I’ve thought many times before that Andrew Marvell’s life and my own show distinct traces of overlap, and it’s never escaped me that this may be one of the reasons why I identify so closely with his writing.
Obviously, this fills me with an awful lot of trepidation, even here in my own space. It’s a dangerous game to read literature that is not overtly cast as ‘life writing’ (personal letters, diary, etc) through the lens of biography.
One esteemed critic particularly noted (and pilloried) for this practice was William Empson, whose use of biography was brought to task by Frank Kermode and others. And it was the bravest feature of the recent Marvell biography, I thought, to try and situate poems in particular chronological moments, despite the difficulty in dating most of them.
On the face of it, the issue of biography seems like a critical subjugation of the sort demonstrated by Cleanth Brooks and Douglas Bush over the ‘Horatian Ode’. Brooks concludes his formalist reading of the Ode as follows:
Was this, then, the attitude of Andrew Marvell, born 1621, sometime student at Cambridge, returned traveller and prospective tutor, toward Oliver Cromwell in the summer of 1650? The honest answer must be: I do not know. I have tried to read the poem, the ‘Horatian Ode’, not Andrew Marvell’s mind. […]
True, we do know that Marvell was capable of composing the ‘Ode’ and I must concede that the fact may tell us a great deal about Cromwell’s attitude towards Cromwell. I think it probably does. I am not sure… that it tells us everything: there is the problem of the role of the unconscious in the process of composition, there is the possibility of the poet’s having written better than he knew, there is even the matter of the happy accident.
Despite a clear temptation to read the poem biographically, Brooks claims to opt out; not only because of his caveats, but also because he fears the poem’s ambiguity (ironically, one of the biography-favouring Empson’s favourite topics).
Marvell has never sat comfortably within twentieth century critical movements. John Wallace’s Destiny His Choice (1968) long pre-dated the New Historicism of the 1980s. And thanks to Robert Hodge, Annabel Patterson and others, Marvell had already started to become a re-defined and decidedly political animal by the late 1970s.
Biography is an interesting and illicit barrier that somehow eludes that opposing set of critical values. In 1952, Kermode identified biography as one of the key ‘mistakes’ that had apparently led to flawed readings of ‘The Garden’, which marks it as a noisy distraction from his favoured formalism.
Autobiography & ‘The Garden’
If we peel the visceral layer further, however, to autobiography: that’s a more dangerous game still. It would be unthinkable to explicitly indebt critical assessment to our own personal biography – though I don’t think that stops us from trying.
It was the circumstances behind Empson’s unceremonious ejection from Cambridge, it has been argued, that tacitly motivated some of his most controversial readings of Shakespeare.
The final chapter of my doctoral thesis, ‘The Poetics of Privacy’, has no choice but to address Marvell’s poetry and biography in some way. Somehow, it would be unthinkable not to raise it. But it’s not straightforward.
Though Frank Kermode’s influential essay on ‘The Argument of Marvell’s Garden’ belongs in the distant past, there are many, I suspect, who respect these formalist principles.
‘The Garden’ must not be read as autobiography… ‘What was Marvell’s state of mind as he wandered in Fairfax’s Yorkshire garden?’ is a very bad question to ask, but it is obviously one which comes readily to the minds of learned and subtle interpreters; both Marvell and Donne have suffered greatly from this form of misapplied scholarship.
To Kermode, when the poem was written is not important. Though he’s liberating the poem from becoming forcefully ascribed to Nun Appleton in the early 1650s, which is no bad thing, he still finds problems with the idea of dating it with contextual purpose.
It is comforting to reflect that the date of ‘The Garden’ is quite unknown, so that it cannot be positively dated to be the direct record of some personal experience at Nun Appleton. It could conceivably have been written much later. The pseudo-biographical critic is wasteful and deceptive…
That’s me told, then! Ironically, Kermode does not object to intertextuality. The history of ideas, which he deals with fabulously, is key to the poem. Just, the literary Solitude, even over and above the Jouissance, is still a shadow of the reality of seventeenth-century privacy.
Though he determines that ‘The Garden’ ‘is not a contribution to philosophy’, how can we know that without seeking to contextualise the poem in light of John Evelyn and George Mackenzie’s debate on the merits of public and private life, for example, and determining what solitude might have actually meant to Marvell?
The deep, introverted and solipsistic nature of the subject surely requires us to consider how its subtleties and ambiguities read in both the early 1650s and late 1660s. When Marvell was undertaking his deep contemplation of engagement and retirement in Upon Appleton House, would ‘The Garden’ represent the ultimate paradise? A desired but unsustainable state? An undesired and unsustainable state? Or maybe even a seductive or destructive enclosure act?
And what of the later period, when the themes of solitude and retirement were popular and a fatigued Marvell found himself with renewed perspectives on the relative merits of the public and private life?
For Marvell, the garden is never an escape, I don’t think. He tries, often enough, but always rejects it in the end. It’s quite possible, after all, that his spell at NunAppleton was cut short by time spent in Holland as part of Oliver St. John’s entourage in 1651 (read more).
He would quite happily live alone, it seems, especially in the suburb, on the very periphery of life and activity. His poetics of enclosure, I would suggest, show that isolation is particularly dangerous to the internal drivers of human accomplishment.
It’s not only choice that inspires Marvell, Christine Rees notes, but the impossibility of choice. His verse is full of different kinds of enclosure that are sometimes beautiful, sometimes disappointing, and which rarely find resolution.
And I wonder if, beyond the dated formalist/historicist wrangling, there lies a broader epistemological issue. Just as I support the precept of a sui generis model of authorship for the private writer, so I also believe that private poetry can bear a mark of biography. At the very least, we should not discount biography as an option towards the vast matrix of factors that determines reception, perception and understanding.
Firstly, if it is perceived that we can never read into the mind of another, how can we ever reject any available option for interpretation? To approach Marvell with the philosophia negativa is not foolish, I don’t think, given his long celebrated ambiguities and eccentricities.
Secondly – perhaps a more identifiable reason – the private poem, I think, can be drawn into the category of life-writing. We have the opportunity to consider it closer to the letter or the private diary, a medium that displays the self.
In typical Marvellian fashion, Kermode leaps from the extremity of one opposite straight into the hands of the other, and says we’re not to read it at all biographically. But there’s plenty to be said for the plane of ‘shared’ human experience, with its parallels, similarities and crossovers, and the rare, often unique opportunities that we are granted sometimes to establish a rich and somehow otherworldly closeness to the psyche of our subject.
For all we know, Marvell intended his poems as a private diary, perhaps even to be destroyed before death. The fundamental problem is: we don’t know, and it’s unlikely that we ever will. So why do we bind ourselves in academic red-tape in the effort to understand that which will forever remain a mystery?
Empson apparently believed that ‘the price of the detached intelligence is painful isolation.’ I don’t wonder it’s this kind of autobiographical thinking that drew him to the enigmatic Marvell, and I can’t help wondering if I’ve been heading the same way all these years.
This post is dedicated to the precious few who know the truth of recent times and have not forsaken me.