I stumbled across this amazing little volume a while back at a book sale. Memoirs of a Midget by Walter de la Mare. The title of the book was obviously an eye-catcher. This particular book was a fifth edition printed in 1922---the first edition having been printed a year earlier.
It’s not what you might think.
Yes, it is indeed the memoirs of a midget---but it’s a novel written as a fake autobiography of a young midget woman discreetly referred to as Miss M.
The beauty of the language is arresting. You can just hear de la Mare’s delight in the English language as he crafted the lines:
“There was Adam Waggertt, it is true, the bumpkin son of a village friend of Mrs. Ballard’s. But he was some years older than I. He would be invited to tea in the kitchen, and was never at rest unless stuffing himself out with bread-and-dripping or dough-cake---victuals naturally odious to me; or pestering me with his coarse fooling and curiosity. He was to prove useful in due season; but in those days I had a distaste for him almost as deep-rooted as that for “Hoppy,” the village idiot---though I saw poor Hoppy only once.”
For a twentieth century writer to lay his fate at the feet of Dickensian prose in the flapper age is a twisted delight---and would be a surprise to any modern poet not familiar with his work.
Memoirs of a Midget is not only poetic in language, but quite a surprise in plot for a popular novel of 1921. You see, the said remembering midget, Miss M., becomes smitten with a full-size woman. From what I can tell so far, her affections are not returned and she is then pursued by a male dwarf---whose affections she does not return.
Not exactly your classic love triangle.
I chose this book from my shelf yesterday as I needed to get away from reading things I was “supposed” to be reading---newly published novels, historical books for research, and all the French literature I’m shoving into my brain. I wanted a novel that was to be read purely for the joy of reading.
Tonight, after work, I showed up at that weekly reading series for writers that always gives me the shivers.
Once again, I don’t want to go to the theatre this week. The private club-type atmosphere of the place is enough to make me want to hop on a train and go home to my comfy apartment and curl up in a warm bath.
But I force myself to be a Daring Girl and bring the book along as my armor.
I think one of the things about this group is that, due to my dread of submitting to them AGAIN, I have failed to develop an identity there. There, I am the shy girl. The girl who sits in the back and of the theatre and writes. I don't mind this activity, but it's not exactly all of what I am. And when forced into the social aspect of it---well, shy girl isn't very good company.
Tonight, I sneak in the back and open my book before the show begins. In reading Miss M.s delicate prose, I connect with the feelings of the midget---being on the outside looking in---or up, in her case. In our own way---aren't we all freaks?
Tonight, while my right foot led me here, Daring Girl stayed at home.
On the train home, I felt the rock in my pocket and began to write. Daring prose.
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