Life’s Moments and Self Creation in Lispector’s Agua Viva

It’s a question I generally leave to those philosophers whom I haven’t yet read: what is life? I always leap ahead, asking myself and the world what I must do with my life or how to live. Yet is it not foolish to skip over that fundamental questioning? If we don’t know what life is, we can hardly know properly how to live it.

Clarice Lispector is the next stop on my unofficial tour of the literature produced by authors that are not Ukrainian but belong, in a better world, in part to the land of today’s Ukraine. She was born in that country in 1920, but swiftly emigrated with her family to escape ongoing pogroms to Brazil, where she is considered one of that country’s greatest authors. She wrote in Portuguese, and in Agua Viva, she tried to work out what life is.

This is a strange book. As with W.G. Sebald, whose Vertigo I recently finished but which doesn’t get a blog post, Agua Viva is one of those works which is not entirely a novel, but not quite anything else either. It is an aphoristic work, made up of short reflections, many only a few sentences long, some connected to one another and some disconnected. And they all aim to work out what life is.

Moments

“I want to grab hold of the is of the thing. These instants passing through the air I breathe: in fireworks they explode silently in space.” Life, for our narrator, is a moment. A thing that passes. But a thing that we can, and should, grab onto. Lispector’s language is lush, and it is linguistically that she attempts to depict this moment. A huge array of images creates cumulatively this impression of the instant passing by. “The next instant, do I make it? or does it make itself? We make it together with our breath. And with the flair of the bullfighter in the ring.”

At times, the narrator is full of enthusiasm. There’s a kind of ecstatic exclamation that seems reminiscent of Whitman, together with an enthusiasm for movement and travel. “May whoever comes along with me come along: the journey is long, it is tough, but lived,” is very like the Whitman of Song of Myself’s section 46, for example. Lispector also has an affinity with Rilke, in that the entire book is an attempt to “live the questions”, as Rilke suggests to the questioner in Letters to a Young Poet. “I find no answer: I am,” She writes.

However, there’s a certain anxiety here too, which Rilke and Whitman are (largely) immune to. This is not the buoyant self-sustaining grandiosity of Whitman – Lispector’s narrator knows that her utterances, though they float in the air, need to be heard. She cannot live alone. “I write to you because I don’t understand myself.” Self-doubt appears in other guises too. In the questions, in the repetitions of what does not to be repeated, such as how “I am myself”. This is not bad writing, but rather anxiety expressed indirectly on the page. This anxiety belying the confidence gives the narrator kinship with the person that Whitman, after years of study, became for me – a self-creating figure whose assertions are designed to hide the sadness and loneliness at the core of his being.

Yet throughout, there is a distinctly feminine angle to Agua Viva that it would be remiss to ignore. Her Whitmanian exclamations are tinged with a sense of her own limitations, specifically as a woman. Where Whitman, in Song of Myself, attempts to identify and praise everything – every profession, every life – Lispector’s narrator here comes up against the limits of a much more bounded existence. The moments she attempts to pour light onto are simple, average. Having coffee outside, having a smoke. The flowers she has in the room. Or the light playing on a tap:

“In this instant-now I’m enveloped by a wandering diffuse desire for marvelling and millions of reflections of the sun in the water that runs from the faucet onto the lawn of a garden…”

This praising of existence is a praising of the existence that is available to her, which is why it appears so undefined to a reader. She lives in her mind, on the page, in words. But not, it seems, in the world. Because she cannot, simply put.

We might also make out the hazy edges of a plot, of a reality lying beyond the experience of individual moments. The narrator seems to deny this: “Do I not have a plot to my life? For I am unexpectedly fragmentary. I am piecemeal. My story is living.” But there is a failure, a broken relationship. The narrator addresses an absent man at certain points of doubt. “But what can I do if you are not touched by my defects, whereas I loved yours. My candour was crushed underfoot by you. You didn’t love me, only I know that. I was alone. Yours alone. I write to no one and a riff is being made that doesn’t exist. I unglued myself from me.”

