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A review by sherwoodreads
Autobiography of Anthony Trollope by Anthony Trollope
I don't think this autobiography is going to appeal to non-writers, as Trollope delves not at all into his emotions or private experiences, focusing on his outer life, as it were, as post office official, hobby hunter, sometime politician, and writer. His wife and children get scant mention.
But he talks a great deal about writing. For any writer who likes writers on writing, this ought to be a fascinating read. He gets into details about the frustrations of publishing by serial, and he also details the financial side, keeping careful tabs on what he earned.
It's a sobering assessment for anyone who thinks that a lifetime of novel writing will make them rich. He was more successful than most, but he had to work a full time job at the Post Office most of his life (and on his retirement, showed the hurt that so many do when he discovered the work place, far from falling apart at the idea of his going away, demonstrated that they could do very well without him).
While I, and perhaps other modern readers, will not agree with his assessment of his own works, and why they are good, they will find his honest discussion of his failures interesting.
Of especial interest is his assessment of his fellow nineteenth century authors. He pegs Dickens beautifully for his ability to make you care for unrealistic characters (caricatures, in essence), and comments gently on George Eliot's penchant for letting her philosophizing get control of her plots, making some of her later stories almost impenetrable. (In this he's kinder than Henry James, who thoroughly appreciates her mind, and the insight of her female characters, while pointing out that few of her male characters are ever much more than watercolors, or sketches of ideals.)
He predicts who among the well-known writers will be well known in his grandchildren's time, and who won't, with near 100% accuracy, and he digs his quill into false critics who pander to authors, and authors who pander to critics, and how such a craving for instant fame doesn't work in the long run, even if it garners a flash of fulsome notoriety at the moment. It's peculiar, how much of this translates over to internet interactions, as writers are anxious to get their names and books out there, sometimes pushed into marketing themselves by publishers, without having any idea how to go about it. Writers had the same predicament back then.
At the last, he startles the reader with an anecdote about going out of his way as he crossed the USA to meet Brigham Young, and his being turned from Young's door. In the anecdote Young comes off looking uncouth, if not mad; Trollope finesses his reason for going to call on Young in the first place. There's a definite sense that Trollope regarded Young as a zoo creature, to be reported on for the amusement of people at home, identified as he is as "polygamist Brigham Young" instead of "religious leader Young" or whatever. But again, Trollope is reticent about exposing his inner motivations and emotions. He even comments about that near the end, and declaims any interest in such things.
Reading this in conjunction with the Glendenning biography can fill in some of the lacunae; meanwhile, the writing talk makes it a worthwhile read for writers, and of course for nineteenth century novel fans.
But he talks a great deal about writing. For any writer who likes writers on writing, this ought to be a fascinating read. He gets into details about the frustrations of publishing by serial, and he also details the financial side, keeping careful tabs on what he earned.
It's a sobering assessment for anyone who thinks that a lifetime of novel writing will make them rich. He was more successful than most, but he had to work a full time job at the Post Office most of his life (and on his retirement, showed the hurt that so many do when he discovered the work place, far from falling apart at the idea of his going away, demonstrated that they could do very well without him).
While I, and perhaps other modern readers, will not agree with his assessment of his own works, and why they are good, they will find his honest discussion of his failures interesting.
Of especial interest is his assessment of his fellow nineteenth century authors. He pegs Dickens beautifully for his ability to make you care for unrealistic characters (caricatures, in essence), and comments gently on George Eliot's penchant for letting her philosophizing get control of her plots, making some of her later stories almost impenetrable. (In this he's kinder than Henry James, who thoroughly appreciates her mind, and the insight of her female characters, while pointing out that few of her male characters are ever much more than watercolors, or sketches of ideals.)
He predicts who among the well-known writers will be well known in his grandchildren's time, and who won't, with near 100% accuracy, and he digs his quill into false critics who pander to authors, and authors who pander to critics, and how such a craving for instant fame doesn't work in the long run, even if it garners a flash of fulsome notoriety at the moment. It's peculiar, how much of this translates over to internet interactions, as writers are anxious to get their names and books out there, sometimes pushed into marketing themselves by publishers, without having any idea how to go about it. Writers had the same predicament back then.
At the last, he startles the reader with an anecdote about going out of his way as he crossed the USA to meet Brigham Young, and his being turned from Young's door. In the anecdote Young comes off looking uncouth, if not mad; Trollope finesses his reason for going to call on Young in the first place. There's a definite sense that Trollope regarded Young as a zoo creature, to be reported on for the amusement of people at home, identified as he is as "polygamist Brigham Young" instead of "religious leader Young" or whatever. But again, Trollope is reticent about exposing his inner motivations and emotions. He even comments about that near the end, and declaims any interest in such things.
Reading this in conjunction with the Glendenning biography can fill in some of the lacunae; meanwhile, the writing talk makes it a worthwhile read for writers, and of course for nineteenth century novel fans.