Debilitating Legacies: Alleviating the Anxiety of Female Authorship in Munro’s “Meneseteung” Meg Jianing Zhang

The second chapter of Madwoman in the Attic: The Woman Writer and the Nineteenth-Century Literary Imagination opens with the voices of S. Weir Mitchell, Charlotte Perkins Gilman, Emily Dickinson, and Anne Sexton. Only after their epigraphic input do we hear the authors’ voices in the form of a question: “What does it mean to be a woman writer in a culture whose fundamental defnitions of literary authority are…both overtly and covertly patriarchal?” Sandra Gilbert and Susan Gubar respond to Harold Bloom’s androcentric “anxiety of infuence” with what they call an “anxiety of authorship.” I will turn to their critique of Bloom to investigate how Alice Munro’s short story, “Meneseteung” explores methods of alleviating this anxiety of female authorship. Almeda Joynt Roth, the protagonist of Munro’s narrative and a nineteenth-century poetess herself, is surrounded by spheres of patriarchal authority. Her primary infuence is her deceased father whose literary legacy simultaneously cultivates her love for poetry and prevents her from birthing poetic daughters of her own. “Meneseteung” juxtaposes Queen Aggie (the town pariah) and Almeda to depict the dilemmas that women writers confront in their attempts to relieve their anxiety. Extreme aggression transforms Aggie into a monster. Extreme passivity manifests into debilitating isolation and pathological illness in Almeda. Ultimately, “Meneseteung” offers means of alleviating the anxiety of authorship. Despite her physical and mental decline, Almeda poetically triumphs because of she celebrates her female body and returns to a forgotten matrilineal heritage of literary strength. Gilbert and Gubar purport that Bloom’s “anxiety of infuence” predominantly applies to the male writer in a patriarchal context. According to Bloom, the (male) poet develops his own style by engaging in oedipal warfare with his poetic forefathers. His strength is a product of his precursors’ eventual invalidation and defeat. Bloom’s model of authorship also asserts a cyclical relationship. The son who defeats his father becomes the father his own son shall surpass. Meanwhile, the woman writer is not subject to such luxuries. For the woman writer, her (male) precursors are not outdated opponents over whom she inevitably triumphs, but rather extant forces of authority that nip her creativity in the bud. Moreover, the patriarchal system in which she resides forbids her

from readily issuing a lineage of her own. Even if she manages to foster her own voice, there is no one to take her place. Rather than an anxiety of infuence, the woman writer suffers from an anxiety of authorship: “a radical fear that she cannot create, that because she can never become a ‘precursor’ the act of writing will isolate and destroy her” (Gilbert and Gubar 1929). The woman writer, then, rarely procures the chance to exert the Bloomian violence of overtaking her predecessors. Instead, she bears the brunt of blows dealt by her male-dominated literary tradition. “Meneseteung” depicts this oppressive male authority by way of Almeda’s father. Although he does not make any physical appearances, Mr. Roth is mentioned signifcantly more than other members of the Roth family. His presence manifests in the house itself. Almeda lives alone in her father’s creation. Although she has the whole house to herself, she does not dare to move into the large bedroom which was formerly “the solitary domain of her father” (Munro 72). Even though her father has passed, Almeda cannot surreptitiously or violently replace him. His lingering authority isolates her in the back recesses of his work. “Meneseteung” suggests that Mr. Roth’s authority occupies literary spheres. It allows Almeda to develop a poetic voice while simultaneously preventing her from becoming a precursor of authorship. Not only was her father a skilled builder, he was also a well-versed reader who “could quote by heart from the Bible, Shakespeare, and the writings of Edmund Burke” (65). Indeed, Almeda inherits her love for reading and writing from her father. The narrative, however, does not wholly characterize this legacy as positive. Jarvis Poulter attributes Almeda’s homely state to her “proud, bookish father encouraging her” to write and publish (76). Almeda remains uninterested in men “except for her father” because they seem deprived without any artistic curiosity (78). Her relationship with her father prevents her from biologically producing daughters to whom she might willingly (or unwillingly) relinquish her poetic authority. According to Gilbert and Gubar, the woman writer cannot hope to comfortably “ft in” with her patriarchal culture. Others consider her to be “anomalous, indefnable, alienated, a freakish outsider” (Gilbert and Gubar 1928). The woman writer’s alienation stymies her poetic creativity and relationships. For her to overcome her anxiety of authorship, she must risk crippling illness and social persecution. Passive isolation can manifest into pathological illness. Active reactions against the dominant patriarchal literary culture can induce female monstrosity. “Meneseteung” illustrates the woman writer’s dilemma with its ambivalent portrayal of Queen Aggie. The turning point of Munro’s story takes place when Almeda is awoken by what she perceives to be a drunken brawl. The descriptions are fery and violent. The noises become “knives and saws and axes” that jab and bore into Almeda’s head (Munro 81). Almeda quickly realizes she is not witnessing a two-person scuffe, but rather one prostrate fgure

