On Losing my British Library Virginity

So this week I took myself to the British Library for the first time. The Modernist Journals Project has digitised the majority of my primary source, which let me tell you I am *highly* appreciative of, but the final few years of The Little Review aren't yet available online, so I had to pop down to the archives in London. I say 'had to', it was actually such a motivating experience to be able to touch and smell actual copies of the magazine, carefully tucked away since the 1920's.

So, this post is a mixture of just chatting about my time in the Big L, and information about visiting the British Library that I wish had been more accessible!

I stayed at my friend Lindsey's house in Kennington, which is great because a) you can see the Shard from her house, and b) she lives with a Cockerpoo puppy. I got in silly late on a Sunday because I was in work during the day, and I thought it would be a smart idea to get a Mega Bus instead of the train... seven hours later, I kindof wished I'd just sucked up the extra £20 it would have cost me... Anyway, I got there, and we drank tea and gossiped and it was cute. The next morning we took ourselves for brunch at Sketch, which was even cuter.

After far too much faffing about around Carnaby Street, I arrived at the library. I had pre-registered online which I would definitely recommend, it saved me a lot of time. The British Library isn't like a normal library -you don't just walk in and take out books. It's more of an archive, and the security was surprisingly but pleasingly high; I had my bag inspected when I arrived like at an airport, and you're not allowed to bring large luggage into the building. Having arrived, I completed my Reader Registration which involved showing an ID and proof of address, and also having my picture taken for a card - I was super warm, so my hair was kindof gross,but at least I was wearing lipstick. Swings and roundabouts.

All that done, I had to put my stuff in a locker and head into the Rare Books and Manuscripts Department, to which I had pre-ordered the documents I needed. You're not allowed to really take things into the Reading Rooms - a pencil, laptop, glasses, your phone. It all has to fit in a clear plastic bag they provide. You're also not allowed to wear a coat,and it turns out they're pretty strict on this which was vaguely annoying - I was wearing a jacket which was definitely a thin indoor jacket and not a coat, but because it hung lower than my bum the man at the door made me go back and put it in my locker. So heads up - maybe wear a jumper if you're visiting, because the Rare Collections man is clearly not attuned to the nuances of the Spring/Summer catalogue. 

The archive work itself was magical. You are allowed to photograph the collection, so I was essentially able to create my own digital collection of the things I think I might need in the next couple of months. Also, there just is something really lovely about handling the actual entity, the thing you're dedicating four years of your life to. If you're a researcher and your source is digitised, I would still highly recommend doing some archive work, just to feel it.

I ended up staying quite late (the Reading Room is open 10-8), and then I went for dinner and some gin with my friend Alex, but we went to Wetherspoons, so I didn't take any pretentious toilet selfies there, sorry.

Being slightly cold aside, I had a really wonderful first experience.The man who completed my registration,and the people who found my documents were super friendly and impressively knowledgeable, and the atmosphere was really conducive to work. Also, just what a bloody incredible place - there is so much knowledge there, and so much untapped knowledge there, it was a real privilege to be able to be a tiny part of moving that forwards. I'll be heading back soon.

Happy Valentines Day, 1915 - Margaret Anderson on life, love and art

This poem, if you can call it a poem, was written by Margaret Anderson, the editor of the Little Review, and published there in October 1915. It was a little before her 29th birthday, and a year or so before she had her first great romance, with co-editor Jane Heap. When Jane and Margaret fell in love in 1916, they lived together in Chicago as a relatively openly lesbian couple, at a time when such things just weren't done.

The poem is longish, but I think its really lovely, largely because you can really feel Anderson writing it - the speed with which words are rushed onto paper, the overflowing overlapping confusing ideas that feel like love. It's the kind of poem I tried to write when I was 19 and failed - maybe I'll have more luck when I hit 29. 

Margaret Anderson, photographed by Georgette Leblanc.

I

BUT you don't know Life," they are always saying.

I wonder what it is they mean?

They mean humanity and the urge of it:

In the beginning and in the end the soul's longing to be known, to know itself, and to know others;

And that means, in the beginning and in the end, the quest for love;

Is the ideal of love and the finding of it;

And the magic of it and the drain of disillusionment;

And the luxury of sorrow and the voluptuousness of suffering;

And the vacuum that is beyond death;

And the conviction that ideals are better than reality;

And the decision to live for "art";

And the pull to new love...

And the discovery that love is enslavement;

And the breaking from it;

And the courage to contain life;

And the emancipation from something;

And the complacency of first freedom;

And the emptiness of it;

And the pull to new love...

