Penelope Fitzgerald’s biography is motivated not only by writerly admiration but also by sympathetic interest. Fitzgerald writes with just enough detachment: not too little and not too much.
A biographer certainly needs to be scholarly and patient; intellectually capable and alert; knowledgeable and well-read. Also, given that modern biographies deal so much with their subjects’ personal and emotional lives as well as their worldly achievements, a biographer needs to cultivate empathy. Empathy means to feel with. To feel with your subject on her own terms as well as yours. A biographer who is shocked or upset by unconventional behaviour, passionate emotion, apparently ‘childish’ desires and needs, may fall back on expressions of moral superiority, or may start scolding. Women who break out of what’s expected of them, in order to live and write differently and originally, are not saints, and should not be idealised in hagiographies, but neither should they be mocked, labelled as neurotic. Penelope Fitzgerald employs a tone I think of as characteristic, which we note when we read her reviews: sharply intelligent, wry, often humorous, always trying to be fair and non-judgemental.
The tone of this biography suggests an equal relationship between biographer and subject, one based neither on heroine-worship nor the need to dominate. It suggests the enactment of a relationship between friends, walking and talking, relishing together the comedy of the grubby London streets they both loved.
At the same time it functions occasionally as a kind of dark mirror of its author. We know from Hermione Lee’s biography of Penelope Fitzgerald that the latter was ‘adept at evasions and self-editing’, faced many difficulties in her domestic life, and drummed up quietly heroic courage to deal with them. From time to time, as she writes about Charlotte Mew, we glimpse Penelope Fitzgerald’s admiration of stoicism and reticence, and her understanding of the need for masks and concealment. This biography is necessarily a chronological narrative but it dramatises an eternal moment: one unconventionally minded woman recognises another, salutes the other, across the gap of years, as both different and similar. At the same time both writers beckon the reader to follow them into their coincident worlds.
Michèle Roberts
2014
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