Creation

And this thread is what lets us construct a hidden narrative for the story of Agua Viva, of a reaction against a life that somewhere went wrong. Our narrator is not a writer, not primarily, but rather a painter. Her writing is not her natural medium, but the style is like a painting in that it attempts to capture the blur of experience in the way that someone like Monet could or Renoir could. She had a relationship, but it has ended. She makes veiled references to “he” as a topic she will discuss – but she never manages to get that far.

Her confidence has been hurt by her rejection. And so she has turned to writing. The narrator’s introspective, aphoristic language is tentative, it is testing the waters of language’s possibility. And it is also an act of creation. All writing creates, but here we have something different from the sentences of realist novelists, who try to build up characters on the page. The impression given by phrases like “this writing I’m attempting is a way of thrashing myself free” is of a real person, trying to gain a reality that their immediate reality does not allow them. The impression of the voice here is much more intimate, human, and emotionally affecting.

In the task of freeing herself from the world, the narrator relies on writing. She also relies upon a conscious reaction against rationality, which no doubt for her represents an aspect of men that is hateful to her. “I have the mysticism of the darkness of a remote past,” she says. She also talks of her “witching ceremonies.” Through these tropes unclaimed by men, and through the blessing of her reality through its description, the narrator attempts to live a free life in the mind, and build a new life beyond the failure of the relationship to the “he”.

A State of Grace

In spite of the moments of doubt, the narrator succeeds and slips away at the book’s end into something like a state of grace where every moment is blessed. But as with everything mystical in fiction, the success of Agua Viva’s portrayal of its narrator’s ecstasy depends upon our sympathy and our willingness to give ourselves over to the strength of the exclamations and images. “That is living: the joy of the it”. Do we believe in her, or do we doubt her, as we might do Whitman?

I cannot say for sure what I think in my own case. Lispector’s language is very beautiful and full of striking images, but I found it all too abstract for my tastes. There was a disbalance between experience and underlying reality that I disliked, so that I almost have to look down on the narrator. If this is a book of philosophy, rather than fiction, and it perhaps is – arguing by images about the importance of each moment – then it immediately encounters the problem that such arguments are not particularly unconvincing to a cruel and logical mind, such as my own.

Whitman was not wrong when he exclaimed that “Logic and sermons never convince, The damp of the night drives deeper into my soul.” The problem is that, with a few exceptions, literature is not the damp of the night. Those kind of arguments require the reader to get up and go outside. Just like Lispector’s work will succeed or fail based on whether we can look at a mirror or a faucet in the same way again after we’ve read it.

Anyway, Agua Viva is a lovely little book, and my first Lispector. I’m sure I’ll read more of her later, but for now I won’t be sad to return to the earth and the concrete and the conflict of the world outside.

A Question of Tactics – How to Blow Up a Pipeline by Andreas Malm

Fortunately for me, this is not a guidebook. Owning a copy of The Anarchist’s Cookbook is illegal in my country, and it seems like a how-to guide on domestic terrorism would be still harder to excuse in court on the grounds of curiosity, as people have tried to do in the past. But How to Blow Up a Pipeline: Learning to Fight in a World on Fire is no less explosive for this. Written by a lecturer at Lund University, this is a polemical work that argues that acts of violence against property need to become part of any movement against anthropogenic (human origin) greenhouse gas emissions for that movement to have a chance of real success. It is hostile both towards groups like Extinction Rebellion, whose handbook I read earlier this summer and found fairly uninteresting, and also towards those “climate pessimists” who believe that no significant action to reduce emissions is possible and that instead, we should just learn how to die.

Aside from what goes on in the post-Soviet space, the state of the climate is the global problem I expend most of my thoughts on and know the most about. By the time this post is up, I will have started a new job in a major international energy company, where I will be working specifically on strategic direction within the energy transition – think things beyond just wind and solar. This was also what I was doing in Russia before circumstances compelled me to leave. Though I have neither attended energy-related rallies nor committed domestic terrorism against fossil fuel infrastructure, still I have allowed my concern for the state of the planet and its inhabitants to shape in no small way the direction of my own life. And that concern is great. Believe me, I’d much rather be reading 19th-century novels for the rest of my life in peace.

