy use of fashion and celebrity to influence popular opinion. Yet behind her public persona was a woman who suffered from an unending feeling of inadequacy, resulting in a gambling addiction (she racked up debts of $6,000,000), the loss of an illegitimate daughter, and the reliance on a bizarre menage a trois to sustain the appearance of her marriage.

Portions of the book dedicated to the finer points of Whig and British politics are a bit of a slog for the uninitiated, but Foreman recreates the personalities and atmosphere of this world so well that Georgiana sometimes reads like a novel. With revolution, sex and politics the norm in her life, it isn't surprising that many of Georgiana's letters were censored by her prudish Victorian descendents. Yet enough of this remarkable woman's personality comes through to reveal her zeal for life, centuries after it ended.