New Grub Street by George Gissing (best mobile ebook reader .txt) 📕
Description
Grub Street is the name of a former street in London synonymous with pulp writers and low-quality publishers. New Grub Street takes its name from that old street, as it follows the lives and endeavors of a group of writers active in the literary scene of 1880s London.
Edwin Reardon is a quiet and intelligent writer whose artistic sensibilities are the opposite of what the London public wants to read. He’s forced to write long, joyless novels that he thinks pop publishers will want to buy. These novels are draining to write, yet result in meager sales; soon Edwin’s increasingly small bank account, and his stubborn pride, start to put a strain on his once-happy marriage.
His best friend, Biffen, lies to one side of Edwin’s nature: as another highly-educated writer, he accepts a dingy, lonely, and hungry life of abject poverty in exchange for being able to produce a novel that’s true to his artistic desires but is unlikely to sell. On the other side lies Jasper Milvain, an “alarmingly modern” writer laser-focused on earning as much money as possible no matter what he’s made to write, as he floats through the same literary circles that Edwin haunts.
The intricately-told tale follows these writers as their differing outlooks and their fluctuating ranks in society affect them and the people around them. Gissing, himself a prolific writer intimately familiar with the London literary scene, draws from his own life in laying out the characters and events in the novel. He carefully elaborates the fragile social fabric of the literary world, its paupers and its barons both equal in the industry but unequal in public life. Though the novel is about writers on the face, the deep thread that runs through it all is the brutality of the modern social structure, where the greedy and superficial are rewarded with stability and riches, while the delicate and thoughtful are condemned to live on the margins of respectable society in grimy poverty, robbed not only of dignity, but of love.
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- Author: George Gissing
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“It was very strange.”
“Reardon was in desperate earnest, poor fellow. And, to tell you the truth, I fear there may have been something in his complaint. I told him at once that I should henceforth keep away from Mrs. Edmund Yule’s; and so I have done, with the result, of course, that they suppose I condemn Mrs. Reardon’s behaviour. The affair was a nuisance, but I had no choice, I think.”
“You say that perhaps your talk really was harmful to her.”
“It may have been, though such a danger never occurred to me.”
“Then Amy must be very weak-minded.”
“To be influenced by such a paltry fellow?”
“To be influenced by anyone in such a way.”
“You think the worse of me for this story?” Jasper asked.
“I don’t quite understand it. How did you talk to her?”
“As I talk to everyone. You have heard me say the same things many a time. I simply declare my opinion that the end of literary work—unless one is a man of genius—is to secure comfort and repute. This doesn’t seem to me very scandalous. But Mrs. Reardon was perhaps too urgent in repeating such views to her husband. She saw that in my case they were likely to have solid results, and it was a misery to her that Reardon couldn’t or wouldn’t work in the same practical way.
“It was very unfortunate.”
“And you are inclined to blame me?”
“No; because I am so sure that you only spoke in the way natural to you, without a thought of such consequences.”
Jasper smiled.
“That’s precisely the truth. Nearly all men who have their way to make think as I do, but most feel obliged to adopt a false tone, to talk about literary conscientiousness, and so on. I simply say what I think, with no pretences. I should like to be conscientious, but it’s a luxury I can’t afford. I’ve told you all this often enough, you know.”
“Yes.”
“But it hasn’t been morally injurious to you,” he said with a laugh.
“Not at all. Still I don’t like it.”
Jasper was startled. He gazed at her. Ought he, then, to have dealt with her less frankly? Had he been mistaken in thinking that the unusual openness of his talk was attractive to her? She spoke with quite unaccustomed decision; indeed, he had noticed from her entrance that there was something unfamiliar in her way of conversing. She was so much more self-possessed than of wont, and did not seem to treat him with the same deference, the same subdual of her own personality.
“You don’t like it?” he repeated calmly. “It has become rather tiresome to you?”
“I feel sorry that you should always represent yourself in an unfavourable light.”
He was an acute man, but the self-confidence with which he had entered upon this dialogue, his conviction that he had but to speak when he wished to receive assurance of Marian’s devotion, prevented him from understanding the tone of independence she had suddenly adopted. With more modesty he would have felt more subtly at this juncture, would have divined that the girl had an exquisite pleasure in drawing back now that she saw him approaching her with unmistakable purpose, that she wished to be wooed in less offhand fashion before confessing what was in her heart. For the moment he was disconcerted. Those last words of hers had a slight tone of superiority, the last thing he would have expected upon her lips.
“Yet I surely haven’t always appeared so—to you?” he said.
“No, not always.”
“But you are in doubt concerning the real man?”
“I’m not sure that I understand you. You say that you do really think as you speak.”
“So I do. I think that there is no choice for a man who can’t bear poverty. I have never said, though, that I had pleasure in mean necessities; I accept them because I can’t help it.”
It was a delight to Marian to observe the anxiety with which he turned to self-defence. Never in her life had she felt this joy of holding a position of command. It was nothing to her that Jasper valued her more because of her money; impossible for it to be otherwise. Satisfied that he did value her, to begin with, for her own sake, she was very willing to accept money as her ally in the winning of his love. He scarcely loved her yet, as she understood the feeling, but she perceived her power over him, and passion taught her how to exert it.
“But you resign yourself very cheerfully to the necessity,” she said, looking at him with merely intellectual eyes.
“You had rather I lamented my fate in not being able to devote myself to nobly unremunerative work?”
There was a note of irony here. It caused her a tremor, but she held her position.
“That you never do so would make one think—but I won’t speak unkindly.”
“That I neither care for good work nor am capable of it,” Jasper finished her sentence. “I shouldn’t have thought it would make you think so.”
Instead of replying she turned her look towards the door. There was a footstep on the stairs, but it passed.
“I thought it might be Dora,” she said.
“She won’t be here for another couple of hours at least,” replied Jasper with a slight smile.
“But you said—?”
“I sent her to Mrs. Boston Wright’s that I might have an opportunity of talking to you. Will you forgive the stratagem?”
Marian resumed her former attitude, the faintest smile hovering about her lips.
“I’m glad there’s plenty of time,” he continued. “I begin to suspect that you have been misunderstanding me of late. I must set that right.”
“I don’t think I have misunderstood you.”
“That may mean something very disagreeable. I know that some people whom I esteem have a very poor opinion of me, but I can’t allow you to be one of them. What do I seem to you? What is the result on your mind of all our conversations?”
“I have already
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