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Cargando... El pozo de la soledad (1928)por Radclyffe Hall
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A landmark work this may be, literary fiction it is not. This was an absolute grind to read. I agree with Jeanette Winterson on this one: it reads like a misery memoir. I got through it, but only just . . . ( ) Il pozzo della solitudine è quel romanzo che prima o poi si incrocia se si vuole leggere i grandi classici della letteratura LGBTQIA+, in particolare della letteratura lesbica: parliamo, infatti, del primo romanzo che parla apertamente di donne lesbiche e delle loro relazioni. Il che – ve lo scrivo senza tanti giri di parole – è praticamente l’unico motivo per il quale valga la pena di leggere questo libro. Ho fatto molta fatica, infatti, a entrare in sintonia con questa storia: un po’ perché Hall tende a essere molto prolissa e davvero troppo sentimentale per i miei gusti (è questo è anche colpa del fatto che è un romanzo pubblicato nel 1928 e l’Ottocento romantico era ancora in vista); un po’ perché la teoria dell’autrice sull’omosessualità oggi viene sostenuta solo dallз integralistз. Secondo Hall, infatti, l’omosessualità sarebbe una condizione patologica innata dalla quale non esiste cura (quindi i termini lesbica o gay non sono mai utilizzati, in favore del bruttissimo invertitз, che a me fa venire in mente un guanto da rovescio e non delle persone). L’unico aspetto che ci dice qualcosa è l’enfasi posta sul fatto che il biasimo della società nei confronti delle persone omosessuali causa enormi sofferenze e disagi materiali, che si sommano a quella che oggi chiameremmo omofobia interiorizzata. Nonostante comunque oggi la posizione di Hall sia decisamente superata, quando il romanzo uscì scatenò un putiferio e nel Regno Unito (dove probabilmente il ricordo del processo a Oscar Wilde era ancora ben presente) l’autrice dovette subire un processo per oscenità, che si concluse con l’ordine di distruggere tutte le copie pubblicate nel Paese (dove non ricomparve fino al 1959). Ovviamente tutto questo finì per dare molta visibilità a Il pozzo della solitudine, che per anni è stato il testo di riferimento per chissà quante lesbiche. Quindi se vi va di leggerlo per sapere da dove ha preso avvio la letteratura lesbica per come la intendiamo oggi, armatevi di pazienza e di consapevolezza di non star leggendo un capolavoro, ma un testo che ha più una rilevanza socio-culturale che non letteraria. *4.5? 4.8?* Do the best you can, no man can do more — but never stop fighting. For us there is no sin so great as despair, and perhaps no virtue so vital as courage. Um. Wow. I came across this book in my many forays of pre-Stonewall queer history when I was writing a novelization of queer 1920s New York. Lucky for my research, my main characters were male, but I still came across the few and far between primary source fictions of queer women and bookmarked them. I received this book as a gift this Christmas, and seeing a lull in school work, dedicated myself to the 166k word, 400-page clunker. (After reading War and Peace, it was a reassuring number, believe me.) And man am I glad I read it. A word of caution: If you don't like old-style prose, you probably won't like it. If you don't like a lot of detail that comes inherent to that style, you probably won't like it. And if you can't appreciate Christianity/Religiosity for a queer person and the many sufferings of it, you probably won't like it. As I began reading, the idea that Stephen is a transgender man, instead of a "butch" lesbian, seemed to take over me. The linguistic and psychological concepts to differentiate same-sex attraction and gender identity were not known at the time, and it made Stephen's character at times both frustration and immensely fascinating. Coming into the book I was expecting a lesbian narrative, and the more I heard Stephen's feeling of being a boy, the more I grew convinced they were probably transgender, and thus a key part of understanding would be lost to me. As the book progressed, however, my theory seemed to waver, and I'm still not sure how Stephen would identify in the modern world. To me I realized, it didn't necessarily matter to my understanding of the novel's themes of a world not accepting something natural. No matter how Stephen would align themselves, the sentiments still stand: All queer people deserve to be treated equally. From one character to the next we see how unjust the life is for an "invert". From Angela's twisted sense of selfishness to save her own unhappy honor, to Anna's disgusting denunciation of her child, to Puddle's true inclination never uttered to Stephen, to Martin's awkward growth of love and embarrassed leaving, to the deeply tragic story of Jamie and Barbara, and especially down to Stephen's last sacrifice—not only is the message abundantly clear but seems to also strengthen the connection Stephen had with her father, Sir Phillip. Sir Phillip is the original God in this story, the Father who understands and accepts his child—but is too afraid to tell her or others for fear of hurting them. This then is the God the Father Stephen prays to at the end, the Father who loves and understands her, but for one reason or another is silent. Stephen finds his scrawled book of Psychopathia Sexualis like the commandments, and through it learns her Father accepts her. He just didn't tell her explicitly. The story is ultimately one of Stephen returning to her Father; enjoying his unabashed love as a child before being banished from her Eden of Morton, she must seek to find peace in her silent, God the Father once more. And so I found attention to religion beautiful. Being religiously-inclined and grappling with my faith as I try to return to my own halcyon days of God (as Hall themselves would so eloquently put it), the struggle of religion was poignant to me. Stephen's life is underlined by a feeling of God: at times she believes in none of