Charles Morgan

[Eric]

I'm becoming rather intrigued by the works of Charles Langbridge Morgan (1894-1958) who was evidently very popular during his lifetime, but has somehow dropped below the radar of modern critics.

The Wikipedia article mentions quite a bit about his background, which was shaped by having parents who moved from Wales to Australia, and the fact that he started out as a poet. But alas, it says virtually nothing about his several novels and books of essays.

I've only read one of his novels so far, and several of his essays. But the novel, The Judge's Story, seemed very well written and he tied up all the ends, which I like. The story is the tale, as I mentioned on the Recently Finished thread, of to men, one of whom wants to get a hold on, control, the other. An interrelated theme is a debt and how the one man does a certain amount of manipulation to make this too the subject of his control. The retired judge tries to extricate himself from this sticky web.

Some of Morgan's later novels involve WWII, during which Morgan fought in France, helping British prisoners to escape.

His essays, collected in two volumes entitled Reflections in a Mirror (1944, 1946) cover a range of subjects, from bird song to leisure, British attitudes to France and Europe, and literary ones about Pascal, Hardy, Turgenev, Symbolism, Emily Bront?, Landor, Tolstoy, Blunden, Verlaine, and even, curiously, the Horst Wessel song, this last one first published in 1944.

I think it is the slight mystical quality of what he writes that interests me. One unspeakably silly comment that is referred to in the Wikipedia article about Morgan says that:

"...he was often criticised for excessive seriousness, and is now rather neglected; he once claimed that the "sense of humour by which we are ruled avoids emotion and vision and grandeur of spirit as a weevil avoids the sun."

Note that he says "the sense of humour by which we are ruled". What he is berating is not humour in general but shallow humour, which slaps down everything noble and grand for a good laugh. He'd have quite a bit to say about some of the half-hour shows on British TV nowadays, some half-century after his death.

Charles Morgan was also Chairman of International PEN from 1953 until his death and wrote columns in various publications.

Literary reputations can be very quirky things, and I always wonder how it is that some writers are revived and re-examined, while others almost sink without trace.

[accidie]

I'll certainly keep an eye out for The Judge's Story. I'm taken with the plot, by your mention of a mystical quality, and by the fact that he was popular in France. (That last I learned from The Cambridge Guide to Literature in English, a joke of a book which hitherto has been useful only as doorstoop/help with TLS crosswords.)
Should I read it, shall I continue the thread with a rant re Morgan's post-Husserlian gender-dynamised dialectic of 'thatness' and objectivity 'of' non-spiritual dynamics of quasi-Hegelian normatives '?' (viz. N. Bourbaki, R. Selavy)

[Eric]

Sorry, the joke is beyond me when you say:

Should I read it, shall I continue the thread with a rant re Morgan's post-Husserlian gender-dynamised dialectic of 'thatness' and objectivity 'of' non-spiritual dynamics of quasi-Hegelian normatives '?' (viz. N. Bourbaki, R. Selavy)

I think this author is a good essayist, and is, for me, beyond pisstakes and Husserl, whose work I haven't read.

If you could say which of his books you have read and what you think, I would be grateful. If you haven't read any, do.

C'est la vie, Afrikaner tobacco.

[accidie]

So sorry. Alighted upon this thread immediately after reading the one on Orwell, which of course you had no way of knowing.
No, I've not read Morgan but shall look into getting The Judge's Story from amazon.
Was thinking of Duchamp--Rrose Selavy--but is that truly the name of a tobacco? Calls to mind disgusted Afrikaners harrumphing 'c'est la mort, more like.'
In any case, thanks for the information on Morgan.

[Howard]

I remember in my teens (a long, long time ago) coming across a French book on English literature, probably dating from the Thirties or Forties, in which Charles Morgan was considered the most important contemporary English writer. I got the impression that what the French liked about him was that he dealt with spiritual themes, rather like French Catholic writers of the time like Mauriac and Bernanos.

As far as I know, Morgan is now as forgotten in France as he is in English-speaking countries.

