The unmistakable pounce of Rebecca West

Or, don't expect kittens to thank you for drowning them

The first sentence is absolutely vital. How else will you draw the reader in? Of course Rebecca West knew this. What’s surprising is that she figured it out when she was a teenager. 

West would become one of the most admired writers of the 20th century. Her biography of Yugoslavia was an instant classic; as an exuberant suffragette, she fought for the rights of women her whole life; she covered the Nuremberg trials for The New Yorker; and into her 80s, she was considered one of the world’s best book reviewers.

But way back in the 19teens — these decades are always hard to name — she burst onto the scene with a series of provocative essays, and each of those provocative essays began with a bang. 

Those bangs sounded like this:

“There are two kinds of imperialists — imperialists and bloody imperialists.” 💥

“Humanity is a little lost dog looking for a master.”💥

“The baldness and badness of popular novels is as touching as the ugliness of a cherished rag-doll.”💥

She had a particular hatred for the morose Swedish playwright August Strindberg, which could only have made the poor Swede sadder. Here’s how she began two of those pieces:

“Writers on the subject of August Strindberg have hitherto omitted to mention that he could not write.”

“The Government should prohibit the import of literary pulp as well as wood pulp from Sweden.”

(I will here admit that my principal exposure to Strindberg’s work comes from the excellent early web video series Strindberg and Helium, featuring a turgid dramaturge and a jaunty balloon. Remember when the internet was fun?)

The most powerful review West penned in this era was of H.G. Wells’ novel Marriage, which started by saying “Mr Wells’s mannerisms are more infuriating than ever in Marriage” and led to a correspondence with the science fiction writer that in turn led to a decade-long affair that in turn led to a child who would spend his whole life tormenting his mother. 

The brilliant thing about West’s voice was how long it could carry a note. Here’s what she wrote about feminism in 1913:

“I myself have never been able to find out precisely what feminism is: I only know that people call me a feminist whenever I express sentiments that differentiate me from a doormat or a prostitute.”

And here are her thoughts on the subject in 1970:

“There is, of course, no reason for the existence of the male sex except that sometimes one needs help with moving the piano.”

Her editor at The Daily Telegraph had perhaps the best description of her tone, calling it an “unmistakable pounce.” Her victims knew exactly whose claws had dispatched them. 

The feline metaphor was apropos, as Wells’ pet name for West was “Aunt Panther.” She in turn gave their son the middle name Panther, about which the boy frankly should have been more appreciative. Also, West’s ginger tabby was named Pounce. 

So how does one develop an unmistakable pounce? In her snappy group biography Sharp: The Women Who Made An Art of Having An Opinion, Michelle Dean describes West’s style as “one long, run-on sentence punctuated only occasionally for want of money.” The keys to that style:

1. Pick your victims carefully. “She had a knack for choosing targets,” Dean writes.

2. Show no mercy. “She rarely equivocated in her writing, always wielding the first person to remind you that you were in the land of subjective authority.”

3. Don’t expect them to thank you. “At the heart of her confidence was this fundamental insecurity, a tension between wanting to be heard and wanting to be liked.”

Ultimately, then, an unmistakable pounce may be a quality best observed in others. 

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Quick quips; lightning

“The thankless task of drowning other people’s kittens.”
— Cyril Connolly

The literary critic (1903-1974) describing the process of reviewing a book. 

“If cats looked like frogs we’d realize what nasty cruel little bastards they are.” — Terry Pratchett

The humourist and fantasy writer (1948-2015) went on to say: “Style. That’s what people remember.”

“Man is the only animal that can remain on friendly terms with the victims he intends to eat until he eats them.” — Samuel Butler

Advice from a novelist (1835-1902) that’s useful for both critics and pet owners.

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That’s the 24th issue of Get Wit Quick, a weekly swimming lesson for floundering kittens. My book Elements of Wit: Mastering The Art of Being Interesting is like catnip for the catty. Paw the ❤️below.