And the discovery that rapture is not relived;

And the conviction that passion is not love;

And the dedication to "the spiritual";

And the pull to new love...

And the deepest agony, which is unrequited love;

And the realization of people;

And the discovery that the world is wrong;

And the glory of rebellion;

And the emancipation for something;

And the pull to new love...

And the birth of cynicism;

And the conviction that rebellion is futile;

And the discovery of one's self;

And the dedication to one's self;

And the discovery that one's self is not big enough;

And the pull to new love...

And the knowledge that love includes passion;

And the sense of rich growing;

And the hope of sharing growth;

And the longing to be known;

And the relinquishing of that longing;

And the discovery that perfection does not last;

And the sufficiency of self-direction;

And the completeness of freedom;

And the longing to know the human soul;

And the pull to new love...

And the relinquishing of that longing;

And the discovery of the peace that is in nature;

And the realization of the unimportance of man;

And the knowledge that only great moments are attainable;

And the hatred of consummations;

And the realization of truths too late to act upon them;

And the acceptance of substitutes;

And the pull to new love...

And every human being knows these things.

II

"But you don't know life itself," I am always saying.

I wonder what it is I mean.

I think it is something wonderful like color and sound, and something mystical like fragrance and flowers.

And something incredible like air and wind,

And something of grey magic like rain;

It is faded deserts and the unceasing sea;

It is the moving stars;

It is the orange sun stepping through blue curtains of sky,

And the rose sun dropping through black trees;

It is a green storm running across greenness,

And gold rose petals spilled by the moon on dark water;

It is snow and mist and clouds of color,

It is tree gardens and painted bird;

It is leaves of autumn and grasses of spring;

It is flower forests and the petals of stars;

It is morning - yellow mornings, green mornings, red mornings, gold mornings, silver mornings, sun mornings, mist mornings, mornings of dew;

It is night - white nights, green nights, grey nights, purple nights, blue nights, moon nights, rain nights, nights that burn;

It is waking in the first of the morning,

It is the deep adventure of sleep;

It is lights on rivers and lights on pavements;

It is boulevards bordered with flowers of stone;

It is poetry and Japanese prints and the actor on a stage;

It is music;

It is dreams that could not happen;

It is emotion for the sake of emotion;

It is life for the sake of living;

It is silence;

It is the unknowable;

It is eternity;

It is death.

And only artists know these things.

I think I'm Emma Goldman

I don't know who made this illustration but its fantastic - if you do, please let me know so I can credit!

The first chapter of my Ph.D focuses on the reception of Emma Goldman in the Little Review's 'Reader Critic' letters section. Before looking into the Little Review, I had no idea who Emma Goldman was. Well, let me tell you - she's a bad ass. 

Goldman (1869-1940) was a hugely influential figure in the feminist and anarchist movements, with her work on spreading information about safer birth control and abortions being amongst my personal favourites. She absolutely lived her message, frequently being lambasted for her ideologies, getting arrested numerous times, and even serving three sentences in prison - once for supposedly inciting to riot, once for giving out pamphlets on birth control, and once for inciting pacifism. Her criticism of compulsory conscription for young men led to a two year stint in prison, and was followed by her deportation from the U.S. Goldman was born in Russia to a Jewish family, but moved to America as a teenager to live with her elder sister. 

I'll be writing about Emma Goldman a fair bit over the next few years, so stay tuned for more on her. For now, let me just leave you with the lyric of experimental hip-hop collective Sole's song about her - if you can, listen along:

Emma Goldman, I think I'm Emma Goldman

Used to ride for Karl Marx till I met Emma Goldman

My homey Ravi Zupa put me up on game

I know why communism always fails

A power-hungry communist is just as dangerous as a blood-sucking capitalist

From gulags to the prison-industrial complex

To each his own, no thrones no preachers spreading fantasies

God is a myth and man's enslavement is his reality

God don't like ugly

God hates flags, god hates cops

And is a mass murdering sociopath

And I don't need that bullshit tact, ethically

All I need is elaborate cause and the knoweldge that says no man is above me

Next time you fuck and use a birth control pill thank Emma

And the IWW for 8-hour work days and general strikes

Before kings stole the land from the peasants we have the commons

Private property is a system used to alienate people from their needs

That's why poverty is pandemic and capitalism can't eliminate crime

Ain't nothing fair in debt slavery and bribes

Emma Goldman, I know I'm no Emma Goldman

She opened up a ice cream shop to fund an assassin

That's gangsta

Welcome to the new black scare

Shouts out to the northwestern grand jury resistors

They say anarchism can't work

But all anarchists do is put in work

Not for the money, but out of necessity

Imagine a world where you could follow your passions

A federation, built on community

Shouts to Occupy Sandy stepping in with mutual aid

You'd find out you were an anarchist if you took the time to read

While academics debate tactics

We shutting down the Keystone XL Pipeline

We plant gardens in the projects

They push us to the sidewalks and we take the streets

We strike debt

We can bring things back to normal, or  do the opposite

We can bicker over differences or we can fuck up shit cuz shits fucked up and bullshit