against a bloodthirsty mob. The crowd beats Queen Aggie (the infamous town drunkard) until “her mouth seems choked with blood” (82) In retaliation, Queen Aggie tauntingly beckons the group to kill her. Though her mouth is battered and bruised, her voice is not hindered. And yet, in her attempt to aggressively resist this mass, Queen Aggie’s actions become branded as monstrous by the protagonist. Terrifed by what she sees, Almeda wants no part in Queen Aggie’s fght. The morning after, Almeda notices the woman’s body slumped against her fence. Her description of Queen Aggie is grotesque and dehumanizing. Poulter’s kicks and insults compel the “body” to “[heave] itself onto all fours…the hair all matted with blood and vomit” (86). As Queen Aggie crawls away, she bangs her head loudly and rhythmically, fnding “her voice and [letting] out an openmouthed yowl, full of strength and what sounds like an anguished pleasure” (86). The conficting descriptions of Queen Aggie convey the text’s ambivalence towards female aggression in the face of patriarchal suppression. There is an unstable and monstrous quality to Queen Aggie’s approach of relieving her anxiety of authorship. Not only are her tactics stifed by her patriarchal society, they are also held in contempt by her fellow female neighbours. When Poulter grabs Queen Aggie by her hair and tells her to “Gwan home” where she belongs (86). Almeda does not react to his overtly misogynistic actions with disgust. Instead, she grows increasingly passive and unsure of herself. Indeed, as the plot unfolds, Almeda’s uncertainty and estrangement mutate into pathological illnesses. Just as the woman writer’s anxiety of authorship manifests into aggressive monstrosity, so too does it morph into debilitating illness. Gilbert and Gubar do not present pathological illness as metaphorical, but rather a genuine consequence of the woman writer’s isolation and estrangement. They assert that “culturally conditioned timidity” and “patriarchal socialization” literally make women sick, “both physically and mentally,” delving into common “female diseases” of the nineteenth century including hysteria, agoraphobia, and anorexia (Gilbert and Gubar 1930, 1932). On the one hand, conditions like anorexia and agoraphobia allow the woman writer to refuse the intake and confrontation of patriarchal toxins. On the other hand, they force her to ruthlessly suppress her poetic voice and authorial presence. Gilbert and Gubar cite Wendy Martin’s observation concerning the societal perception of intellectual women in the nineteenth century: there was a “fear of the intellectual woman…[a] thinking woman was considered…a breach of nature” (1935). Indeed, the female diseases from which the Victorian woman writer suffered “were not always byproducts of [her] training in femininity; they were the goals of such training” (1933). “Meneseteung” invokes pathological language throughout its narrative. For instance, Poulter attempts to diagnose the cause of Almeda’s unmarried state. He identifes “all that reading and poetry” as “a drawback, a barrier, an obsession” (Munro 76). According to the men in her life, Almeda’s identity as

