New Grub Street by George Gissing (best mobile ebook reader .txt) ๐
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. Heโs 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 Edwinโs 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 Edwinโs 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 thatโs true to his artistic desires but is unlikely to sell. On the other side lies Jasper Milvain, an โalarmingly modernโ writer laser-focused on earning as much money as possible no matter what heโs 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.
Read free book ยซNew Grub Street by George Gissing (best mobile ebook reader .txt) ๐ยป - read online or download for free at americanlibrarybooks.com
- Author: George Gissing
Read book online ยซNew Grub Street by George Gissing (best mobile ebook reader .txt) ๐ยป. Author - George Gissing
They ate their ham and eggs, and exhilarated themselves with a cup of chicoryโ โcalled coffee. Then Biffen drew from the pocket of his venerable overcoat the volume of Euripides he had brought, and their talk turned once more to the land of the sun. Only when the coffee-shop was closed did they go forth again into the foggy street, and at the top of Pentonville Hill they stood for ten minutes debating a metrical effect in one of the Fragments.
Day after day Reardon went about with a fever upon him. By evening his pulse was always rapid, and no extremity of weariness brought him a refreshing sleep. In conversation he seemed either depressed or excited, more often the latter. Save when attending to his duties at the hospital, he made no pretence of employing himself; if at home, he sat for hours without opening a book, and his walks, excepting when they led him to Clipstone Street, were aimless.
The hours of postal delivery found him waiting in an anguish of suspense. At eight oโclock each morning he stood by his window, listening for the postmanโs knock in the street. As it approached he went out to the head of the stairs, and if the knock sounded at the door of his house, he leaned over the banisters, trembling in expectation. But the letter was never for him. When his agitation had subsided he felt glad of the disappointment, and laughed and sang.
One day Carter appeared at the City Road establishment, and made an opportunity of speaking to his clerk in private.
โI suppose,โ he said with a smile, โtheyโll have to look out for someone else at Croydon?โ
โBy no means! The thing is settled. I go at Christmas.โ
โYou really mean that?โ
โUndoubtedly.โ
Seeing that Reardon was not disposed even to allude to private circumstances, the secretary said no more, and went away convinced that misfortunes had turned the poor fellowโs brain.
Wandering in the city, about this time, Reardon encountered his friend the realist.
โWould you like to meet Sykes?โ asked Biffen. โI am just going to see him.โ
โWhere does he live?โ
โIn some indiscoverable hole. To save fuel, he spends his mornings at some reading-rooms; the admission is only a penny, and there he can see all the papers and do his writing and enjoy a grateful temperature.โ
They repaired to the haunt in question. A flight of stairs brought them to a small room in which were exposed the daily newspapers; another ascent, and they were in a room devoted to magazines, chess, and refreshments; yet another, and they reached the department of weekly publications; lastly, at the top of the house, they found a lavatory, and a chamber for the use of those who desired to write. The walls of this last retreat were of blue plaster and sloped inwards from the floor; along them stood school desks with benches, and in one place was suspended a ragged and dirty card announcing that paper and envelopes could be purchased downstairs. An enormous basket full of waste-paper, and a small stove, occupied two corners; ink blotches, satirical designs, and much scribbling in pen and pencil served for mural adornment. From the adjacent lavatory came sounds of splashing and spluttering, and the busy street far below sent up its confused noises.
Two persons only sat at the desks. One was a hunger-bitten, out-of-work clerk, evidently engaged in replying to advertisements; in front of him lay two or three finished letters, and on the ground at his feet were several crumpled sheets of notepaper, representing abortive essays in composition. The other man, also occupied with the pen, looked about forty years old, and was clad in a very rusty suit of tweeds; on the bench beside him lay a grey overcoat and a silk hat which had for some time been moulting. His face declared the habit to which he was a victim, but it had nothing repulsive in its lineaments and expression; on the contrary, it was pleasing, amiable, and rather quaint. At this moment no one would have doubted his sobriety. With coat-sleeve turned back, so as to give free play to his right hand and wrist, revealing meanwhile a flannel shirt of singular colour, and with his collar unbuttoned (he wore no tie) to leave his throat at ease as he bent myopically over the paper, he was writing at express speed, evidently in the full rush of the ardour of composition. The veins of his forehead were dilated, and his chin pushed forward in a way that made one think of a racing horse.
โAre you too busy to talk?โ asked Biffen, going to his side.
โI am! Upon my soul I am!โ exclaimed the other looking up in alarm. โFor the love of Heaven donโt put me out! A quarter of an hour!โ
โAll right. Iโll come up again.โ
The friends went downstairs and turned over the papers.
โNow letโs try him again,โ said Biffen, when considerably more than the requested time had elapsed. They went up, and found Mr. Sykes in an attitude of melancholy meditation. He had turned back his coat sleeve, had buttoned his collar, and was eyeing the slips of completed manuscript. Biffen presented his companion, and Mr. Sykes greeted the novelist with much geniality.
โWhat do you think this is?โ he exclaimed, pointing to his work. โThe first instalment of my autobiography for the Shropshire Weekly Herald. Anonymous, of course, but strictly veracious, with the omission of sundry little personal failings which are nothing to the point. I call it Through the Wilds of Literary London. An old friend of mine edits the Herald, and Iโm indebted to him for the suggestion.โ
His voice was a trifle husky, but he spoke like a man
Comments (0)