I found Malm’s book compelling. With The Extinction Rebellion Handbook, I spent most of my time shaking my head. That book was less a series of arguments than a series of paeans to vegan soup kitchens and letting oneself get arrested. Naturally, Malm does not attempt to convince anyone of the consequences of continued large-scale fossil emissions. Readers who want to know more about these should look to the IPCC’s Summary for Policymakers. Those with spurious arguments about why climate change is a hoax, or why human involvement is insignificant next to natural climate change, make me sad and should read no further.

Malm’s book, anyway, is about the tactics necessary for the climate movement to achieve its goals. These being, broadly stated, the prevention of global temperatures rising more than 1.5 degrees Celsius above pre-industrial levels or at the most 2 degrees, which is achieved primarily by reducing fossil fuel use or eliminating it altogether. Though these are somewhat arbitrary numbers, if achieved they would minimise the adverse effects of climate change – things like wildfires and crop failures due to increased random weather. Based on current trajectories, however, it is unlikely that we will manage this. Hence the note of hysteria we may hear in climate activists. Emissions are cumulative, so every year from now climate anomalies are only going to get more pronounced – from atypical heatwaves to forest fires – after accounting for other factors, such as the El Nino effect. Hysteria may be justified, in other words. I would say it is, myself.

Why Violence is (supposedly) Necessary

Malm begins his book by describing the experience of protesting with the same joy as some of the writers in the Extinction Rebellion Handbook, but his comment that “we are still perfectly, immaculately peaceful” soon turns out to be ironic. Rather than boasting with the kind of smarmy superiority we may associate with climate activists, Malm is exasperated by this peacefulness. It is bizarre, he notes, that climate change has not prompted more action than just marches and strikes, given:

  1. How much is at stake;
  2. The multitude of available targets (Malm considers some consumers responsible enough to be targeted, such as SUV and yacht owners);
  3. The ease of damaging these targets. (Even a pipeline is easy to damage, while cars can be disabled still more easily);
  4. The awareness of the crisis and its structure is great. (Mostly we know who is to blame, what the problem is, and so on);
  5. The enormity of the injustice. (Especially if you consider arguments about, for example, intergenerational injustice to be sufficiently watertight).

One reason for this peacefulness lies within the influence of nonviolence upon the major groups like Extinction Rebellion. Theoreticians, such as Bill McKibben (whom Malm singles out for criticism), combine their environmentalism with certain ideas coming from Buddhism that abhor violence in all forms. They also argue that any violence, even only against inanimate objects, would turn people away from the movement and thus make it less likely to succeed. Finally, they note that major popular movements succeeded using nonviolent methods, such as the fight to end Apartheid in South Africa, the end of slavery, the campaign to give women the vote in the UK, and the US civil rights movement.

Malm finds these arguments absurd. He notes that rarely were these struggles as peaceful as the environmentalists may suggest. The suffragettes were arsonists, with Pankhurst saying “to be militant in some form, or other, is a moral obligation”. Slavery in the United States was ended in part due to a Civil War, and there were slave uprisings, notably in Haiti, as well. As for Apartheid, sabotage was a key method employed by Nelson Mandela when it became clear that peaceful protest would be insufficient. Malm concludes, on the contrary, that violence – but not murder – is practically a necessity to achieve revolutionary goals. Whether it does this by forcing the ruling powers to submit directly to the saboteurs’ demands, or by legitimising a non-violent alternative (as was the case in Malm’s reading of the US Civil Rights movement, where Malcolm X’s violent radicalism legitimised MLK’s more peaceful approach in the eyes of the US government), destruction is necessary.

The practical benefit of attacking property is that it makes ruling more challenging for the incumbent powers. Even if they just have to invest in more security, it is still a cost. And when it becomes sufficiently great, the alternative will become attractive. As one protest group noted, “we are the investment risk”.