a poet is not only detrimental to her social reputation, but also to her physical and mental health. A doctor reaffrms Poulter’s diagnosis. When Almeda asks him to treat her insomnia, he tells her not to read or to study as much. Instead, she ought to busy herself with domestic chores such as housework. In fact, “her troubles would clear up if she got married” (80). Though he prescribes her bromides, this (male) doctor considers marriage to be the best medication he can offer. Almeda’s health rapidly declines after she witnesses Queen Aggie’s beating. After Poulter banishes Queen Aggie from her doorstep, Almeda begins to menstruate. The text initially portrays her menstruation as an illness. Almeda “feels sick. Her abdomen is bloated; she is hot and dizzy” (86). While the pugnaciously resistant Queen Aggie morphs into a grotesque monster that is stripped of her femininity and humanity, the passively submissive Almeda suffers from severe isolation and estrangement brought on by “female” symptoms. She rejects Poulter’s ride to church and secludes herself in her room, anxious to leave the house. Her thoughts grow ever more frantic and bewildered. She steadily increases her laudanum dosage as her insomnia worsens. An obituary in the town newspaper records her steadfast decline: “the sad misfortune that in later years the mind of this fne person had become somewhat clouded and her behaviour, in consequence, somewhat rash and unusual” (92- 93). Gilbert and Gubar offer few explicit solutions for the woman writer to overcome her anxiety of authorship. However, they attribute the woman writer’s “deep sense of alienation and inescapable feeling of anomie” to the notion that she has “forgotten something” (Gilbert and Gubar 1937). What she has forgotten, Gilbert and Gubar suggest, is her “matrilineal heritage of literary strength” as well as her “female power” that exists “because of (not in spite of)” her mother (1937). They also note the woman writer cannot effectively adopt androcentric forms of succor. Instead, she must transform the illnesses that cripple her into remedies that restore her. Indeed, Almeda’s menstruation prompts other forms of fuidity. As menstrual blood swells, fows, and pools from Almeda’s body, “a fow of words” emerge from her mind (Munro 90). These words compel the poetess to write “one very great poem,” her greatest poem, depicting a rushing river (90). She names her work after the Meneseteung, a river with “deep holes and rapids and blissful pools under the summer trees” (91). The apogee of Almeda’s creativity courses through and out of her female body. The fuidity Munro evokes contrasts the aggressive overtaking of power in Bloom’s model of usurping authorial infuence. After Almeda formulates her idea, she notably invokes her mother’s creations rather than rejecting or surpassing her father’s. Almeda poeticizes her mother’s crocheted roses at the story’s conclusion. She pairs the imagery of these roses with the imagery of the fowing river. The roses, which do not resemble real fowers, foat independently and assuredly. Almeda deems their

simple pleasure and efforts to be “admirable… and hopeful” signs (91). Despite her death at the end of the story, “Meneseteung” praises Almeda’s fnal creative process. It is only after she rejects the authority of Poulter and turns toward the infuence of her female body and her mother’s creations that she produces her greatest work. In conclusion, “Meneseteung” refects Gilbert and Gubar’s answer to Bloom’s patriarchal “anxiety of infuence” as anxiety of authorship. While passive submission can result in incapacitating isolation, unrestrained aggression can bring about damaging perceptions of female monstrosity. Gilbert and Gubar’s work as well as Munro’s text ultimately call upon the woman writer to reclaim what she has forgotten. She must embrace her female body and return to the matrilineal heritage of which she was deprived for so long.

Works Cited

Gilbert, Sandra M. and Susan Gubar. “Infection in the Sentence: The Woman Writer and the Anxiety of Authorship.” The Norton Anthology of Theory and Criticism, 2nd ed., W.W. Norton & Company, 2010. Munro, Alice. “Meneseteung.” Friend of My Youth, Penguin, 1995.