Wittgenstein's Mistress by David Markson
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S Hovet
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Wittgenstein's Mistress by David Markson
David Markson’s 1988 novel Wittgenstein’s Mistress takes place within the mind of the last woman on earth. But, to tell the truth, I’m not sure at what point I would have become aware of this rather essential plot point if not for reading the back of the book. Markson establishes the narrator’s womanhood by page ten, when she types, “Conversely I’m still menstruating,” but the rather rarer fact of being the last person on earth emerges only gradually. I imagine if I had not entered into the story aware of its premise, the references to setting sail from Athens to Troy with a page torn from an atlas and no maritime charts, to living in the Louvre and burning picture frames for warmth, to driving a new car whenever the last car ran out of gas, would have eventually tipped me off. Therein lies the beauty and the burden of Markson’s novel: it occupies the woman’s mind without reprieve.
The novel is in that vein where the text is also a text within the narrative world, as in novels constructed as a series of letters, diary entries, or other accounts recorded by a character within the narrative. But it functions not quite like any of these. Having no addressee available anywhere in the world, it cannot be an epistolary novel. It is not a diary per se; it records no dates, times, or other means of demarcation between days. There is not a single line break in the entire novel. Paragraph lengths vary from short to shorter; a reader would be hard-pressed to identify a paragraph of more than six or seven lines in length in the entire novel. The continuous flow of short paragraphs produces a persistent sense of oscillation.
The narrator’s constant doubling back to the same facts and allusions, from Giotto painting a perfect circle freehand to Helen of Troy developing “a splendid radiant dignity” by the age she has attained in The Odyssey, heightens this oscillation. This can be maddening, especially given the berth of exotic-sounding names that really drilled into me how little I know about art history. It can be fascinating, as when the narrator rewrites Greek tragedy so that Orestes and Electra sympathize with Clytemnestra when she murders Agamemnon. They do not murder her. They adopt Cassandra as an addition to the family. They go through delicate maneuvers to make holiday dinners with Helen and Menelaus less of an awkward affair. It is charming and a satisfying rewrite, especially as it gives female figures from Greek tragedies far more latitude to build relationships with each other than Euripides or Aeschylus allowed. Likewise, the musings on Sappho and Artemisia Gentileschi are rich, and evocative. At one point, the narrator admits to “poking into mummies in various museums to see if there might be any stuffing made out of lost poems by Sappho inside,” disclosing the extent of the hypnotic power held over her by the figures populating her mental life. Personally, I am all for Sappho making it into the novel’s title instead, although Wittgenstein fits on any number of levels, too.
The novel constitutes probes into hitherto uncharted creative territory. It is worth the first bewildered reading and probably even more worth rereadings when one can bask in the humor and grace of Markson’s prose without the mental chatter that accompanies the initial read. What happens next? How in the world is Markson going to wrap up this doozy? Does this ever evolve beyond the plane it was conceived on? What about the PLOT? These questions crop up because the novel feels decidedly claustrophobic, but then again, wouldn’t a woman occupying the cranial penitentiary of her own head so unremittingly feel claustrophobic? It comes down to the question of the imitative fallacy: in depicting a state of mind, does the novel succumb to the same shortcomings inherent in that state of mind? But I suppose a novel can only triumph on so many intellectual and artistic fronts. This novel captures the constant argument with the self, cleaved from the background noise of daily life and other people. It is worth reading and probably more worth rereading. This review probably doesn’t do it justice. I’m too busy chalking up on my art history trivia.
The novel is in that vein where the text is also a text within the narrative world, as in novels constructed as a series of letters, diary entries, or other accounts recorded by a character within the narrative. But it functions not quite like any of these. Having no addressee available anywhere in the world, it cannot be an epistolary novel. It is not a diary per se; it records no dates, times, or other means of demarcation between days. There is not a single line break in the entire novel. Paragraph lengths vary from short to shorter; a reader would be hard-pressed to identify a paragraph of more than six or seven lines in length in the entire novel. The continuous flow of short paragraphs produces a persistent sense of oscillation.
The narrator’s constant doubling back to the same facts and allusions, from Giotto painting a perfect circle freehand to Helen of Troy developing “a splendid radiant dignity” by the age she has attained in The Odyssey, heightens this oscillation. This can be maddening, especially given the berth of exotic-sounding names that really drilled into me how little I know about art history. It can be fascinating, as when the narrator rewrites Greek tragedy so that Orestes and Electra sympathize with Clytemnestra when she murders Agamemnon. They do not murder her. They adopt Cassandra as an addition to the family. They go through delicate maneuvers to make holiday dinners with Helen and Menelaus less of an awkward affair. It is charming and a satisfying rewrite, especially as it gives female figures from Greek tragedies far more latitude to build relationships with each other than Euripides or Aeschylus allowed. Likewise, the musings on Sappho and Artemisia Gentileschi are rich, and evocative. At one point, the narrator admits to “poking into mummies in various museums to see if there might be any stuffing made out of lost poems by Sappho inside,” disclosing the extent of the hypnotic power held over her by the figures populating her mental life. Personally, I am all for Sappho making it into the novel’s title instead, although Wittgenstein fits on any number of levels, too.
The novel constitutes probes into hitherto uncharted creative territory. It is worth the first bewildered reading and probably even more worth rereadings when one can bask in the humor and grace of Markson’s prose without the mental chatter that accompanies the initial read. What happens next? How in the world is Markson going to wrap up this doozy? Does this ever evolve beyond the plane it was conceived on? What about the PLOT? These questions crop up because the novel feels decidedly claustrophobic, but then again, wouldn’t a woman occupying the cranial penitentiary of her own head so unremittingly feel claustrophobic? It comes down to the question of the imitative fallacy: in depicting a state of mind, does the novel succumb to the same shortcomings inherent in that state of mind? But I suppose a novel can only triumph on so many intellectual and artistic fronts. This novel captures the constant argument with the self, cleaved from the background noise of daily life and other people. It is worth reading and probably more worth rereading. This review probably doesn’t do it justice. I’m too busy chalking up on my art history trivia.
