Cusk A Life's Work

Main
ISBN: 978-0-571-31614-4
Verlag: Faber & Faber
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark

E-Book, Englisch, 240 Seiten

'I laughed out loud, often, in painful recognition.' Esther Freud 'Cusk has created a work of beauty and wisdom.' New Statesman 'Cusk is not afraid to address frankly the grief for freedom lost, the despair, pain, boredom and guilt - all in the context of the mother's unspeakable love for the baby.' Stephanie Merritt, Observer A Life's Work is Rachel Cusk's funny, moving, brutally honest account of her early experiences of motherhood. An education in babies, books, breast-feeding, toddler groups, broken nights, bad advice and never being alone, it is a landmark work, which has provoked acclaim and outrage in equal measure.

Rachel Cusk is the author of Second Place (Prix Femina étranger), the Outline trilogy, the memoirs A Life's Work and Aftermath, and several other works of fiction and nonfiction, including her most recent novel Parade (Goldsmiths Prize, 2024). She is a Guggenheim Fellow, the recipient of the 2024 Malaparte Prize, and has been awarded the title of Chevalier de l'ordre des arts et des lettres. She lives in Paris.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Cusk, Rachel

Leseproben

If at any point in my life I had been able to find out what the future held, I would always have wanted to know whether or not I would have children. More than love, more than work, more than length of life or quantity of happiness, this was the question whose mystery I found most compelling. I could imagine those other things; giving birth to a child I could not. I wanted to know whether I would go through it, not because this knowledge would have made motherhood imaginable, but because it seemed to me that the issue could not remain shrouded in uncertainty without becoming a distraction. It was this distraction, as much as the fact of motherhood itself, that I wanted to have within my control. I regarded it as a threat, a form of disability that marked me out as unequal. But women must and do live with the prospect of childbirth: some dread it, some long for it, and some manage it so successfully as to give other people the impression that they never even think about it. My own strategy was to deny it, and so I arrived at the fact of motherhood shocked and unprepared, ignorant of what the consequences of this arrival would be, and with the unfounded but distinct impression that my journey there had been at once so random and so determined by forces greater than myself that I could hardly be said to have had any choice in the matter at all.

This book is an attempt to describe something of that arrival, and of the drama of which childbirth is merely the opening scene. It is, necessarily, a personal record of a period of transition. My desire to express myself on the subject of motherhood was from the beginning strong, but it dwelt underground, beneath the reconfigured surface of my life. A few months after the birth of my daughter Albertine, it vanished entirely. I wilfully forgot everything that I had felt so keenly, so little time ago: I couldn’t bear, in fact, to feel it. My appetite for the world was insatiable, omnivorous, an expression of longing for some lost, prematernal self, and for the freedom that self had perhaps enjoyed, perhaps squandered. Motherhood, for me, was a sort of compound fenced off from the rest of the world. I was forever plotting my escape from it, and when I found myself pregnant again when Albertine was six months old I greeted my old cell with the cheerless acceptance of a convict intercepted at large. What I had begun cautiously to think of as freedom became an exiguous hammock slung between the trunks of two pregnancies: I was surrounded, and it was then that the strange reality of motherhood grew apparent to me once more. I wrote this book during the pregnancy and early months of my second daughter, Jessye, before it could get away again.

I make this explanation with the gloomy suspicion that a book about motherhood is of no real interest to anyone except other mothers; and even then only mothers who, like me, find the experience so momentous that reading about it has a strangely narcotic effect. I say ‘other mothers’ and ‘only mothers’ as if in apology: the experience of motherhood loses nearly everything in its translation to the outside world. In motherhood a woman exchanges her public significance for a range of private meanings, and like sounds outside a certain range they can be very difficult for other people to identify. If one listened with a different part of oneself, one would perhaps hear them. ‘All human life on the planet is born of woman,’ wrote the American poet and feminist Adrienne Rich. ‘The one unifying, incontrovertible experience shared by all women and men is that months-long period we spent unfolding inside a woman’s body … Most of us first know both love and disappointment, power and tenderness, in the person of a woman. We carry the imprint of this experience for life, even into our dying.’