Other than this core of nonviolence in the movement’s philosophy, Malm also blames a lack of politicisation among the population, who may care but don’t care enough, and a decline in revolutionary attitudes in general. He also notes that in Europe at least, violence is considered the domain of the far right. For climate activists, who tend to be on the left, violence is thus tainted.

In any case, Malm concludes that people are unwilling to turn to violence, and this is a great weakness of the climate movement. Without a radical flank blowing things up, politicians can simply continue to ignore their voters, and the rich can continue to live outrageously wastefully. Malm’s source for this idea is Herbert Haines’s view of the “radical flank” required by each movement, where both moderates and radicals play their own roles. Without the moderates, the movement will be too radical to attract popular support and thus avoid a crackdown; without radicals, the popular support will be easy to dismiss. Malm is not asking the lawyers at Extinction Rebellion protests to don ski masks and blow things up, but he argues that the climate movement does need some people who will do this.

So, How to Actually Blow Up a Pipeline?

Having established the logical foundations for a radical flank that destroys property but not life, the second part of How to Blow Up a Pipeline concerns if not the details, then at least the realities of this kind of action. He quotes, amusingly enough, from the Pipeline and Gas Journal in 2005, which contained the comment that “Pipelines are very easily sabotaged. A simple explosive device can put a critical section of the pipeline out of operation for weeks.” This was in connection with the Allied occupation of Iraq. Malm notes that damage to energy infrastructure has been widespread throughout history, going back as far as the Luddites. More recently, there was Iraq, there were the MEND militants in the Niger Delta who at one point shut down a third of Nigeria’s oil production, and there have been militants in Yemen who attacked Saudi production using drones.

Due to the scale of the infrastructure, which often crosses entire countries or else occupies a great area (such as oil refineries), defending it is a challenge. In places like Siberia and Canada pipelines are often above the surface due to risks associated with the permafrost thawing, making them easier to access. Malm notes that especially in an age of drones we now have “asymmetric warfare”, with rebels using cheap handheld planes to potentially disable the pillars of the global energy system. Besides such infrastructure, Malm also advocates for the damaging of items associated with conspicuous energy consumption, such as unnecessary SUVs. This is easier for those based in urban areas. Malm himself was part of a group in Sweden called the Indians of the Concrete Jungle, which damaged SUVs for a period of a few years before petering out. Something similar is going on right now in Cornwall.

Although energy infrastructure has been damaged in the past, the reasons have rarely been related to climate, Malm notes. The Iraqis wanted an end to the occupation of their land, as the Palestinians did when they damaged British pipelines in the 1930s, while the MEND rebels in the Niger Delta were concerned about (among other things) pollution, rather than climate change. Malm only has one recent example of climate terrorism, and that was the spate of attacks upon the Dakota Access Pipeline carried out by two women, Jessica Reznicek and Ruby Montoya, with blowtorches and other tools in 2016-17. The two women turned themselves in to gain publicity and to inspire others, though so far they seemed to have surrendered in vain.

Some Minor Criticisms

In general, Malm’s proposal about the need for a radical flank makes sense to me, though I have no interest in blowing anything up and cannot say that I would support such action in practice. This is in part because there are a few reservations at my end that Malm does not address adequately. These are energy-related, rather than based on critical theory. However, there appear some seemingly decent criticisms from that angle on Goodreads for those interested in such an angle.

Firstly, it’s worth mentioning that pipelines are relatively poor targets for energy terrorism. When they are taken out of action or their building is stopped, the alternatives are generally worse for the environment and climate. For example, when the Indian reservation that the planned Yellowstone Pipeline was going to run through declared its refusal to the project, the pipeline was replaced by rail transportation through their land instead. What may have seemed a victory at the time to the Indians, is more of a defeat when we consider that on a per-mile basis, pipelines are the safest way of transporting oil and gas, both for the environment in terms of leaks and associated emissions, and for human health. Instead, it makes more sense for activists to damage production facilities, where their actions would directly prevent oil and gas from leaving the ground.