[Eric]

Howard, from my cursory researches, this is quite correct: the Frogs loved him, the Brits dumped him when he died, rather prematurely. Morgan had many kind words to say about the French, even the Italians, when Britain was at war with them in 1943. Although I've changed the book I'm now reading as announced in the window of the postings here, I am still reading his essays, which are illuminating.

The latest one I've read was about Turgenev, where he contrasts the somewhat more tranquil Turgenev with the rather wild Dostoevsky.

Morgan's essay on Emily Bront? is also interesting, suggesting that Branwell may have help her write parts of "Wuthering Heights", but that the spirit of the book is wholly hers. This time it is her wildness that impresses him.

As it happens, Accidie, I am a fan of Afrikaner literature. The caricature of nasty Boers that fought Churchill and a few other Brits like Kitchener, then turned into Black-hating savages in the 1940s, is a total travesty. Their history is interesting, their literature likewise. Many of the better authors nowadays are women, not the bandwagon-butch anti-apartheid heroes such as Brink and Breytenbach. In the same way as German literature is not endless pale reflections of "Mein Kampf", so too have the Afrikaners developed a sophisticated prose and poetry. They are best at short-stories.

[lionel]

As I'm off driving around the south-west of France for a month in a few days' time, I not surprisingly started to look into the literature of the area, and learned about Charles Morgan's The Voyage (1940), which is mainly set in the Cognac area, with brief mentions of Angoul?me‎ and Royan. It concerns a man who owns a vineyard, and, oddly, is also warden of a tiny private prison attached to his farm. He's in love with a sexually promiscuous singer and dancer who doesn't realize she's in love with him until some years pass, and eventually they come together definitively (probably) after she's convinced him of the necessity to free the prisoners, for which he is imprisoned, escapes, and is then pardoned because his lover has drummed up so much support for him.

I came across this information in a book I happen to have - Henry Charles Duffin's The Novels and Plays of Charles Morgan (1959).

Too late to order a copy now, and I'm sure I won't find one in France, but this is a must for the future.

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[Eric]

I bought the very book a few weeks ago in Stockholm, and have it on my writing desk now next to my keyboard.

Morgan was a gentleman in the best sense of the word, and wrote a dedication to that work, which, as you are a Francophile, I will reproduce here, although I have not, in all truth, yet read the novel:

DEDICATION

On the 1st June 1940, when I finished this book, knowing that I might not, without presumptiousness, offer my work to France in gratitude for the honour she has done me and the happiness she has given, I dedicated it to a French man and woman who have deepened my love for their country and given me an insight into human goodness that springs in them from singleness of heart. If I had been able to write as they have lived, this tale of Barbet would have been better worth their acceptance, but I offered it to them as it was, with all its faults, for the pleasure it gave me to remember that they were my friends. Their country was overrun before my letter could be answered.

Now, with deepened affection and with compassionate honour, I re-dedicate it to them; but because if they live, they are within the power of the enemy, I have for their sakes taken their names from my page. To-night, the eve of Midsummer, there will be no bonfires on the hills of the Charente, but, though the dark ages intervene, they will be re-lighted, for France is an idea necessary to civilisation and will live again when tyranny is spent.

C.M.

July 23rd, 1940

So there you are. On the first page of Chapter One, Morgan again mentions the valley of the Charente.

Like Anthony Powell, Charles Morgan was also a rather up-market Englishman (though both had Welsh forebears) who appreciated France and both were there, I believe, in connection with WWI. Both appear to have spoken the French language with some degree of proficiency.

[lionel]

I bought the very book a few weeks ago in Stockholm, and have it on my writing desk now next to my keyboard.

Morgan was a gentleman in the best sense of the word, and wrote a dedication to that work, which, as you are a Francophile, I will reproduce here, although I have not, in all truth, yet read the novel:


So there you are. On the first page of Chapter One, Morgan again mentions the valley of the Charente.

Like Anthony Powell, Charles Morgan was also a rather up-market Englishman (though both had Welsh forebears) who appreciated France and both were there, I believe, in connection with WWI. Both appear to have spoken the French language with some degree of proficiency.

