'The Song of the Lark' by Willa Cather

MY THOUGHTS:

This wonderful coming-of-age novel, first published in 1915, lingers powerfully in my mind.

The protagonist is Thea Kronborg, a small-town girl who grows up to become one of the most celebrated opera singers of her generation. Cather reveals the huge toll focused genius takes on a person. At the start, Thea is a cheerful, industrious, and obliging little girl. Yet her calling shapes her into a restless, intense, and often scornful young woman.

The story follows Thea from her hometown of Moonstone, Colorado, to Chicago to learn piano with a young teacher named Harsanyi, who discovers that her voice is the most unique tool she possesses. Thea then learns singing with an expert named Madison Bowers, and plays accompaniment for some of his other clients. Eventually she travels overseas to study far more intensely in Germany, and finally makes her way onto the famous stage scene. 

Thea's epiphany is inspiring. While taking a rest in Arizona among ancient ruins from long forgotten tribal people, she notices that fragments of their water-vessels are embellished with artistic designs. This suggests to Thea that these cave-dwellers strived for aesthetic beauty over mere functionality. She decides she bears an obligation to these earlier generations to keep developing her own artistic vessel, which happens to be her voice.  

But the high price that top-of-their-game professionals must pay is enormous. Within these pages, Thea's muse is seen not so much as an alluring, chummy comrade, but more of a slave-driver brandishing a whip. Even as a little girl, Thea declares, 'Difficult things are enemies, aren't they, because you have to "get" them.' Later, as a student in Chicago, she faces challenging concepts as if they're mortal foes to vanquish. Instead of being inspired by all the musical theory she hasn't learned, her heart sinks at the magnitude of all she's been oblivious to, and the hours of slog it will take to wrap her head around it. Her reactive misery surprises her teacher, Harsanyi, who'd assumed that opening up a whole new world for her would make Thea happy. 

I'm fascinated that many reviewers disapprove when Thea chooses not to return home from Germany to see her dying mother one last time. She knows her burgeoning career is ripe with opportunities which will never return at a later date, for time is short. It's a bitter sacrifice on Thea's part, for she loves her mother dearly, but knows that the life of a focused artist requires this sort of inflexible priority. Leaving at such a pivotal time would have compromised what she was all about. The general disappointment expressed by readers indicates to me that few of us possess the doggedness it takes for a life devoted to one's art. We all enjoy benefiting from a great master's finely honed craft, yet criticize them for shaking off all sorts of normal ties that we mere mortals may indulge in.  

This incident more than any other, puts me in awe of Thea's grit, for in her place, I certainly couldn't have stuck to my resolve not to travel home.

Another thing that wins her no friends is her contempt toward fellow artists who fall short of her standard, especially if they become highly acclaimed anyway. The success of hacks and amateurs offends Thea, since they reveal the general public to be shallow, undiscerning and too easily impressed. This tarnishes and lets down her high ideals, especially in the aptly titled section, 'Stupid Faces.' 

She comments:

 'I dislike so much and so hard, it tires me out... You get to hating people who do contemptible work and still get on just as well as you do. If you love the good thing vitally enough to give up all for it, then you must hate the cheap thing just as hard. I tell you, there is such a thing as creative hate. You can't try to do things right and not despise people who do them wrong.' 

Wow, how's that for raw honesty! No disingenuous, tactful, 'Yeah, they're pretty good,' from Thea.  

I suspect Thea's attitude must have mirrored Willa Cather's, regarding her own craft of writing. So much of Cather's prose impresses me, making me suspect she possibly spent hours polishing single sentences until they shone as she wanted them to. There are simple gems like, 'The frail, brightly painted desert town was shaded by the light-reflecting, wind-loving tress of the desert, whose roots are always seeking water and whose leaves are always talking about it, making the sound of rain.' And, 'The long, porous roots of the cottonwoods are irrepressible. They break into wells as rats do into granaries, and thieve the water.' 

 Cather also sets a standard for all writers in the awesome line given at the poignant moment when railway man, Ray Kennedy, one of Thea's greatest admirers, dies on the job:

'Thea saw in his wet eyes her own face, very small but much prettier than the cracked glass of home had ever shown it. It was the first time she had seen her face in that kindest mirror a woman can ever find.'  

Willa Cather's embellishment of small, domestic details are the type which many authors might not choose to mention. In a similar way, she describes the attitudes of bit-characters and what makes them tick in a way I rarely see, which enriches the whole story. All this makes her outstanding, in my opinion. 

Overall, Thea is a highly-successful person, but not a happy one, because uncommon achievement is very often incompatible with peace and satisfaction. She's proof that striving and vocational success is not the road that leads to contentment. Yet she is a fulfilled individual because she's swept everything in her life to the periphery except for the one main thing she's chosen to make her life's focus. 'I have to work hard to do my worst, let alone my best.' For most of us, the sort of sacrificial heartlessness it takes is too high a price to pay. 

I'm left to grapple with the unexpected notion that we owe it to accomplished, hard-working creative souls in any field to be honest and discriminating when expressing our opinions. I've grown up under the famous axiom, 'If you can't say anything nice, don't say anything at all,' which has sometimes pricked my conscience while working on this blog. But what if calling out subpar work is, in fact, a favour to the truly deserving! While wearing my reviewing hat, pointing out specimens that miss the mark whenever I see them may be an important duty. Thea believes that politely calling average work excellent is a slap in the face for those who have sacrificed everything for their calling. 

Well, with no hesitation at all, I can say this book itself is great. No 'creative hate' is necessary in this case. Beneath is an image of the famous painting by Jules Breton from which the book partially derives its title. It is the painting, within the story, which Thea Kronborg herself bonded with when she saw it inside the Art Gallery of Chicago. And for us readers, it is also easy to imagine it as a perfect representation of Thea herself, during her Moonstone days. I think this would have been a far more suitable cover picture for my Virago classic. 

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