Why I want to love London. But just don’t.

I felt a profound connection with someone a few weekends ago. One of those deep rooted, epiphany type moments when you realise, with a jolt, that some truly ‘gets’ you. It happens oh so rarely and, if or when it does, it never fails to astound me. I was overcome with emotion, a feeling of desperate love and relief and a hope that I am not, after all, alone. And the person that I experienced this moment with? This heart wrenching, tear inducing, knee quivering, all-consuming, gratitude-laden moment? (Hyperbolic? Me?) That wonderful soul has, in fact been dead a good while. That soul was none other than Charles Dickens. And this tender moment of understanding occurred in a room full of other English teachers during a lecture on ‘The Geography of the Gothic’.

I mentioned in a previous blog post that everyone I know is sneaking off to London at an alarming speed. I understand why this is- the job opportunities, avoiding a soul-sucking commute, the chance to move out and experience that distinctly ‘London’ lifestyle. The drinks after work, the unusual exhibitions/events/pop ups, the impromptu nights out that don’t involve an extortionate taxi fare and/or a journey home time that takes well over an hour.  But I could still think of nothing I’d rather do less than live there.

I want to love the place. I have an almost romanticised notion of what it would be like living there (almost akin to my notion of a life spent meandering the streets of Paris in a flowing gown, eating pastries and drinking coffee). I like the idea of being able to have so many opportunities on my doorstep. I think of the brunch rendezvous catching up with friends over eggs Benedict; the cocktails consumed in venues with obscure decor; the classes in pottery or life drawing; the writing workshops I could attend; and the local shops and hidden treasures I would come to know, the ones that only a resident would know about. I even enjoy myself to some extent on day trips there. This Saturday I went to the Christmas market outside the Tate, had a drink in a quaint pub and had a mooch around Borough market. I admired the twinkling lights and pretended to ignore the crowds. But, after a few hours, when my feet begin to ache and my cheeks became pink with cold, I started to look forward to getting home. I find myself getting agitated with the swarms of faceless people; the cacophony of abrasive sounds becomes too jarring; I begin to feel inconsequential, claustrophobic and smothered, surrounded by towering monsters of grey concrete. I enjoy watching the blurred view from the train window become leafier. And when I step off at my stop, I feel like I can breathe deeply again.

At times I feel like there is something a bit off about me for not wanting to cast off the country bumpkin skin and join everyone there. I know I should probably want to take full advantage of the city while I am young and with few ties. It just isn’t me though and I’ve slowly come to realise that.

 Hence my profound affinity with Dickens. During this lecture on the Gothic (part of a course that I have been sent on by my school- a course that is so interesting but does involved giving up several Saturdays- and takes place in London, ironically), the lecturer drew our attention to quotes 5 and 6 on our handout. I won’t go into the Gothic context of these quotations but, when we read them, I knew that Dickens must have seen the aspects of London that I can see. A London so different to ours now, but one that must have shared the same unsettling qualities; the unnaturalness, the sinister undercurrent of nameless crowds, the impersonality of it, the stagnation and the corporate, empty current always pushing the people on, rushing and exhausted. I haven’t found my feelings on the city expressed by anyone else in such a way, so I will finish this post and leave you with his words. And despite being years and years apart, I know that Dickens probably would have ‘got’ me to some extent. 

 

“She often looked without compassion, at such a time, upon the stragglers who came wandering into London, by the great highway hard by, and who, footsore and weary, gazing fearfully at the huge crowd before them, as if foreboding that their misery would be but as a drop of water in the sea, or as a grain of sea-sand on the shore, went shrinking on, cowering before the angry weather, and looking as if the very elements rejected them. Day after day such travellers crept past, but always in one direction- always towards the town. Swallowed up in one phrase or other of its immensity, towards which they seemed impelled by a desperate fascination, they never returned. Food for the hospitals, the churchyards, the prisons, the river, fever, madness, vice and death,- they passed on to the monster, roaring in the distance and were lost.”

Charles Dickens, Dombey and Son, (1846-8), Chapter 33 

“It was a Sunday evening in London, gloomy, close and stale. Maddening church bells of all degrees of dissonance, sharp and flat, cracked and clear, fast and slow, made the brick-and-mortar echoes hideous. Melancholy streets, in a penitential garb of soot, steeped the souls of the people who were condemned to look at them out of windows, in dire despondency. In every thoroughfare, up almost every alley, and down almost every turning, some doleful bell was throbbing, jerking, tolling, as if the Plague were in the city and the dead-carts were going round. Everything was bolted and barred that could by possibility furnish relief to an overworked people. No pictures, no unfamiliar animals, no rare plants or flowers, no natural or artificial wonders of the ancient world- all TABOO with that enlightened strictness, that the ugly South Sea gods in the British Museum might have supposed themselves at home again. Nothing to see but streets, streets, streets. Nothing to breathe but streets, streets, streets. Nothing to change the brooding mind, or raise it up.”

Charles Dickens, Little Dorrit (1857), Chapter 3

Picks from this year

Surrounded by glittering lights and nostalgia-inducing songs; wrapped up in knitwear only fit for an elderly man; and clutching a latte flavoured with gingerbread syrup, one can't help but feel festive. If you ignore the crammed shops, hyper children and rapidly dwindling bank accounts of course.