It’s also worth being discerning about which facilities to attack. I cannot agree with a view that says we must get our emissions down to net zero within an extremely tight timeline (2050 is hard but fine, while 2030 is unreasonable), because I find within a utilitarian framework this of dubious value. I would much prefer, then, that activists prioritise those emissions sources that are essentially unnecessary or particularly harmful, rather than all of them. In practice, this would be new oil and gas production facilities, and those which are particularly poor for the environment, such as Canadian oil sands, deepwater rigs, or gas from hydraulic fracking. Saudi and Norwegian oil, by contrast, has a very low carbon footprint (for different reasons in each case, however), and should avoid damage. One cannot forcefully nudge players to improve quickly if one appears to be attacking all players indiscriminately. A certain amount of discretion also undermines the charge that activists are asking for too much. Malm does want to achieve brilliant goals, but the radical flank should not seem so radical that the moderates can no longer agree with it from a distance. If that becomes the case, then the movement risks collapse.

Malm also shares with other activists the relatively niche view among the wider population that poorer countries should not be allowed to build new fossil fuel facilities to spur their economic growth. I do not know enough to make an argument on this, but there are some obvious flaws in Malm’s own view. He writes that “what they need is not emissions but energy”, which is certainly true. However, he makes the mistake of repeating that renewables are cheaper than fossil fuels as if this were true in these cases, when it is much more true for developed countries.

For cash-strapped developing countries, renewables are regularly more expensive and, for other reasons besides, less desirable than fossil infrastructure. The price difference is partly because country risk increases financing costs, partly also because many countries have local content requirements that drive up the costs of individual components. Investments in renewables also produce fewer jobs their fossil fuel alternatives, and intermittency of generation is a problem for countries that may not have sufficient backup generation to account for this, which in reality further drives up costs above what we call the “levelised cost of electricity”. The point, put simply, is that there are good reasons for developing countries to continue to build fossil fuel infrastructure instead of renewables. We may not like those reasons, but they are certainly real.

My purpose with these criticisms is to add a certain amount of nuance to Malm’s argument in How to Blow Up a Pipeline, which on the whole I find reasonable enough. I am not going to any protests, nor am I going to blow up any pipelines. But I consider the current pace of change to be insufficiently fast, and Malm’s argument about the need for some radical violent flank may be one way of resolving the problem, though who knows whether it is the best way. Certainly, it seems a more serious proposal for reducing climate-related damages than that put forward in another climate book I read this year, Assaad Razzouk’s Saving the Climate Without the Bullshit, whose ultimate argument seemed to be that we should just regulate things better.

In general, I remain pessimistic about humanity’s chances of improving the situation before too much damage is done. Humans are very ingenious, but here are demonstrating themselves slow to react, slow to fear. What is frustrating, as someone interested in the area of climate and energy, is that we do, pretty much, have all the solutions we need already. (Bill Gates’s book, How to Avoid a Climate Disaster is a good layperson’s introduction to some of the technologies we have and the variety of challenges they face). We just do not have the will, nor yet the market incentives to implement these solutions.

Activists, bringing climate to the forefront of the popular consciousness, do a good thing by increasing the pressure on governments. But clearly the threat of damages, of pipeline explosions and burning production facilities, would have a still greater impact. And so, once their more extreme demands are moderated, I find it hard to suggest that the climate movement is not asking for the right things.

A Doll’s House – Henrik Ibsen

I knew that Joyce had rated Ibsen (he even wrote him fan mail), but it has taken a long time for me to read him. A Doll’s House is the first in the book, and so I began with that. I was expecting less than I should have, especially given Joyce’s praise. I thought the work would merely be one of those dramas of the 19th century where women are miserable and men narrow or cruel, and the meaning of life is all contained in a house of one’s own and a respectable personal income. I expected, in short, something a little like the works of my favourite German writer of the period, Theodor Fontane, without considering that the reason I like Fontane is precisely that he goes beyond the limits of that world to tell us things that are truly significant.