Cheers, Eric

According to Duffin, Morgan was more popular in France than England, so I might be able to pick up a copy somewhere after all (although I'd prefer it not to be a translation). At the moment, I'm still stuck in, er, Luton, but not because of volcanic ash, although I fly to Bordeaux tomorrow.

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[Eric]

I've read this too, the fact that Morgan was more popular in France than the UK. I would not like to read a book written in English in any foreign language, unless that was the only copy I could get hold of. Especially literature. I would get the nagging feeling, reading an English book in French, German, Dutch or Swedish, that I was missing something. Because no translation can ever be the same as the original.

If I can read the language to a reasonable degree, I like to read the original, even with foreign languages. This may seem ironic, given the fact that I spend so much of my time translating.

[lionel]

I've read this too, the fact that Morgan was more popular in France than the UK. I would not like to read a book written in English in any foreign language, unless that was the only copy I could get hold of. Especially literature. I would get the nagging feeling, reading an English book in French, German, Dutch or Swedish, that I was missing something. Because no translation can ever be the same as the original.

If I can read the language to a reasonable degree, I like to read the original, even with foreign languages. This may seem ironic, given the fact that I spend so much of my time translating.

I don't know whether it's ironic or not, but I've not been able to find any of Morgan's works here in either language so far, although I must admit I'd be forced to read The Voyage in both languages if the French came first. I've just re-read Duras's Moderato cantabile (set in Royan), and it still reads just as odd. That is freely available, as are most of the works of Pierre Loti (and I just visited his inbelievable house at Rochefort today), but the works of Fromentin (from St Maurice, La Rochelle) is nowhere to be found here as yet, and I'd love to read Dominique. I suppose it's all about authors and fashions.

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[Eric]

Well, Lionel, you probably had a more cultural-touristic day today than me in Rochefort. But I did happen to find a copy of "The River Line" by Charles Morgan today here in a rather hot Uppsala for the equivalent of one euro, as I mentioned on another thread. A few of his books have been reprinted, but I swear by the 1940s ones in green hardback, published by Macmillan.

But this evening I'm reading Strindberg, mainly on Swedenborg, about which I'm sure that the slightly mystic Morgan would approve.

[lionel]

I don't think 'touristic' is a good word for Pierre Loti's house, Eric. Loti was a divided man: he said that he'd like to be 'here' and elsewhere, at the same time, which is why - as a naval officer going to many far away places and bringing many souvenirs back - he built what he thought was a reconstruction of a mosque, a Turkish salon, er, a Renaissance room, etc, all within his own rather tiny house in a rather narrow street. Oh yes, and 'here', meaning Rochefort, was two places, I suppose, as he had his own family by his second wife (the first (Japanese) one being automatically divorced as soon as he left Nagasaki), and another unofficial one with a Basque woman living in a house he bought her in Rochefort, where she looked after their four children. And, of course, he was away a lot of the time abroad, and he was bisexual, so sexually at least maybe he wouldn't have missed his female partners too much. Loti, and his house, are a psychologist's paradise rather than a tourist attraction. The Associaton pour la Maison de Pierre Loti don't seem too concerned about making it popular, either, as visits are by guided tour only, and the number of visitors per hour is limited to ten.

To keep onthread, I've discovered a few more bookshops, but this is Sunday in France, so maybe that elusive Morgan will manifest himself somewhere here.

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[lionel]

I should have added that Loti delighted dressing up in national and regional costume, both as male and female.

Anyway, Charles Morgan. I've not found The Voyage yet, but found his play The Flashing Stream today in a secondhand bookstore. It's in Livre de Poche, so I'll obviously be treating this translation with tremendous caution - but if it gives me a reasonable idea, then I suppose that's OK. But as I also bought two Loti books at the same time, I won't be reading it just yet.

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[lenz]

But as I also bought two Loti books at the same time, I won't be reading it just yet.

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The pictures of Loti's house are amazing, but perhaps he should have his own thread. Then, there could be another for comments about "oriental" fashions in European literature.

