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From
The New Yorker:
It is doubtful whether any novel has been more important to America’s female writers than Louisa May Alcott’s “Little Women,”
the story of the four March sisters living in genteel poverty in
Massachusetts in the eighteen-sixties. The eldest is Meg, beautiful,
maternal, and mild. She is sixteen when the book opens. Then comes Meg’s
opposite, fifteen-year-old Jo: bookish and boyish, loud and wild. Jo
writes plays that the girls perform, with false mustaches and paper
swords, in the parlor. Next comes Beth, thirteen: recessive,
unswervingly kind, and doomed to die young. She collects cast-off
dolls—dolls with no arms, dolls with their stuffing coming out—and
nurses them in her doll hospital. Finally, there is Amy, who is vain and
selfish but, at twelve, also the baby of the family, and cute, so
everybody loves her anyway. The girls’ father is away from home, serving
as a chaplain in the Civil War. Their mother, whom they call Marmee, is
with them, and the girls are always nuzzling up to her chair in order
to draw on her bottomless fund of loving counsel. Next door live a rich
old man and his orphaned grandson, Laurie, who, when he is home from his
Swiss boarding school, lurks behind the curtains to get a look at what
the March sisters are up to. Jo catches him spying on them, and
befriends him. He soon falls in love with her.
These characters
are not glamorous, and the events are mostly not of great moment. We
witness one death, and it is a solemn matter, but otherwise the book is
pretty much a business of how the cat had kittens and somebody went
skating and fell through the ice. Yet “Little Women,” published in
1868-69, was a smash hit. Its first part, in an initial printing of two
thousand copies, sold out in two weeks. Then, while the publisher rushed
to produce more copies of that, he gave Alcott the go-ahead to write a
second, concluding part. It, too, was promptly grabbed up. Since then,
“Little Women” has never been out of print. Unsurprisingly, it has been
most popular with women. “I read ‘Little Women’ a thousand times,”
Cynthia Ozick has written. Many others have recorded how much the book
meant to them: Nora and Delia Ephron, Barbara Kingsolver, Jane Smiley,
Anne Tyler, Mary Gordon, Jhumpa Lahiri, Stephenie Meyer. As this list
shows, the influence travels from the highbrow to the middlebrow to the
lowbrow. And it extends far beyond our shores. Doris Lessing, Margaret
Atwood, and A. S. Byatt have all paid tribute.
The book’s fans
didn’t merely like it; it gave them a life, they said. Simone de
Beauvoir, as a child, used to make up “Little Women” games that she
played with her sister. Beauvoir always took the role of Jo. “I was able
to tell myself that I too was like her,” she recalled. “I too would be
superior and find my place.” Susan Sontag, in an interview, said she
would never have become a writer without the example of Jo March. Ursula
Le Guin said that Alcott’s Jo, “as close as a sister and as common as
grass,” made writing seem like something even a girl could do. Writers
also used “Little Women” to turn their characters into writers. In Elena
Ferrante’s “My Brilliant Friend,” the two child heroines have a shared
copy of “Little Women” that finally crumbles from overuse. One becomes a
famous writer, inspired, in part, by the other’s childhood writing.
Long
before she wrote “Little Women,” Alcott (1832-88) swore never to marry,
a decision that was no doubt rooted in her observations of her parents’
union. Her father, Bronson Alcott (1795-1888), was an intellectual, or,
in any case, a man who had thoughts, a member of New England’s
Transcendental Club and a friend of its other members—Emerson, Thoreau.
Bronson saw himself as a philosopher, but he is remembered primarily as a
pioneer of “progressive education.” He believed in self-expression and
fresh air rather than times tables. But the schools and communities that
he established quickly failed. His most famous project was Fruitlands, a
utopian community that he founded with a friend in the town of Harvard,
Massachusetts, in 1843. This was to be a new Eden, one that eschewed
the sins that got humankind kicked out of the old one. The communards
would till the soil without exploiting animal labor. Needless to say,
they ate no animals, but they were vegetarians of a special kind: they
ate only vegetables that grew upward, never those, like potatoes, which
grew downward. They had no contact with alcohol, or even with milk. (It
belonged to the cows.) They took only cold baths, never warm.
Understandably,
people did not line up to join Fruitlands. The community folded after
seven months. And that stands as a symbol for most of Bronson Alcott’s
projects. His ideas were interesting as ideas, but, in action, they came
to little. Nor did he have any luck translating them into writing. Even
his loyal friend Emerson said that when Bronson tried to put his ideas
into words he became helpless. And so Bronson, when he was still in his
forties, basically gave up trying to make a living. “I have as yet no
clear call to any work beyond myself,” as he put it. Now and then, he
staged a Socratic “conversation,” or
question-and-answer session, with an audience, and occasionally he was
paid for this, but for the most part his household, consisting of his
energetic wife, Abba, and his four daughters, the models for the March
girls, had to fend for themselves. Sometimes—did he notice?—they were
grievously poor, resorting to bread and water for dinner and accepting
charity from relatives and friends. (Emerson was a steady donor.) By the
time Louisa, the second-oldest girl, was in her mid-twenties, the
family had moved more than thirty times. Eventually, Louisa decided that
she might be able to help by writing stories for the popular press, and
she soon discovered that the stories that sold most easily were
thrillers. Only in 1950, when an enterprising scholar, Madeleine B.
Stern, published the first comprehensive biography of Alcott, did the
world discover that the author of “Little Women,” with its kittens and
muffins, had once made a living producing “Pauline’s Passion and Punishment,” “The Abbot’s Ghost or Maurice Treherne’s Temptation,” and similar material, under a pen name, for various weeklies.
Soon,
however, a publisher, Thomas Niles, sensed something about Louisa. Or
maybe he just saw a market opportunity. If there were tales written
specifically for boys—adventure tales—why shouldn’t there also be
stories about girls’ concerns, written for them? Girls liked reading
more than boys did. (This is still true.) So Niles suggested to Louisa
that she write a “girls’ story.” She thought this was a stupid idea.
“Never liked girls, or knew many, except my sisters,” she wrote in her
journal. But her family was terribly strapped, so what she did was write
a novel about the few girls she knew, her sisters, and her life with
them. (Read more.)
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