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322 pages, Paperback
First published March 5, 2019
“I fight pain, anxiety, and fear every day, and the only method I have found that relieves my illness is to keep creating art,” the Japanese conceptual artist wrote in her 2011 autobiography, Infinity Net. Kusama has suffered from visual and aural hallucinations since she was a child, and in 1977 she checked herself into the Tokyo mental hospital where she still lives. Across the street, she built a studio where she works every day.
But before reaching this pinnacle she had toiled in near obscurity for decades. A bad marriage at eighteen, and an unplanned pregnancy the next year, derailed her early ambitions, and it took Nevelson more than a decade to escape her marriage and establish herself as an independent artist in New York. Even after that, she exhibited her work for twenty-five years without making a sale, didn’t have her first solo exhibition until she was forty-two years old, and didn’t get her big break until her work was included in a 1958 exhibition at the Museum of Modern Art, when Nevelson was almost sixty. Until then, the artist got by thanks to regular infusions of money from her family and occasional gifts from her many lovers.
She told a friend, “I promised the Devil my soul, and in return he promised me that everything I was going to experience would be turned into tales.”
To prevent interruptions from her houseguests, Hellman posted a warning on the door of her study: THIS ROOM IS USED FOR WORK DO NOT ENTER WITHOUT KNOCKING AFTER YOU KNOCK, WAIT FOR AN ANSWER IF YOU GET NO ANSWER, GO AWAY AND DON’T COME BACK THIS MEANS EVERYBODY THIS MEANS YOU THIS MEANS NIGHT OR DAY By order of the Hellman-Military-Commission-for-Playwrights. Court-martialling will take place in the barn, and your trial will not be a fair one. (…) She carried the projects forward on successive currents of “elation, depression, hope,” she said. “That is the exact order. Hope sets in toward nightfall. That’s when you tell yourself that you’re going to be better the next time, so help you God.”
“Somewhere very long ago,” she wrote in Blood Memory, “I remember hearing that in El Greco’s studio, after he died, they found an empty canvas on which he had written only three words: ‘Nothing pleases me.’ This I can understand.”
"That’s how it is, darling. Gifted women pay.”
When a visiting reporter asked Millay how she managed such a large and complicated household, Millay explained that she had nothing to do with it: Eugen does all that kind of thing. He engages the servants. He shows them around. He tells them everything. I don’t interfere with his ordering of the house. If there is anything I don’t like, I tell him. I have no time for it. I don’t want to know what I’m going to eat. I want to go into my dining room as if it were a restaurant, and say, “What a charming dinner!” It’s this concern with my household that protects me from the things that eat up a woman’s time and interest. Eugen and I live like two bachelors. He, being the one who can throw household things off more easily than I, shoulders that end of our existence, and I have my work to do, which is the writing of poetry.
“If you have any young friends who aspire to become writers, the second greatest favor you can do them is to present them with copies of The Elements of Style,” Parker once said. “The first greatest, of course, is to shoot them now, while they’re happy.” Parker was only half- joking, or maybe not even half. Despite becoming a much-sought-after writer, with high-profile, well-paying gigs at Vanity Fair and The New Yorker, Parker loathed the writing process and barely managed to get her articles in on time. She never followed any particular writing routine, although when she was a reviewer for The New Yorker there was a kind of weekly routine, a push-and-pull act between the reluctant author and her editor, which Marion Meade describes in her biography of Parker: "Almost from the outset, she set a precedent of being late with her copy, which was due at The New Yorker on Fridays. On Sunday mornings, someone from the magazine would telephone. Dorothy, reassuring, said that the column was finished except for the last paragraph and promised to have it for them within the hour. Throughout the day, the same routine would be repeated several times. Occasionally, she would claim she had just ripped up the column because it was awful. At that point, she would start writing." She did this with all her editors. An editor at The Saturday Evening Post remembered the process this way: “You sit around and wait for her to finish what she has begun. That is, if she has begun. The probability is that she hasn’t begun.” An editor at Esquire confirmed that Parker “had a miserable time writing,” and compared the process of extracting copy to a difficult childbirth, with the editor as obstetrician—the operation was, he said, a “high-forceps delivery.” Parker hated it as much as her editors did, but she couldn’t change. She was once asked by an interviewer what she did for fun. “Everything that isn’t writing is fun,” she replied.
She had trained herself to work in virtually any conditions: “I have written in bathrooms and aboard ships; on jet planes and in woodsheds; on trains between New York and San Francisco or Paris to Madrid; in bed at home or propped up on a hospital contraption; in hotels; cellars, motels, automobiles; well or ill, happy or despairing.”
Even after the tremendous success of Gone with the Wind—which sold millions of copies, was made into a classic movie, and won the Pulitzer Prize in 1937—Mitchell was never tempted to write another book. “I wouldn’t go through this again for anything,” she said.
“The more plentiful the work,” she wrote, “the less time to be neurotic.”
“What I want: energy, energy, energy. Stop wanting nobility, serenity, wisdom—you idiot!”
“If you are a woman, and you want to have a life of your own, it would probably be better for you to fall in love at seventeen, be seduced, be abandoned, and your baby die,” she wrote. “If you survived this, you might go far!”
Asked if she’s ever had writer’s block, she laughed. “Never,” she said. “If you have writer’s block, you’re not reading enough. And you’re not thinking enough. Because there’s no such thing as writer’s block. What that really means is you don’t have anything to say. And everybody goes through a period of not having anything to say; you have to accept that.” Asked whether she often has periods of not having anything to say, Giovanni laughed again. “Very seldom.”
In 1957, the BBC was preparing a radio adaptation of Rhys’s 1939 novel Good Morning, Midnight, and it placed an advertisement asking for anyone with knowledge of the author’s whereabouts to get in touch. At the time, Rhys hadn’t published anything in almost two decades, and many of her acquaintances had lost track of her and assumed that she had died of suicide or alcoholism—believable ends for the Dominica-born author, who seemed to have a gift for self-destructive behavior, and who had spent much of her twenties and thirties destitute and depressed, reeling from one doomed relationship to the next, self-medicating with alcohol. But the BBC advertisement did turn up news—Rhys herself wrote back. She was living with her third husband in Cornwall, and not only was she alive, she was working on a new novel. She soon signed a contract for the book, telling her editors that she expected to be done with it in six to nine months. In fact, it took Rhys nine years to finish the book, Wide Sargasso Sea, now widely considered her masterpiece and one of the best novels of the twentieth century.