Whereas the third sister Jeanne dedicated her life to painting, both Angela and Daphne strived for success in the literary field, often finding closed doors and bitter rejections. Though luckier, Daphne’s novels were never an instant success, a part from “Rebecca“, the 1940 novel which Alfred Hitchcock would then turn into a successful movie at a later time. ”The Little Less” took many years to write and was almost instantly rejected by publishing houses as it told the story of a lesbian relationship. It was only in the 1940s, and perhaps because of Daphne’s major breakthrough, that her second novel “The Perplexed Heart” finally found a publisher, thus allowing ”The Little Less” to get into print.
Was it then the plot of the eldest sister’s novels not excelling in quality the reason publishers were put off? Or were there social and cultural reasons based on Angela’s personality making the difference? The fact that Daphne had managed to keep her bisexuality a discreet choice both publicly and in her novels could have helped her find more ears to speak to. Was the same decision, but in reverse, the reason why Angela was first rejected as a writer by publishing houses? It would not be a surprise to find out that a potential bestseller could have been scrapped because of the personal choices of the writer and the influence these have had on the main plot. I do not think that Angela had a personal reason to be jealous of her sister, but I do feel that the rivalry was fuelled by their personal lives and how these were perceived when publishers had to judge their books and their content.

Unfortunately, this would not be the only case where these kind of choices limit the possibility of talented writers to be published, to be known and to be studied in the future. It is very sad to think that it was just Daphne’s success that helped her sister get the spotlight on her talent. This is why it is important to go back and read and understand Angela Du Maurier. Her 1951 biography was titled “It’s Only Her Sister” for a reason.

One year ago this blog generally faced the topic: what happens when a reader sees its favourite book turn into a movie? The question attracts even more approaches today, a few days after the release of “The Great Gatsby” by director Baz Luhrmann in theatres. One should always remember that Francis Scott Fitzgerald‘s book had already been turned into a movie, and quite a few times aswell: three movies preceded the current and latest visual adaptation of the novel, the latter being the 1974 one starring Robert Redford and Mia Farrow among other stars. This time, however, it feels pretty different. It really is a blockbuster movie, a mainstream production that counts on superb and very popular actors as well as some of the most beloved singers and groups on its soundtrack.

Let’s look at the bright side: many people, including those who repel the idea of reading, will be fascinated by the world of Jay Gatsby and will get a glimpse of what the book is all about. Besides, those who loved the novel will be transported in a multi-sensational variety of dimensions. From what can be gathered in trailers and previews, Gatsby’s parties (to begin with) and the rest of F. Scott Fitzgerald’s fictional world have received a makeover treatment: nothing will look old, obsolete, dated. The 1920s will come to the present with a fascinating and appealing hook and the spectator will clearly emphasise with the visual he receives.
Unfortunately, as a reader, I tend to see more cons than pros when it comes to movies based on novels. Will this adaptation be true to the original drama taking place in between sheets? Daisy Buchanan’s gleamy eyes, clearly signalling her ‘love‘ for Gatsby are already taunting my attachment to the original book. Unless things take place in a particular context and in specific parts of the movie, the concept of Gatsby and Daisy as a perfect couple who was not just meant to be would be an outrage to those who know and appreciate the book.

The feeling of realising that your elitarian object of affection is turning mainstream is a peculiar trait of hipster culture (“I liked it before it was cool to like it”), which generally sums up the different kind of attachment one has to the same subject. The person who claims to be a big fan of “The Great Gatsby” as a movie could share the same passion with someone who claims to love “The Great Gatsby” as a novel, but this is not a given principle. Surely, one should not judge a movie before seeing it, so a thorough review will follow this blog post very soon. But everything that surrounds this new rendition already seems to divide the public opinion, especially for those who are familiar with the literary world. Will the same emotions the book brings with it actually make it through the screen? Will the glamour overshadows the implicit topics the story carries?

Moreover, despite “The Great Gatsby” being one of the most loved American classics in Literature, I’m sure it will not be easy for those who loved this story to realise that it is now accessible to the masses, and not in the same way it was as a book. It no longer stands just as a masterpiece of American and world literature, but directly competes with the world of images, the seductive and exuberant world of images. One day we will hear, to our horror, as someone asks: “Is ‘The Great Gatsby‘ a novel aswell?”