There are, of course, many important analyses, histories, polemics and social studies of motherhood. It has been seriously examined as an issue of class, of geography, of politics, of race, of psychology. In 1977 Adrienne Rich wrote the seminal and it is inspired by her example that I offer my own account. Yet it was my impression, when I became a mother, that nothing had been written about it at all: this may merely be a good example of that tone-deafness I describe, with which a non-parent is afflicted whenever a parent speaks, a condition we acquire as children and which leads us as adults to wonder in bemusement why we were never told – by our friends, – what parenthood was like. I am certain that my own reaction, three years ago, to the book I have now written would have been to wonder why the author had bothered to have children in the first place if she thought it was so awful.

This is not a history or study of motherhood; nor, in case anyone has read this far and still retains such a hope, is it a book about how to be a mother. I have merely written down what I thought of the experience of having a child in a way that I hope other people can identify with. As a novelist, I admit that I find this candid type of writing slightly alarming. Aside from the prospect of self-revelation, it demands on the part of the author a willingness to trespass on the lives of those around him or her. In this case, I have trespassed by omission. I have not said much about my particular circumstances, nor about the people with whom I live, nor about the other relationships inevitably surrounding the relationship I describe with my child. Instead I have used aspects of my life as a canvas upon which my theme, which is motherhood, may conveniently be illustrated.

But the issue of children and who looks after them has become, in my view, profoundly political, and so it would be a contradiction to write a book about motherhood without explaining to some degree how I found the time to write it. For the first six months of Albertine’s life I looked after her at home while my partner continued to work. This experience forcefully revealed to me something to which I had never given much thought: the fact that after a child is born the lives of its mother and father diverge, so that where before they were living in a state of some equality, now they exist in a sort of feudal relation to each other. A day spent at home caring for a child could not be more different from a day spent working in an office. Whatever their relative merits, they are days spent on opposite sides of the world. From that irreconcilable beginning, it seemed to me that some kind of slide into deeper patriarchy was inevitable: that the father’s day would gradually gather to it the armour of the outside world, of money and authority and importance, while the mother’s remit would extend to cover the entire domestic sphere. It is well known that in couples where both parents work full-time, the mother generally does far more than her fair share of housework and childcare, and is the one to curtail her working day in order to meet the exigencies of parenthood. That is an issue of sexual politics; but even in the most generous household, which I acknowledge my own to be, the gulf between childcarer and worker is profound. Bridging it is extremely difficult. It is one solution for the father to remain at home while the mother works: in our culture, the male and the female remain so divided, so embedded in conservatism, that a man could perhaps look after children without feeling that he was his partner’s servant. Few men, however, would countenance the injury to their career that such a course would invite; those who would are by implication more committed than most to equality, and risk the same loss of self-esteem that makes a career in motherhood such a difficult prospect for women. Both parents can work and employ a nanny or childminder, or sometimes each can work a shorter week and spend some days at home and some at work. This is rather more difficult if one of you works at home, in spite of the widely held belief that a career such as my own is ‘ideal’ if you have children. An unfair apportioning of domestic responsibility to the home worker is unavoidable. Their role begins to resemble that of an air traffic controller.

Full-time paid childcare was what I, with the blithe unsentimentality of the childless, once believed to be the solution to the conundrum of work and motherhood. In those days fairness seemed to me to be everything. I did not understand what a challenge to the concept of sexual equality the experience of pregnancy and childbirth is. Birth is not merely that which divides women from men: it also divides women from themselves, so that a woman’s understanding of what it is to exist is profoundly changed. Another person has existed in her, and after their birth they live within the jurisdiction of her consciousness. When she is with them she is not herself; when she is without them she is not herself; and so it is as difficult to leave your children as it is to stay with them. To discover this is to feel that your life has become irretrievably mired in conflict, or caught in some mythic snare in which you will perpetually, vainly struggle.

In my case a decision was made to demolish traditional family culture altogether, and it was regarded by other people with amazement, approval and horror. The most punitive, unworkable version of family life appears to be less worthy of general comment and concern than simple unconventionality....