Brigid Brophy: Black Ship to Hell (1962)
Brigid Brophy, photo by Jerry Bauer |
The
urgency of Brophy's writing springs essentially from this: she accepts Freud's
account of the death wish as a fundamental truth about human nature, at any
rate in modern times; then combines that fact with the existence of weapons of
mass destruction: we all basically wish to destroy everything, and now we have
the means, so we will. This leads to (among other things) a violent assault on
religion - based not so much on its claims being untrue (that's merely a given)
as on denying that religious belief can ever be sincere or morally
unreprehensible - these are formidable, in-your-face polemics and I'm shaken
and impressed. And yet it isn't difficult to see why her books aren't in print
any more. Brophy's passionate admiration for Freud leads to many pages of
unparticularized generalities like this, sampled in mid-torrent:
She [the prostitute] has, in fact,
improved on the tragic conception of fate by adding to it the numerical idea of
chance. The male sex is a lottery, in which the prostitute has bought the
highest possible number of tickets. Any one in her holding may be the winning
number, the father she is seeking; but since no one knows which is he, it is
the series as a whole which becomes the object of her sexual and aggressive
desires. For the prostitute, every professional act of intercourse is an act of
incest and, at the same time, an attack on her father. In exercising her
profession, she gratifies her incestuous wish (and its murderous companion),
yet the fact that it is a game of hazard allows her to plead not guilty to
incest. Just so, if one member, no one knows which, of the firing squad has
drawn a blank cartridge, all may feel innocent of the killing but the execution
none the less gets done. The same psychology is manifest in the very usage of
modern European languages, where the plural you,
vous, sie is a politer way of addressing one person than the singular thou, tu, du. ...
This
jostle of ideas is dazzling, but I feel like it was even more dazzling to write
than to read. So much seems to be being forcefully asserted, (and yet, in a
sort of mode that suggests that it isn't really
being asserted), and it's so heavily bolstered by impatient logical expressions
like "just as", "of course", "in fact", that I
keep wanting to call out: Hold on there! Just let me get it straight, what (or
who) actually are we talking about right now? Are you claiming that every prostitute... ? In what useful
sense is this an account of
prostitution (or warfare, or education, or artists, or elections..)? This was a
fashionable style of its era - displaced at some time in the 1980s by the style
of theory (revulsion from the post-Freudian style when I was at university led
to me wrongly supposing that this was also how Freud himself must have written,
thus putting off discovery of my own passionate admiration for Freud for a
further twenty years). The passing of time reveals violently hostile contemporaries
to share as much as they disputed - Brophy often reminds me - at any rate, so
far as her language strategies are concerned - of C.S. Lewis in his populist
defences of Christianity (another blatant misuser of "in fact",
"of course", etc). Both made, in passing, exactly the same
unanswerable protests about the practice of vivisection - protests that were
complete failures and now excite surprise; in our own time intellectuals are
conspicuously silent about this, it is only the emotive masses who think there
is something not quite right about what is euphemistically known as animal
testing.* (More generally, Brophy also reminds me a lot of Germaine Greer - the
same enormous learning and the same admirable assurance of being able to cut
through it to what other learned people don't see at all.)
*This may be changing at last. http://www.nybooks.com/articles/2018/04/05/raised-by-wolves/ .
*This may be changing at last. http://www.nybooks.com/articles/2018/04/05/raised-by-wolves/ .
The Vile Vivisectors, painting by James Ensor (1925) |
Obituary of Brigid Brophy (1929 - 1995): http://www.independent.co.uk/news/people/obituary-brigid-brophy-1595286.html . Her successful decade-long battle for PLR, and multiple sclerosis, greatly shortened her literary career. She was a fan of George Bernard Shaw. I've now found a copy of her novel The Snow Ball (1964) [in a charity book exchange in the Trowbridge branch of Sainsburys] , so watch this space.
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