Among Japan’s most popular authors is Jun’ichirō Tanizaki, who conveys a message of decadence in his novels, but is mostly remembered and studied for the juxtaposition of traditional and contemporary elements in his writings. The themes of past and present and how these two aspects clash or merge is a primary source of inspiration for Tanizaki. For instance, “Sasameyuki” (in English “Light Snow“, published in English as “The Makioka Sisters” depicts life in a traditional Japanese family throughout the worshipping and attachment to a past that seems to be portrayed as gone but not forgotten. Other familiar themes for Tanizaki are sex and its effects on people, how they desire to respond to these impulses and how it affects one’s mind. He was popular even before the breakout of World War II, but it is in the post-war period that he gains national and international recognition. In the same years, another prominent author is on the rise:  Yukio Mishima debuts with his first novel in 1949; it is called “Kamen no Kokuhaku” (in English “Confessions of a Mask“), in which the author describes Kochan’s attempts to fit in society despite his homosexual desires. Decadence, the themes of death and nationalism are recurring in his works and are a reflection of this author’s personality. However, the most famous Japanese author of our times seems to be Yasunari Kawabata: he was the first Japanese writer to be given a Nobel Prize in 1968. Despite the popularity of the novels published in the 1930s and 1940s it is in his earliest works that Kawabata displays his natural talent and obtains his first recognitions. 1926′s “Izu no odoriko” (in English, “The Dancing Girl of Izu” tells the story of a boy who travels with his family and falls in love with a young female dancer. Less naive and more decadent, the novel which followed his debut, “Asakusa Kurenaidan” (in English, “The Scarlet Gang of Asakusa“) portrays the lives of prostitutes and bohemian authors and appears to be the most Western influenced work among his earliest ones.

These few examples are already giving us hints as to which themes appeared as the leading ones in post-war Japanese literature. The mixture of the old and the new is impossible to avoid. It marks the contrast between what was, what is and what could be. The ancient, traditional Japan being challenged by Western influences, among good and bad perspectives on the subject. Any outside influence appears to be encoded as an element that needs to be absorbed. In some instances, in fact, tradition does not appear in stark contrast to modern innovation, but instead accepts, embraces and readjusts to it. One can therefore say that Japanese literature, while maintaining its own characteristics, is able to approach the Western world, to dialogue with it and knows how to give its own interpretation of contemporary events never appearing indecipherable or far from our understanding.

He was particularly unhappy with Michail Michajlovich Zoshchenko and Anna Andreevna Achmatova‘s works, defining the first as a writer of anti-Soviet works and the latter as politically disengaged. For instance, Zoshchenko’s ”Adventures of a Monkey” was a satirical work, one Zhdanov labelled as an anti-soviet attempt to depict life in the USSR as too limiting. What will then be known as ‘Zhdanov Doctrine‘ is basically a cultural rendition of the funding concepts of what opposed the USSR and the US during the Cold War. One could speak of Zhdanov’s political acts and theories, but it is his approach to the world of literature that interests us: it appears that he considered any form of naturalism or realism as concept to refute and condemn, as the only form of realism was that of the people and it had to have connotation that reflected positively on the regime.

It is not common to speak of ‘zhdanovian novels‘ outside the Russian context, but a few examples can show us how such policies influenced other national literatures. One example of this is France: as a result of the outcome of World War II, many European literatures were faced with a multitude of perspectives presented by the cultural imports of the American and the Russians, both bringing their own ideologies and their own myths. André Stil is, for instance, one of the most important French authors of what we could call a zhdanovian genre. His trilogy “Le premiere choc” (in English, “The First Clash“) depicts scenes of working class life, thus reporting the socialist element of realism in post-war Europe. The real focal point of this topic, however, is more subtle than one might think. If a literary genre can be defined as ‘zhdanovian‘ should we also call it ‘soviet‘? A possible answer may be that the terms ‘soviet‘ or ‘socialist‘ lend themselve to a wider range of meanings and contexts, whereas the adjective ‘zhdanovian‘ is a clear and precise reference to the application of those cultural policies and theories of Russia at the time. This also leads us to different reflections: the subversive, unaccepted works that the regime rejected, how can we label these works? Certainly not ‘zhdanovian‘ nor ‘soviet‘ if this really is an imprecise term for the literary field as previously suggested. This opens up a diversification in the history of literature, just like a family tree, it has to be reconstructed and fragmented in the different colours that represented Russia, including what was permitted and what secretly escaped the literary diktat.

Both as a novelist and poet, Smith contributes to the world of English literature by presenting such a diverse and unique approach she still can not find a suitable label. The aforementioned novel appears to have no message or final intent. It is a simple narration in terms of quality of speech, but a complex structure is thoroughly revealed with the help of untranslated foreign words and purposely confusing statements. Her poetry is equally double sided: easy approaches and form, similar to rhymes are meant to be the keys of a deeper, more concerned tone. One might sum up her style as the sweetest treat with a bitter aftertaste, as it fails to be cornered and decoded by analyses and presents a unique nature with the addition of doodles. These drawings are very naive but is it all pretend? Yes. Yet again, it is by looking under the surface that the dark meaning appears to convey the message of her creations.

Why is she different from her fellow poets of the 1930s? How is she different from W.H. Auden when she speaks of the human condition of her contemporaries? She is a true voice of the time, shares the same concerns and anxieties of the authors who live those terrible years during which Europe was heading towards the catastrophe of another World War. What makes Stevie Smith special is the fact that the darkness of the thoughts is neither reported nor clearly shouted. It is not even whispered, but is simply and deliberately hidden in interwoven styles (sometimes classical, sometimes colloquial), in verse and in tones which appear soft and innocent but cause the reader to think what other authors instead put pen to paper.The uniqueness of Smith is that of forcing the reader to think and ponder. She defies with her complexity by drawing them into this world through the deceitfulness of an apparent superficiality.