The run up to Christmas is my favourite time of year. And no matter what I do, I can't help but look back at the past year or two, and look forward to the year ahead (reluctantly at times- this sort of reflection normally leads to several thousand new years resolutions regarding life long goals and ambitions. All ridiculous. All eye wateringly unachievable in my delusional time frames).

Being a book dork, it also makes me think about the many a-hundred books I've devoured this year. The nine in the picture will be given their own mini posts over the next few weeks. And one or two, like Donna Tartt's masterpiece The Secret History, will be gushed over in more depth.

When staring at the bookshelves in my Reading Room (more on that at some point too!) in order to try and pluck out these nine, I have already decided on one of my New Years Resolutions. To revisit my love of the classics. I have read very few this year I'm ashamed to say, and this needs to be addressed.

So, for now, please read The Secret History. And I'll get back to you about the rest.

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‘Not That Kind Of Girl’ by Lena Dunham

My life has been a bit all over the place of late. Several chats with friends over coffee/ mulled wine/ Moroccan food have confirmed what I have been feeling for an age: I am essentially having a mid twenties crisis. How terribly melodramatic I hear you cry. Well, evidently it is this feeling of deep dissatisfaction with life and an almost overwhelming desire to either a) hide under a blanket for eternity or b) quit everything and start over that me, and several of my friends, are unable to shake. We grew up being promised the world and have worked damn hard to achieve it, and we are either beginning to realise that these things (a satisfying job, a property of your own, enough financial freedom to actually be a person) are exceptionally elusive. Or, in my case specifically, that the career I have been working towards for years (through a degree, a post grad and a further training year) is not all it’s cracked up to be.

Poor little me. How tragic. Those of another generation often bemoan that we need to just deal with it. Learn to live with this feeling of dissatisfaction and disillusionment. That we are better off than thousands of others and that we should be damn grateful for what we do have. Well, yes that’s all very well and good. But there are always going to people worse off than you. And that doesn’t make my situation any less valid to me. Waking up every day with a deep pitted dread at having to go through it all again and knowing that, unless you change something, you will be in the same place 5, 10, 15 years from now does not make feel full of vitality and zest for life. And I think it was this feeling that I can’t shake that drew me to ‘Not That Kind Of Girl’ by Lena Dunham.

I loved Girls when it first appeared- partly because I viewed it as a cross between Friends and Sex and The City. I found Girls cringe worthy, bewildering and, at times, reassuring- a light relief from life. It was like the main character, Hannah, had reached out of the TV, patted me on the shoulder and said, “Yes. I’m anxious and my life is a bit crap too. I don’t know what I’m doing either”.

Since my first encounter with the series, Lena Dunham has popped up all over the place. Whether it be for her ‘audacity’ at showing her naked self to millions in unflattering sexual encounters; her dress sense  or her views on feminism. I had heard that, like her character Hannah, Lena Dunham’s voice was ‘the voice of a generation’. In short, I had high hopes for her collection of personal essays ; ‘a young women tells you what she’s learned’.

I enjoyed the book. I really did. It was sort of like reading someone’s carefully crafted diary or blog post. Split into different sections (Love & Sex, Body, Friendship, Work, and Big Picture) Lena’s words essentially had the same effect on me as Girls- I laughed, I felt reassured (I revelled in finding out her fears, issues and anxieties were very similar to my own) and I was bemused. But, truthfully, that was about it. There seemed to be a distinct ‘voice of a generation’ aspect that was missing. It seemed juvenile at times; just a collection of comments about boys and being a teenager, littered with anecdotes about sexual discovery that were probably meant to seem 'shocking'. Overall, it didn’t provide me with the epiphany on life that I was hoping for. I guess my hopes were too high and the book had been built up too much- like a New Year’s Eve that ends in exactly the same pit of loose sequins and stained red wine mouth. It had so much promise.

Saying that, I did enjoy reading it. And I was a bit distraught when it was over (I get that with a lot of books- I think it’s the whole running away from life thing). I would recommend it. And I still love Lena Dunham. But I think you will need to keep searching for that reassurance that your own life isn’t a complete disaster elsewhere.

Ironically, what will stay with me is one of the quotes Lena Dunham chose to preface her book. A quote from a novel that I will have to revisit:

“Deep in her soul, however, she was waiting for something to happen. Like a sailor in distress, she would gaze out over the solitude of her life with desperate eyes, seeking some white sail in the mists of the far-off horizon. She did not know what this chance event would be, what wind would drive it to her, what shore it would carry her to, whether it was a longboat or a three-decked vessel, loaded with anguish or filled with happiness up to the portholes. But each morning, when she awoke, she hoped it would arrive that day...”
- GUSTAVE FLAUBERT, Madame Bovary

 
Page 99 Snapshot:

“My mother invented the selfie.

Sure, there were self-portraits before her, but she perfected the art of the vulnerable candid with an unclear purpose. She used a Nikon, a film camera with a timer, and she would set it up, stand against the cherry-print wallpaper in the bedroom and pose.

It was the early seventies. She had moved to the city armed with nothing but this camera and a desire to make work. She had left her boyfriend behind, a kindly balding carpenter from Roscoe, New York, who wore a flannel nightgown and knew how to tap trees for syrup. I happen to know he’s kindly because we visited him once and sat around his table drinking lemonade, and he didn’t seem mad that she’d left him, just happy for her successes and generally pleased about my existence.”