THE DEEP END: THE LITERARY SCENE IN THE GREAT DEPRESSION AND TODAY
By Jason Boog
OR Books. 241 pages. £16. ISBN 978-1-935928-91-1
Reviewed by Jim Burns
Writers are having a hard time in the current climate of economic
uncertainty, cutbacks, Covid-19, and major changes in the ways that
information and entertainment in the form of literature is
disseminated. Libraries are either closing down or limiting their
activities. Jason Boog says that “San Francisco Library pulped
250,000 forgotten books to make way for computers and reading
spaces”. And bookshops have been seeing a steady decline for
decades. As someone who has spent well over sixty years prowling
around bookshops old and new, market bookstalls, book fairs, and any
other kind of location where books might be sold, I can testify to
their disappearance. Towns that once had several bookshops now have
only one, and that often part of a commercial chain. Any independent
shops that are still open struggle to survive. As for attention to
books in the press, an editor at
The Guardian newspaper
announced the closure of the weekly book-review supplement and said
she wanted to focus on “lifestyle journalism”.
Boog, thanks to his own situation of suddenly finding himself losing
a steady job as a writer, and retreating to a library to study what
had happened in the 1930s, has come up with the idea of selecting
several writers from that period and looking at their experiences at
a time when it seemed as if the capitalist system in the United
States was about to collapse. He also discusses the current problems
facing writers generally, though occasionally he seems to be
focusing mostly on opportunities and outlets for journalists. It
might be argued that, even at the best of times, uncertainty for
novelists in terms of being published is a way of life. And even if
their work does appear in print there’s no guarantee it will sell.
I’d guess that most creative writers have other jobs. And when it
comes to poets, a regular job, often not directly linked to
literature, is usually a necessity.
Things are bad now, and were even worse in the 1930s. But writers
still wrote and their work was published. Edward Newhouse’s
You Can’t Sleep Here,
appeared in 1934 and told the tale of an out-of-work journalist who
drifts into the shanty towns set up by the unemployed
and unfortunate. He sees himself as part of the “crisis
generation”, educated to a level where he should have been able to
find professional employment, but suddenly having to come to terms
with a bleak future. Boog doesn’t mention him, but another Thirties
writer, Alfred Hayes, caught the mood of such people in the poem,
“In a Coffee Pot”, where the narrator says that “I brood upon
myself. I rot/Night after night in this cheap Coffee Pot”, and
reflects on what has happened to a friend who seemingly had
bright prospects, but is now a “bus boy in an eat-quick
joint/At seven per week twelve hours a day”, and another who is “on
the bum”.
Newhouse wrote a second novel,
This is Your Day, which
pointed to his links to the Communist Party, but later drifted away
from radical politics and became a staff writer for the
New Yorker, where he
published numerous short stories. His 1949 novel,
The Hollow of the Wave,
was satirical about communists in New York. It’s interesting to note
that Alfred Hayes, who had appeared widely in left-wing
publications, likewise cast off his radical roots. After service as
a war correspondent he wrote novels, worked in Hollywood and for TV
and, it’s said, tended to dismiss his earlier inclinations as
youthful follies.
Boog praises Maxwell Bodenheim for an act which, he claims, drew
attention to injustices in the way that relief funds were dispensed.
Bodenheim, because of his past escapades as a bohemian poet who
attracted many female admirers, could always get the attention of
journalists. He’s perhaps a difficult case to deal with when it
comes to a question of his political leanings. He wrote two novels,
Run, Sheep, Run and
Slow Vision, which have a
place in studies of American radical literature, and some of his
poems (“To a Revolutionary Girl” and “Southern Labour Organiser”,
are two examples) point to left-wing tendencies. But when he’s
remembered now it’s largely because his 1920s affairs made headlines
in newspapers across America, and for his slow decline into the
poverty and alcoholism of the late-1930s and 1940s which led to his
murder in 1954. The fact that he wrote twelve novels and nearly as
many poetry collections, as well as contributing poetry and prose to
most of the leading magazines of the day, is overlooked. Or if it’s
acknowledged it’s usually with the comment that his work was often
flawed. But there are passages in the novels deserving of attention,
and some of his poems can still be read with pleasure.