The setting is the apartment (I made my typical note in the margin that all action for women has to be domestic in the 19th century) of a former lawyer, just then promoted to bank manager, Torvald Helmer. He lives with his wife, Nora, and their three small children. There’s a maid and a nursemaid, and a regular guest in the consumption-stricken Dr Rank. A friend from the past, Kristine Linde, comes to see Nora. And there is also the figure of Nils Krogstad, who works at Torvald’s bank but has other reasons to come by too. A small cast of characters for what I assumed to be a kind of simple, domestic tragedy.

Act One

At first, the play did little to encourage me. The first act’s portrayal of Nora and Torvald’s relationship is just as unpleasant as all the other unhappy marriages of that period which I have read, even though Nora seems happy enough. Her husband controls her access to money, he controls what she eats (no macaroons!), and rather than refer to her as his wife or even by her name Torvald much prefers to call her a bird or squirrel or pet: “My little pet is very sweet, but it runs away with an awful lot of money. It’s incredible how expensive it is for a man to keep such a pet.”

Torvald does not come across well to the modern reader. He seems quite comfortable embodying all the least attractive elements of 19th century bourgeois society. “Oh, what a glorious feeling it is, knowing you’ve got a nice, safe job, and a good fat income.” He does not approve of borrowing money or any kind of concealment or deceit. The household which he lords over is his heart and rock. Krogstad, who managed to avoid a criminal conviction for forgery by lying, comes in for particular scrutiny in Torvald’s eyes: “A fog of lies like that in a household, and it spreads disease and infection to every part of it. Every breath the children take in that kind of house is reeking with evil germs.” Torvald here speaks the language of medicine and sanitation, just as later he will speak the language of heredity to explain criminality. His language is authoritative; his knowledge, however, doubtful.  

Nora’s life within the household seems happy, notwithstanding her husband’s dreadful choice of pet names. She is able to play with the children and to sneak a macaroon every now and then. We can assume that this is enough – she certainly thinks it is, at least at that moment. “Oh yes! When you’re happy, life is a wonderful thing!”

When her friend Mrs Linde arrives Nora seems shocked by just a certain lack of respectability in her friend compared to herself. Mrs Linde’s husband died without even giving his wife a reason to mourn him, which is shocking to Nora, who knows, as a good girl should, that marriage is all about love. But Mrs Linde was forced into a marriage of necessity to a richer man, so that she could help save her younger brothers and mother from destitution. She has not had the luck, for that’s all it is, that her former schoolmate Nora has had. Mrs Linde has come to see Nora in search of work. Her life now, with her brothers old enough to fend for themselves and her mother passed away, is “unutterably empty.” Mrs Linde had found her life’s meaning in living for others, and without the others, things have become terribly hard and sad.

Fortunately, Torvald can set Mrs Linde up at the bank, based on her experience. The only catch is that it will require Krogstad to lose his job. This is no bother at all, Torvald declares. There is but one snag, of which he is entirely unaware. Some years ago, when her husband had worked himself nearly to death, Nora had borrowed an extraordinary sum from Krogstad in order to take herself and Torvald to the South of Europe for some rest and recuperation. Nora had pretended that the money came from her own father, who had died recently, to avoid suspicions, while paying down the debt secretly through odd jobs and scrimping and saving on her allowance.

The problem is that Krogstad wants his job at the bank, and he can reveal not just the truth concerning where the money was found, but also that Nora is guilty of a forgery in signing for her father even after he died. Such a truth, he remarks, would ruin Nora in the eyes of her husband and the law. And Krogstad, who has only just begun to recover his own social standing after his earlier transgression, has no desire to be thrown back down into unemployment and disrepute. Nora cannot believe that she could face prison for forgery, should the truth come out, but she is not wise in such things:

Krogstad: The law takes no account of motives.

Nora: Then they must be very bad laws.

Alas, Nora is naïve. As her discussion with Mrs Linde shows, she has a good idea of how the world should be. Luckily for her, the world has not yet proved itself to be otherwise. But things soon begin to change on that front.