The attempt to bring that glimpse of glamour and charm was brought forward by two major Italian translators and authors: Cesare Pavese and Elio Vittorini. Certainly, these attractive elements were simply embodying what Italy could not have: people speaking their minds up about anything, democracy, a sense of free popular culture. How could this not be attractive? The Italians were left out of the process of enjoying progress as other countries were experiencing.
“St Mawr” by D.H. Lawrence is one of the works Vittorini translated for the Italian public, turning its title into “Il purosangue” (meaning, “The Purebred“): despite his British origins, Lawrence described America in this novel by setting the plot in New Mexico, where he had actually gone to and where this has been written. It was a sort of experiment itself, as it was the first time Lawrence was writing about America in America, so this made it attractive nonetheless. As a translator, Vittorini would always offer a haphazard version, one that was not too accurate as he had never studied English and had only learnt to translate it with the help of others. This can be seen as the evidence that the sole concept of Americanism was the core of this literary operation (he was sometimes criticised for offering an interpretation, or even a rewriting, of the original works he would translate).

Among the American works Cesare Pavese was given the chance to translate were Herman Melville‘s “Moby Dick” in 1932, John Steinbeck‘s “Of Mice and Men” (“Uomini e topi”; literally “Men and Mice”) in 1942 or William Faulkner‘s “The Hamlet” (translated as “Il borgo“) four years later. What were these novels representing for the Italian literati of the 1930s? Above all, “Moby Dick” would easily fit with the other adventure classics of contemporary Italian literature, but was very American in the way it portrayed specific features of the American people. It would be reductive, however, if one were merely to define the need to import American classics into the Italian market of the 1930s and 1940s as an attempt to make Italian readers dream. It was important to try and depict a world that was forbidden, one that was censored and struggled to reach the Italian shores. Despite the Great Depression and the related complications in society, the concept of “American dream” never set. Some of the novels and writers mentioned above are indeed the embodiment of the American dream, but that context also had elements of controversy, contrasts, poverty: the mirror of a different society. For better or for worse it was a new world to discover and what Italian literature could not express at the time, mainly due to political reasons, certainly not for lack of talent or inspiration, was more than appealing and already influencing authors for the works which would be published after World War II.

However, Edward Marsh, a translator and editor, chose that adjective to brand a group of poets whose poems he collected and published in the 1910s. The whole project was conceived as a parody of the small poetry books of the time, which means perhaps the word ‘Georgian‘ itself might be part of the mockery and the silly intentions of the enterprise. Despite the fun which laid behind the idea, the Georgian poets were often mocked for being, on the other hand, too serious or too old-fashioned for the times.
In an age of progress and avant-garde productions, the poems of Rupert Brooke, one of the most prominent authors of the collections, were seen as ‘born old‘. They did seek to move on from the Victorian poets, but ended up going backwards rather than forward, or so critics would say. The Georgian poets, though the collections kept on being published throughout the 1910s and onwards, were mostly attributed pre-war qualities and often seen as reflecting old naive England and its generations of young, traditional and old-fashioned authors.

Was World War I the reason why we cannot speak of ‘Georgian literature‘? Not really. It is true that those we call ‘Soldier poets‘, like Brooke himself or Siegfried Sassoon, were part of these collections of ‘Georgian poetry‘ but the reason we call them ‘Georgian‘ has lost all connections to the ‘contemporary Georgian age’ (if there is one) or to any historical or social background to the period of the 1910s and early 1920s: we call them ‘Georgian‘ because the collection has this name. Nonetheless this type of poetry could not compete with the force of Modernism, which ultimately pushed it away from being read, commented or analysed.
Surely, one can understand why their contemporaries saw the Georgians as the harbinger of echoes of past Literature: people wanted innovation and wanted to break free from what they disliked of tradition.
Today, the Georgians may be seen as the last poets before the experiments, the emotional, straight forward thinkers we need to decode our complex, fragmented, at times surreal contemporaneity.

The question is: when words come to life in such way, do we have to adapt to it on a global scale? Is there anyone forming a linguistic resistance? The perception of English assaulting terms in other, foreign languages is quite sensible in French-speaking countries among all European states. Could it be the long-lasting rivalry between all that is British and all that is French that is causing this? Or are the French, being so close to their frenemies, more aware of the fact that they have to keep their own identity from being influenced? The internet is where new words form nowadays; it is like a parallel world that spits out neologisms everyday, and the majority of them is in English. How should other languages react? Should Italians adopt and not adapt to the new words? Italians do say ‘cancelletto‘ to define the hashtag; however, when applied to the world of Twitter or tags, it comes out untranslated. And perhaps this was also happening in France when the Commission Générale de Terminologie et de Néologisme encouraged the French to start calling it ‘mot-dièse‘ on a wider scale.

One might wonder why, in most cases, it is always a matter of translation from English to other languages. Is it just a coincidence? Probably not. Any invention and innovation is likely to find an easy way of dissemination by passing through a medium that is known, the language that people use most. If a Frenchman invented something new, are we sure he would give it a French name? Would he not be tempted to give it a name that belongs to a language which is spoken in all the continents. Linguistic choices have little to do with history and patriotism when it comes to convenience.

Ironic how the original word ‘hash‘ has French origins.