Something that crops up in connection with Bodenheim is his
involvement with the Raven Poetry Circle. This group of mostly
lesser-known poets met regularly in Washington Square Park and
pinned their poems for sale on fencing. Boog writes sympathetically
about them instead of adopting the usual patronising line of
commentary, when dealing with such groups, which says that the poems
vary wildly in quality, and some of the poets are eccentric in their
dress and behaviour. One of them, Anca Vrbovska, was perhaps
more-talented than many of the others, and did establish something
of a minor reputation as a poet. And May Swenson, who became a
leading poet in America, had exhibited with the Raven Circle when
she was young.
Poetry then and now was and is often printed by little press
publishers and magazines. And in some ways it’s perhaps easier than
it was in the 1930s to publish a small book or a magazine. Or just
put poetry on-line. But even in the depths of the Depression there
were people prepared to commit themselves to producing magazines and
pamphlets, especially if what was in them had a radical edge. I’ve
got in front of me a copy of
When the Sirens Blow, a collection of poems by Leonard Spier,
published by B.C. Hagglund (based in Holt, Minnesota) in 1933. A
glance at the acknowledgements will indicate where both Spier and
Hagglund resided in political terms:
Daily Worker, Left, The
Industrial Democrat.
Another publication on my desk as I write is a slim book,
We Gather Strength,
published by the Liberal Press in 1933. It features four poets,
Edwin Rolfe, Joseph Kalar, Herman Spector, and Sol Funaroff, all of
them from the Left. Neither this nor the Spiers book received
subsidies from government sources. Both the poems and the lives of
the four named poets continue to be worthy of note. Rolfe wrote
movingly about his time in Spain during the Civil War. Funaroff died
young from poverty and tuberculosis. His poem, “What the Thunder
Said: A Fire Sermon”, was sometimes declaimed by the folk-singer and
political activist, Ewan MacColl during his street-agitation days in
Salford and other places in the 1930s. Spector referred to himself
as “the bastard in the ragged suit”, and wrote dark, bitter poems.
Kalar lived in Minnesota and worked in sawmills when there was work.
His poems created a “landscape of shut-down factories, peopled by
hard-drinking, down-on-their-luck workers”.
Kenneth Fearing’s work has survived better than that of Spiers,
though I suspect it’s largely known mainly by academics curious
about the 1930s and a few individuals who like to look outside the
usual sources for what was of value in the past. I would guess he
might retain some interest for readers of crime fiction. His
The Big Clock is still in
print. Boog says that Fearing’s poems “blasted the
bankers, fats cats, and politicians who plunged the country
into an economic dark age”. Like a lot of poets on the Left he was
probably too idiosyncratic to ever fit neatly into a fixed political
category. There’s an anecdote about him being asked by an FBI
investigator if he was a member of the Communist Party and replying
“Not yet”. He was, perhaps, the kind of communist who, as Ben Hecht
said of Maxwell Bodenheim, “would have been booted out of Moscow,
overnight”.
Fearing had, like many other writers, been hired to work for the
Federal Writers Project (FWP), a branch of the Works Progress
Administration (WPA), part of President Roosevelt’s New Deal. Boog
writes favourably about the FWP, seeing it as giving struggling
novelists, poets, and others a basic income in return for carrying
out surveys, compiling guide books and similar activities. In some
cases it allowed writers to focus on their own creative work. It
didn’t always function smoothly. There were strikes and other
actions that disrupted the smooth running of the organisation. And
not everyone classified as a writer turned out to have any literary
skills. It was as if some people were directed to the FWP when they
were unsuited for anything else. There’s a passage in a novel by
Eric Ambler where a police chief, examining someone’s documents,
says, “Your passport describes you as a writer but that is a most
elastic term”.
A 1941 novel by Jack Balch,
Lamps at High Noon, is based on events surrounding a 1930s
strike at the St Louis office of the Missouri branch of the FWP.