Act Two

The action of A Doll’s House takes place around Christmas, so there are plenty of excuses for guests to pop round and merriment to be had. In the play’s second act Nora tries to get Torvald to reverse the decision to replace Krogstad with Mrs Linde. She begs and she pleads, but there can be no luck. “If it ever got around that the new manager had been talked over by his wife…”, as Torvald charmingly remarks, it would be the end of him. He fears the embarrassment and any sense that his integrity – that highest of virtues for a respectable citizen – might be compromised.

Nora, convinced that she would receive the IOU note and be able to destroy it if she simply paid off the money as soon as possible, also turns down an opportunity to get the funds when old Dr Rank confesses that he is not long for this world and has secretly been in love with Nora. Not unexpectedly, she takes it badly, rather than using the position Rank has placed himself in to get the money.

Krogstad also returns, albeit secretly, to pressure Nora. Their talk turns to suicide, and here I began to see what I thought would be the shape of the play, with Nora ending her life rather than facing the shame and collapse of the family that the note would bring out. “Krogstad: Most of us think of that, to begin with. I did, too; but I didn’t have the courage.” Krogstad says he has a letter for her husband, detailing the truth of the matter, which he leaves in the letterbox and which only Torvald has the key to.

Nora manages to keep her husband from looking at his post until after they have gone to a dance, which takes place in act three, but act two ends, all the same, without much cause for optimism:

“Nora: Five. Seven hours to midnight. Then twenty-four hours till the next midnight. Then the tarantella will be over. Twenty-four and seven? Thirty-one hours to live.”

Act Three

Nora enlists Mrs Linde’s help to try to convince Krogstad to change course. She leaves him a note during the second act, and act three begins with them meeting while the Helmers are upstairs at their dance. Here, we discover that these two knew each other long ago. And that the love Mrs Linde lacked in her marriage she had once felt for this man, who thus far has seemed the villain of the play. Mrs Linde had married for others, at a time when Krogstad had few prospects. The poison he is alleged to have brought into his own household – he has children and is a widower – appears not hereditary, as claims Torvald, but rather perhaps to have come from these disappointments of youth. “When I lost you, it was just as if the ground had slipped away from under my feet. Look at me now: a broken man clinging to the wreck of his life.”

Now that she and Krogstad have seen their loveless marriages end, Mrs Linde suggests they may be together at last. Krogstad immediately agrees to try to secure the return of his letter, unopened. But then Mrs Linde changes her mind, and suggests that the right thing to do is let the letter be read after all. “Those two must have the whole thing out between them. All this secrecy and deception, it just can’t go on.” For those awaiting a tragic conclusion, these words, designed to bring good, seem unintentionally fatal. These two leave, and now Nora and Torvald, newly returned and a little drunk, have the flat to themselves until Dr Rank shows up briefly to say his goodbyes.

Torvald is in a good mood and seems determined to seduce his wife. Those phrases about his “most treasured possession” and his rights “Am I not your husband…?” redouble now, though his wife resists, knowing as she does that he will soon see the letter. Rank’s arrival saves her, but he does not stay long. Torvald discovers the visiting card that Rank left, marked with a black cross to indicate his oncoming death, but his mourning lasts half a paragraph before the man, who had visited every day during his healthy life, is forgotten. Torvald instead returns to his passion, declaring how he sometimes wished his wife were in terribly danger so he could save her. When he finally reads Krogstad’s letter it does not take long for him to have just such an opportunity.

He bungles it, completely, of course. He insults her family and her poor breeding, “no religion, no morals, no sense of duty…”, her intelligence, and even insults her suggestion that she will shortly end her life: “Oh stop pretending!” In short, Torvald reveals to her just what an awful creature he is. “From now on, there can be no question of happiness. All we can do is save the bits and pieces from the wreck, preserve appearances…” This is not a resolution worth having. But the play does not end here, nor with Nora’s flight to end her life. Suddenly, a letter comes from Krogstad for her. Her husband opens it and finds the IOU and an apology. “I am saved!” he shouts, forgetting for a moment that perhaps his wife may need some salvation too. Everything can go back to normal. “I’ve forgiven you,” he declares magnanimously. Ever the gentleman.