In the 1800s anarchists were libertines

Only in America are libertarians an arm of the right wing

They put a gun in your face and tell you to be non violent

But ignorance is violence

Who spreads ignorance through public schools?

And sends the poor to die overseas to steal more shit

For you know who

You know who

If voting changed anything they'd make it illegal

She said that 100 years ago

Ain't shit changed but the manufacturers of weapons

Ain't shit changed they replaced churches with banks & mainstream news

This government was designed to over rule the mob

So we mobs design to over rule the government

Emma Goldman I think I'm Emma Goldman

In the belly of the beast made that motherfucker sick

Emma Goldman, I miust be Emma Goldman

 Must be doing something wrong if the feds ain't on my tail

You can say I'm guilty of propping up a cult of personality

 I'm a Malcolm X man, "by any means necessary"

Avant gardists say I'm dumbing it down

But Emma didn't speak in academic riddles; she spoke in the common tongue

No future utopias we building it now

Horizontally, no 10,000 MLKS getting popped

Red & black all day

I'm a Kropotkin man myself

The streets is my public offices where I plan my attack

You rap, we plot, you vote, we act

I'll never say bitch in a song again

LIBERAL

I'm Emma Goldman

Editing The Agenbite

Here's me fangirling outside Nora Barnacle's house in 2015

When I started my PhD, I knew that I wanted to work, in some capacity, on Joyce. I also knew that I wanted to expand my research to look not only at Joyce, and I couldn't be happier in what I finally settled on (see 'Academic'!). As the first year of my research progresses, it's been such a joy to find new writers and artists to fall in love with (holla at my Emma Goldman tribe), but I have to admit, I miss the hours I spent with Joyce during my Masters. He's like an old friend - a weird, often problematic, probably-only-texts-you-when-he-needs-something friend, but a friend I love deeply non the less, because he teaches me things I didn't know I knew about myself.

A while ago, I met Sean Richardson, a first year Doctoral Candidate at Nottingham Trent University. Sean is generally just the best kind of outward facing academic - he runs the Modernist Podcast (which I was a panelist on!), the Queer Modernisms Conference, and is the editor of the Woolf Zine. Now, my relationship with Woolf has always been a bit distant. Don't get me wrong, I obviously know she's an incredible writer, and a hugely influential figure, and any woman who can have that said about them has my backing. Still, for some reason, I'm yet to really connect with her writing on an emotional level. I 'get it' in my brain, but it doesn't move me - I'm sure there's something I'm missing, and I'll have the light bulb moment any day. Any how - much as Woolf isn't one of my favourites, I couldn't help but be impressed with the zine - it was such an innovative way of platforming reception to her work in an accessible and discursive way. There aren't enough spaces for 'non-academics' to speak about their academic thoughts, and as academics I think we're often removed from our love of literature by the research process itself. I decided that the perfect way for me to reconnect with Joyce, whilst doing something small to make democratise Joyce scholarship, would be to emulate the Woolf Zine.

And so, The Agenbite was born. The title itself came very easily - it was always one of my favourite Joyce-isms, I stumbled across it first during my undergrad. Agenbite of Inwit is commonly conceived to mean the biting of one's conscience - the phrase mostly occurs when Stephen thinks of his mother - but as always it works on multiple levels. The again biting of inner wit - the thing that stays with you. In many ways, that's what Joyce and his work is for me, it informs so much of my work in academia and generally in life, and it continues to excite, frustrate and move me. I know there are so many people out there who feel similarly, and The Agenbite is a place for us all to share our reactions, thoughts and ideas in formats which don't normally get a look in. 

We're accepting submissions for the first issue now, with the intention of publishing in March 2017. Submissions can take any form as long as it can appear on the page - poetry, thought pieces, interviews, essays, cartoons etc. You can email me at theagenbite@gmail.com to submit, or with any questions. Also, please go and follow The Agenbite on twitter HERE!

I look forward to hearing from you!