Politics often became a central part of dissension in the FWP, with
pro and anti-communist elements competing for influence. And
attracting attention from politicians who were hostile to the whole
idea of funding writers in any form, especially if they seemed to be
left-wing. Boog writes about Orrick Johns, a one-legged poet, and
one-time poetry editor for the communist
New Masses, who was
appointed Director of the New York branch of the FWP and struggled
to maintain control in the face of recalcitrant writers, suspicious
politicians, lack of funds, and general disorder, not to mention
personal problems with alcohol. Congressman Dies and his supporters
attacked the FWP as “a school for Communist writers” in ways that
were forerunners of what the House Un-American Activities Committee
(HUAC) would later employ to demonise left-wing screenwriters,
novelists and poets.
A writer some people might see as a curious inclusion among a group
of left-wing authors is Cornell Woolrich, best-known for his crime
novels and stories, and as a leading light in the world of pulp
magazines and books. Prior to 1934, when his first pulp story
appeared, Woolrich had written six novels, all of which were
published, but might best be described as conventional and were none
of them best-sellers. Boog says that he “wanted to be the next F.
Scott Fitzgerald”. I’ve read only one of the early Woolrich novels,
Manhattan Love Song, and
it didn’t strike me as being in the Fitzgerald class or having any
distinguishing features that might have enabled it to stand out on
its own merits. When Woolrich turned to pulp fiction he was much
more interesting as a writer. Books like
Phantom Lady, Deadline at
Dawn, and The Black Angel,
to name just three of my own favourites, are examples of popular
writing at its best. And they might be seen as good illustrations of
how writers need to adapt to changing circumstances.
There are some passages in Boog’s book where he discusses responses
to an article by a journalist, Mark I.Pinsky, which advocated the
setting up something similar to the FWP. Boog says that many of the
responses questioned the assumptions that lay behind this idea: “Go
and develop new skills that are in demand in the market-place and
get yourself another job…..You don’t have any kind of ‘right’ to a
job in journalism and any kind of ‘right’
to be paid to write a single word”. I think a lot of people
would agree with those comments. And I have to admit that I’ve
always had an uneasy suspicion about state funding for writers.
I have perhaps been a minor beneficiary of such aid, some of the
poetry readings I’ve done, and magazines I’ve contributed to, having
been subsidised by government-funded arts associations and the like.
I’ve also had one or two commissions to write reports for the Arts
Council and similar bodies. But I’ve done lots of readings for
groups that paid what little they could, and contributed to many
miniscule literary and political publications that paid nothing at
all. I never thought I had a “right” to be paid for anything I’ve
done. It was my choice to do it. If I’d wanted to make money I’d
have done something else. I have knocked out pulp fiction and
popular writing for newspapers and magazines now and then. And
worked part-time in adult education establishments and at other jobs
in industry and local government. It did amuse me that a left-wing
weekly that I contributed poems, reviews, and articles to for around
thirty years was said to have received money from Russia. The
thought that the small payments I got might have been partly “Moscow
gold” had its lighter side.
Other writers from the 1930s that Boog refers to include Muriel
Rukeyser, Nathanael West, and Richard Wright. They’re all of
interest, though I suspect that Rukeyser is a poet little-known in
Britain. Looking at her poems from the Depression decade shows that
she had a firm sense of commitment to left and liberal causes. She
went to Spain in 1936 and was there when the Civil War started. Her
novel, Savage Coast, was
about that experience, but only appeared in print in 2013 after
being discovered in the Rukeyser archives and published by the
Feminist Press in New York. Should anyone want to read her poetry
the Muriel Rukeyser Reader,
published by Norton in 1994, is recommended.
Nathanael West’s The Day of
the Locust is a classic novel about Hollywood, and came out of
his experiences there as a screenwriter. But before deciding to move
to California West had published other books, none of which had sold
well. One of them, Miss
Lonelyhearts, had the misfortune to have only just appeared when
the publisher went bankrupt. It was something that affected more
than one writer. Boog draws a comparison between what happened in
the 1930s and the situation during the 2008 financial crisis: “At
the height of the Great Depression Franklin Roosevelt chastised our
entire nation for abusing credit and mounted a massive national
bailout that put everybody – from farmers to construction workers to
clerks to writers – back to work. We bailed out the banks and left
everybody else to fend for themselves”. West’s adventures before
Hollywood had included working as a hotel clerk in New York, and
inviting his impoverished friends like Edmund Wilson, James
T.Farrell, and Dashiell Hammett to stay for free in any empty rooms
that were available.