it, at others she seems to understand the power that He really is there—the symbolism of Stephen as Jesus comes to mind, sacrificing herself for her love so she may have a better life. If Hall could be a devout Catholic in the face of her sexuality, her trials—and hell—even WWI, then anyone could. I've been praying for my own spirituality recently, trying to understand my encounters with spirits against a world that tells me I must be insane, the outmoded creation stories, and twisted single-mindedness of the Christian we've all come to revile. It seems like a blessing then that I read this book at the time that I did, and I hope one day I'm at peace with my encounters with the unexplained and otherworldly, and the universality of a God for all people on earth no matter what creed. For now, I'm reminded of one of my favorite quotes from the book, something I'll hold on to for life: Then an unexpected, and to her very moving thing happened; his eyes filled with pitiful tears: ‘Lord,’ he muttered, ‘why need this have come upon you — this incomprehensible dispensation? It’s enough to make one deny God’s existence!’ (For anyone more interested in Hall's relationship with her spirituality, I recommend this article written by a queer Christian site The book is not 5 stars only because of the length. Sometimes I felt myself slogging through (sometimes being the keyword), though I genuinely liked the writing style in all its stately obsequiousness to detail I know many do not appreciate. Sometimes the attention to detail, especially of natural elements, went on for paragraphs and I wanted to bang my head against something to wake it up. I felt at times the themes were not completely cohesive either, as the details seemed to muddy the message Hall was going for. I could write 3 papers on this book and the literary merit it still holds—why it is not in schools hounds me. I feel the value of the book escapes the masses, not by any deficiency of themselves but rather of the time and the subject manner. We have equal protection under the law now and classical religion is dwindling. The pertinent issues were already niche 90 years ago, I understand the canon's ignorance of it, though it makes my heart ache. If only Hall could see the happy, queer marriages able to take place in churches now—though a part of me knows she sees it all already. *** ‘God,’ she gasped, we believe; we have told You we believe . . . We have not denied You, then rise up and defend us. Acknowledge us, oh God, before the whole world. Give us also the right to our existence!’ Ha csak a formát nézzük, meg merem kockáztatni, ez a regény elavult. Nem a XXI. század kontextusában, hanem megjelenési dátumához, 1928-hoz viszonyítva – hisz ekkorra már túl vagyunk Conradon, Joyce-on (de említhetnénk akár Galsworthy-t is), akikhez képest Hall mintha visszahátrálna két évtizedet a szorosan vett viktoriánus prózába. A magány kútja elemeiben szükségtelenül szószátyár és érzelmeskedő szöveg, ami távol tartja magát mindenféle izgalmas prózai kísérletezéstől, ráadásul helyenként árad belőle az „igazság sulykolásának” kényszere. (Nyilván szándékosan: programadó mű kíván lenni. Nem indokolatlanul, persze.) Hall kasztszerű szemlélete meg egyszerűen irritáló – az hogy az íreknek mindig „kelta lelke” van, ami végtelenül vagány dolog, bármit jelentsen is, még hagyján. De nekem a fülem kihámlott attól, hogy a szerző számára a cselédek, kertészek és inasok csak valamiféle köztes lényként léteznek, valahol a növények és bútorok fölött, de az emberek alatt – és tegyük még hozzá, a lovak és kutyák alatt is, legalábbis erre utal, hogy Hall lényegesen bensőségesebben taglalja ezen lelkes állatok érzelmi hullámzásait, mint mondjuk akármelyik konyhalányét vagy komornyikét*. Ugyanakkor ez a könyv tételesen és dokumentáltan az első egyértelmű irodalmi leírása a leszbikus szerelemnek**. (Így most eszembe is jutott: lehet, hogy az a baj, hogy túl egyértelmű a leírás?) Pontosan ábrázolja a számkivetettség érzését, hogy milyen a nők idegenkedésével és undorával, valamint a férfiak idegenkedésével, undorával és frusztrációjával*** szembesülni, tehát összességében: a társadalmi zárványt, amibe az ember belekerül. És izgalmasan jeleníti meg a zavarba ejtő kettősséget is, hogy valaki a bűntudattól űzve legszívesebben a katolicizmus kebelébe bújna – de a katolicizmus momentán egy laza csuklómozdulattal a Gyehenna tüzére kívánja őt vetni. Persze Hall megközelítése így mai szemmel több ponton hibádzik – mintha maga sem tudná eldönteni, hogy a homoszexualitás a nevelés következménye, vagy vele született tulajdonság (mindenesetre az előbbire utalgat többet), és hát gyakran volt az a benyomásom, hogy a főhős nem egyszerűen leszbikus, hanem konkrétan férfi akar lenni, ami azért nem ugyanaz****. (Megjegyz.: Hall maga sem használja a „leszbikus” kifejezést, hanem „inverznek” nevezi Stephent. Aki amúgy a főhősnő. Hülye angol névadási szokások.) Szóval jelentős könyv ez, olyan köntösben, ami azért lehetne sokkal jelentősebb is… Érdekes. Ritkán érzem ilyen egyértelműen, hogy egy mű becsét az határozza meg, hogy valamit először csinál. * Amúgy ez az arisztokratikus hozzáállás nem újdonság, már Wilde esetében is meglepett, hogy a társadalomból való kitaszítottság mennyire nem jár együtt a más kitaszítottak iránti együttérzéssel, vagy akár csak azzal, hogy egyáltalán észrevegyük őket. ** Csak nehogy félreértsük egymást: a szerelemnek, nem a szexualitásnak. Szexuális téren e könyv nagyjából éppolyan prűd, mint Dickens. *** Frusztráció, igen. Mert itt egy nő, aki a mi nőinkre pályázik. Mi több: a siker reményével! Konkurencia! **** Amiről megint eszembe jutott Wilde, aki számos esetben konkrétan megvetéssel beszélt a nőkről. Hall esetében is tetten érhető ez a tendencia – a nők egyenjogúsításának kérdése például legfeljebb ha érintőlegesen foglalkoztatja, mint olyan esemény, ami mellesleg az ő kínjain is enyhítene. sin reseñas | añadir una reseña
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