Oh, Romantic poets, I hardly knew thee...

Reading a biography of the women in the Wordsworth circle by Kathleen Jones. Gone are the days when "Wordsworth" signified merely the currents of thought running through The Prelude and "Tintern Abbey." Gone are the days when I'd read "Lime Tree Bower" and pity Coleridge for the shrew he made his wife out to be.

Jeez, no wonder these women suffered from so many mysterious maladies. They had to suppress their creativity, bear the brunt of blame for artistic failure, cater to some very self-important figures. Sarah Coleridge has got to be the scapegoat of the romantic era as Coleridge convinced everyone that she (not opium) was the cause of his lack of productivity. Wordsworth would write passionate letters to Mary on the one hand, then publicly declare that he had never really been in love. He would conveniently "forget" that a lot of his poems were inspired, not by hia own memories, but by Dorothy's journal impressions.

Even given the misogyny of the time, these guys get a below-average score on human decency. All the more baffling in that they initially embrace Mary Wollenscraft's A Vindication of Women. Who canonized these guys? Time to rework the curriculum.

I guess it should be heartening that such wonderful works of art can be produced by such flawed vehicles. It should inspire hope that all of us flawed beings are capable of tapping into grandeur. Rather than taint the beloved poems, it should add a new dimension...

But I can't help reading Prelude's chapter 11--WW's "crisis"-- without thinking, "Yeah, who's fault is that?" The footnote attributes the depression to the fact that he was separated from his mistress and their daughter in France. It wasn't financial: they managed to find funds to go on walking tours and to Germany. And even if it was, for four years, he never bothered to write her. I suppose guilt would compound the depression.

*sigh*

No more pedestals for you guys. (No more happy-rose spectacles for me.)