[lionel]

The pictures of Loti's house are amazing, but perhaps he should have his own thread. Then, there could be another for comments about "oriental" fashions in European literature.

And thread he'll have, Lenz. I'm having a quiet day today just reading Loti's Le roman d'un enfant, as this is probably the best way to try to understand what was going on in his head. I can't understand why he's so little known in English-speaking countries, as he's seemingly endlessly facinating.

He seems quite popular in France, though. Understandably you have to reserve for a guided tour of the house in Rochefort, but also so visit the house where he was buried in the small town of Saint-Pierre-d'Ol?ron, on l'Ile d'Ol?ron, where the son of the son of Loti's nephew (there must be an easier way of saying that) lives and greets interested parties of a maximum of seven every Thursday morning. I've got my ticket for next Thursday.

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[lionel]

I went for the first time to Uncle George Bernard's Corner in Ayot St Lawrence, Herts, and my partner - due to thirst - wanted to make a detour on the return journey. OK, so we leave the car in the nearest parking lot and view the town center of Letchworth. But that's fatal, as there's a secondhand bookstore with hundreds of books outside just waiting for me. Joe Orton and Kenneth Halliwell's novels Lord Cucumber and The Boy Hairdresser in one book for 95p? Yeah, I'm buying.

And what? There's Charles Morgan's The Voyage? Spine ends bumped, corners lightly bumped, missing dust jacket, very light rubbing to rear board, tight, innards very clean and book itself probably unread,(and no worm holes, OK, Lionel Britton)? This is a 1946 impression, and the 6th, and at 50p this is as good a bargain as I could have gotten at a car boot/garage sale. The original price, when translated into current UK currency, was 47.5p!

All I gotta do is read it.

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[Eric]

Thanks for that piece of reportage, Lionel. You now have a more original edition of The Voyage than me. Mine's from 1960. You do describe the physical condition of the book as if it were Joe Orton's bottie: all rubbed and tight, as Kenneth Williams might ejaculate. The Boyage (as they pronounce it in Spain) reminds one of a couple of titles by that chappie E. Morris Minor Forster, i.e. Back Passage to India and Howard's Rear End, but we will let that pass, along with the stools between which such activities must inevitably be timed. Letchworth is a not unlovely name in this context of delicacy and penchant. As for the wormholes, silverfish do not penetrate; they merely skim along the surface and gobble the top layers, a sort of cunnilingus of printer's ink rather than a fellatio of deeper feeling.

One should read one's Morgan. But let me not be hypocritical. I too must take up a tome again, in my case The Empty Room.

[lionel]

I'm about a quarter through The Voyage, and feel the need to gather together initial impressions. I feel I must be the first person in many years to comment on this novel, and no one says anything about it, for instance, at LibraryThing or GoodReads, which is a little unusual.

The most striking thing to me is the lack of description of physical features, including the characters in the book, as opposed to the massive foregrounding of the psychological: I see why the French took to him like a canard to l'eau.

And the above remark isn't gratuitous, although many of Morgan's French words and expressions are. OK, this is not cartoonish sacr? bleu, mon Dieu territory, but what is the need to trot out these words in a book written in English? Local Color?

In spite of the above, I think I'm enjoying it, and shall probably continue to the end, but after that give me back southern Appalachia, please!

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[Eric]

Lionel, you remark that Charles Morgan's French was surprisingly OK, i.e. not the patois of the lower class Calais day-trip plonk-purchasing riff-raff. Well, as with Anthony Powell and other members of the upper-middle and upper classes, not all members were Hooray Henrys, twits, and chappies gadding about at horse-racing functions. There were some serious ones too.

The bit in the Wiki biog I find hilarious is when it says:

...he was often criticised for excessive seriousness.

Begad. At some public schools, boys were caned to within an inch of their life for excessive seriousness. Whatever next? We all know that pubic schoolboys (spelling!) seethed in perversions in days of yore, but "excessive seriousness"? What sort of kinkiness is that? Bring back buggery in the dormitory by benchers, all is forgiven.