Ending

So things are back to normal, the family is protected, the values of honesty and integrity reaffirmed. It’s like the conservatism of the marriage plot that ends works like Turgenev’s Fathers and Sons and Fontane’s On Tangled Paths, despite their otherwise liberal tendencies. What a lucky man Torvald is. “Here I shall hold you like a hunted dove I have rescued unscathed from the cruel talons of the hawk, and calm your poor beating heart.” Readers or audiences can pat themselves on the backs and take away that message we always seem to from works of the 19th century, namely that society could do with some improvements, especially in how it treats women, but that in general it’s better than chaos and formlessness, and that family and proper values should always come first.

Only, that’s not how the play ends. Only the alternative German ending, which Ibsen was literally forced to write, is like this. The true ending is so much more awesome. It was here that I understood what Joyce found in Ibsen, the link I had not anticipated between that incomparably great novella “The Dead” and the works of this magnificent Norwegian. Just as Gabriel in Joyce’s novella, on learning of his wife’s more real and authentic romance to a young man in the countryside before she met him, cannot continue living the same way as before, so too can Nora not merely shrug her shoulders and go back to playing with the children and stealing quick bites of macaroons as if nothing had happened. No, Nora rebels.

“You don’t understand me. And I have never understood you, either – until tonight.”

“We have now been married eight years. Hasn’t it struck you this is the first time you and I, man and wife, have had a serious talk together?” Ironically, in a work that is all about paper – paper that condemns (the IOU and Krogstad’s letter), paper that provides work (the files from the bank Torvald constantly carries around), paper that saves (Krogstad’s final note) – there is very little real communication. Nora turns on her husband and her father, the two men who had shaped her life, as she realises what a life it was they had shaped for her:

“You two never loved me. You only thought how nice it was to be in love with me.”

“He used to call me his baby doll, and he played with me as I used to play with my dolls. Then I came to live in your house….”

It comes out. That Nora’s life has not been a life at all, but an object of other’s play. Not work, which would be serious, but just a toy to have around. And suddenly she sees a different image of herself, one that could never have existed in this kind of world: “It’s your fault that I’ve never made anything of my life.” And so she decides on a course of action. Not suicide in the woods, but still a departure into the night. “There’s another problem needs solving first. I must take steps to educate myself. You are not the man to help me there. That’s something I must do on my own. That’s why I’m leaving you.”

Torvald’s attempts to rebut her are so pathetic they are almost not worth quoting. “Helmer: Oh you blind, inexperienced. / Nora: I must set about getting experience, Torvald.” He tries appealing to her duty, her “most sacred duty” to her family. But she is wiser now. “I have another duty equally sacred… My duty to myself.” She wants to discover herself, her own truth, not society’s. She wants, above all, to live, not to be a doll in someone’s house. Torvald is shocked. There can be only one explanation possible: “You don’t love me any more.” To which Nora gives the hilarious response, the one Torvald was definitely least expecting: “Exactly.”

And so she goes.

Oh how exciting! How brilliant! Readers, if I may at times strike you as being a little too much from the 19th century, which is certainly a fault, at least it gave me one advantage in reading A Doll’s House: I was not at all expecting this. I was expecting suicide, I was expecting Nora to be cast out of the house like poor Effi in Effi Briest. I was expecting God to Punish the Sinner for mistreating His Sacred Values. What I was not expecting was this heroism. How awesome Ibsen is for writing such a work. I think I must have been burned by Chekhov, whose brilliant plays always end with nothing changing, or everything somehow getting worse. Here we have a positive ending which doesn’t involve marriage, but involves something much more important – truth, personal truth, pursued. I am not saying that it is always right to abandon one’s family in pursuit of truth – after all, we know what happens to Anna Karenina. But it is surely right here.

And so I was delighted that at last I turned to Ibsen. This will not be the last work of his that I read – that much is for certain.