The black author Richard Wright had been a supporter of the John
Reed Clubs set up by the Communist Party to provide encouragement
for working class and black writers. He was a member of the
Communist Party and attended the First American Writers Congress in
New York in 1935. A glance at the Contents page of the published
record of the Conference indicates that it attracted what Boog
refers to as “the leaders of the radical literary world”. They
included Malcolm Cowley, Granville Hicks, Joseph Freeman, John Dos
Passos, and the proletarian novelist, Jack Conroy.
When Farrell some years later wrote his fictional account of the
Conference in Yet Other
Waters he satirised Conroy as a rather blustering and foolish
speaker. It wasn’t a totally fair description and Conroy’s actual
talk on “The Worker as Writer” did have some relevant points to
make. But the Party was beginning to move away from its support for
proletarian writing and coming out in favour of a Popular Front
which would have a range of opinions represented with middle-class
liberals and anyone else who was anti-fascist made welcome. The
Party wanted names for its propaganda purposes. Proletarians like
Conroy then tended to be pushed into the background.
Wright’s account of his days among the communists can be found in
American Hunger and in
his contribution to The God
That Failed, a 1950 anthology that put him alongside Arthur
Koestler, Stephen Spender, and others, with their stories of how
they became disillusioned with communism.
What is notable in Boog’s story is that the Communist Party, or a
general commitment to left-wing values in one form or another, is in
evidence at all times. Can the same be said of today? Liberal ideas
may be prevalent among many writers, but there isn’t the sense of
solidarity that seems to have been present in the 1930s. And
certainly no sense of identification with the industrial
working-class. That group itself has been decimated over the years
by the decline in labour-intensive industries, as automation,
computerisation, and other factors came into play. And it has moved
towards conservatism instead of socialism in response to hard times.
Miners, dockworkers, shopworkers, and many others, have all had to
retrain for different work, sometimes at lower rates of pay, or
accept long-term unemployment as a fact of life.
I’ve been through redundancy
and early-retirement situations myself.
I’m not saying that what has happened has been a good thing.
But it is what happens, and writers are no more immune to it than
anyone else. It would be ideal if a united front could be formed to
oppose many of the worst aspects of capitalism, but is it likely?
Union membership is at an all-time low. The lack of strong unions
has led to a worsening of working conditions. Reading about the way
in which staff at Amazon have to work at speed made me think of
Albert Halper’s 1937 novel,
The Chute, where they race around on roller-skates desperate to
meet their quotas at the mail-order company they’re employed by. The
supervisor is always watching and ready to dismiss anyone not
keeping up. And “there are plenty of people waiting to take your job
if you don’t like it here”.
Jason Boog has written a useful and provocative book. It’s useful
because it draws attention to some writers of the 1930s who deserve
better than to be consigned to the dustbin of history. In his own
small way he joins literary historians like Walter B. Rideout (The
Radical Novel in the United States 1900-1954), Daniel Aaron (Writers
on the Left: Episodes in American Literary Communism), Cary
Nelson (Repression and
Recovery: Modern American Poetry and the Politics of Cultural memory
1910-1945 and
Revolutionary Memory: Rediscovering the Poetry
of the American Left), and Alan Wald (Exiles
From a Future Time; The Forging of the Mid-Twentieth Century
Literary Left; Trinity of Passion: The Literary Left & the
Anti-Fascist Crusade and
American Night: The Literary Left in the Era of the Cold War) in
chronicling the publications and experiences of often
unjustly-neglected poets and novelists. All the books listed
obviously deal with American writers, but Andy Croft’s
Red Letter Days: British
Fiction in the 1930s should additionally be mentioned.
And Boog is provocative because he raises questions relating to the
contemporary situation to which there are no easy answers, but which
need to be asked.
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