Brown, Rosellen (Vol. 32)
Rosellen Brown 1939–
American novelist, poet, and short story writer.
A respected author of poetry and prose, Brown began her career as a poet and has since incorporated poetic elements in her fiction, which is dense with metaphor and imagery. In both her novels and her poems she writes of marriage and the family, although she has also drawn on her experience as a Civil Rights worker in the 1960s in a book of poetry, Some Deaths in the Delta (1970), and a novel, Civil Wars (1984).
In her first and second novels, Brown uses two narrative voices to portray the protagonists' dual perspectives. Autobiography of My Mother (1976) explores the antagonistic relationship between a mother and her daughter, with alternate chapters narrated by first one and then the other. Tender Mercies (1978), which centers on a family's struggles to adjust after the wife is paralyzed by an accident caused by her husband, is written in two distinct styles: the husband's story is narrated in straight prose while the wife's is rendered in imagistic stream-of-consciousness, consisting largely of dreams and memories, and resembling prose poems.
In Cora Fry (1977), Brown again fuses fiction and poetry. This cycle of poems tells the story of a New England housewife who is frustrated in her marriage but ultimately decides not to leave her husband. Brown said in an interview that her purpose in Cora Fry was "to take a woman's experience and see how it is kaleidoscopic, how every tiny piece of her life can be set against another and made to create the illusion of the whole life."
In Civil Wars Brown returns to the southern location of Some Deaths in the Delta. The protagonists are an unhappily married couple who were Civil Rights activists in the 1960s. The title refers to several instances of civil war: the American Civil War of the 1860s, the Civil Rights struggles of the 1960s, and the perennial conflicts between the sexes and the generations within a family.
(See also Contemporary Authors, Vols. 77-80.)
The New Republic
Poets so often are apologetic these noisy days, and Rosellen Brown is no exception. She apologizes for the fact that "poems are not action," and contests what she has written with "real events." Well, though one can understand what she is getting at, she is wrong. Her poems [collected in Some Deaths in the Delta,] are an event, and the work and love that went into them a form of action. At least one phase of the so-called civil rights struggle is over. But for a few years a certain torch glowed in the South, and men and women and children came to it and felt its heat and helped hold it up for the world to see. Rosellen Brown was among those who came: white, a Yankee, she … took part in many efforts to make the South a place where "liberty and justice for all" can be found. As the title of her book suggests, the task is an enormous one….
[Those] who leave and go North find another hell up there, as the second part of this collection of poems emphasizes. For the author eventually returned to New York, and learned (as have so many others before her) that once awakened, the old kind of sleep comes hard. Mississippi made her a less satisfied New Yorker. Now she is not only a damn Yankee, but perhaps a touch un-American. She wants us to measure up to those young Americans of both races she knew in the South in the middle sixties. Though she spends many of her lines setting down the sad ironies and outright evils which plague life...
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John Alfred Avant
Rosellen Brown's poetry deals with racism and violence in Mississippi and with the grimness and desolation of city life in the North, specifically Brooklyn—themes that are still painfully valid in reality but have become almost banal when used as subject matter for poetry or fiction, unless the expression is particularly strong or fresh. The quality [of Some Deaths in the Delta] is uneven; Brown rarely seems sure of herself as a poet, for the poems tend to slip out of her grasp. I like some of her humorous asides … and some verses have an effective simplicity…. In its suggestion of uncommunicated rage, most of this volume seems insufficient as a liberation of the poet's feeling; the erratic Some Deaths in the Delta is ultimately unsuccessful, but promising.
John Alfred Avant, in a review of "Some Deaths in the Delta and Other Poems," in Library Journal, Vol. 96, No. 12, June 15, 1971, p. 2088.
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Robert B. Shaw
Poems of social protest have perhaps more built-in drawbacks than any other kind. To mention only two disadvantages, they run the risk of appearing frivolous in comparison to the issues that have provoked them; still more dangerously, they run the risk of sounding self-righteous. Rosellen Brown has had considerable success in eluding these difficulties [in Some Deaths in the Delta]…. She is unsparing and sardonic…. It may be that her first-hand experience has added vividness to the poems. Many poets who deal with social topics have little connection with them beyond the newspapers, and their poems show it. In any event, Rosellen Brown is finally successful because she refuses to allow committedness to outweigh craft in the making of a poem. Her sensibility is as disciplined as it is radical. Other poets intent upon treating social issues might profit from reading her. (p. 348)
Robert B. Shaw, "The Long and the Short of It," in Poetry, Vol. CXIX, No. 6, March, 1972, pp. 342-55.∗
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[Some Deaths in the Delta] might have been subtitled, is certainly about, "The Impact of the Deep South on a Nice Barnard Girl."… She manages to record sensations without slipping over into either condescension or sentimentality…. But sometimes … [her lines] are flat: "He is a black general now— / never planned to join up but / got drafted / because things rolled the way they did," is perfectly nice colloquial prose. And sometimes her sympathy overrules her judgment, as when she prints out as poetry a freshman essay by one of her (obviously bright and sensitive) Tougaloo students. (This is the socio-fallacy: that we must admire these verses because their source is so remarkable. It rears its ugly head all over the place these days.) But wherever she is, in Jackson, back home in Brooklyn, or reading a poem about the Bedouin, she is a recording instrument of great depth and sensitivity.
Margaret Wimsatt, in a review of "Some Deaths in the Delta," in Commonweal, Vol. XCVI, No. 1, March 10, 1972, p. 22.
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A middle-class woman comes home to her apartment in a "multi-ethnic" neighborhood in Brooklyn and finds a burglar going through her jewels. She has already survived so many similar catastrophes that she can afford to be casual about this one, so she says to the burglar's back, "Who are you?" Adapting himself to her tone, he says, "You got a lot of junk, you know?"… Here's a good story [from the collection "Street Games"], appropriately called "The Only Way to Make It in New York," but Rosellen Brown spoils it by tacking on an apocalypse—an earthquake in Califomia—that drove the woman, her husband and daughter to Brooklyn. She doesn't need the earthquake—it is just an excuse for some fancy hallucinating, when all the time her story is right there in Brooklyn, present, concrete, deft, economical. When you have a life in Brooklyn—or anywhere in New York—an earthquake in California is just a Technicolor Cinerama extravaganza, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing. Leave well enough alone, Mrs. Brown. Quit while you're ahead.
She makes the same mistake in "How to Win," a chilling story of a mother who has a hyperactive child, an innocent monster of energy, a furious prisoner of perpetual motion. Musing on him in his devastations, she wonders how this happened to her to him, to our specials. He is a "possessed" child, not of witchcraft, but of psychology books, which only serve to deepen the mystery. Then his mother...
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Jane Larkin Crain
Each of the fourteen short stories in [Street Games] deals with the lives of the people living on a block in Brooklyn…. Even the shortest of these works conveys something of what the reader can regard as the fundamental outline of a particular life. In "Gold," a little girl simply takes a walk through her neighborhood, and one feels as if one has participated not just in her fantasies but also in the total ambience of dirt and frustration from which she dreams of escaping. In another, longer story, the main character moves between the squalid and chaotic existence of a "commune" on George Street and her parents' townhouse in Brooklyn Heights…. With sometimes brutal but consistently evocative imagery, Mrs. Brown manages to depict a particular strand in current parent-child relationships, a familiar brand of post-adolescent panic and disaffection, the violent self-pity of the girl's brilliant but aimless Puerto Rican boyfriend. Mrs. Brown's point of view is never merely spectatorial; even when the stories are told from an exterior perspective, one has a powerful sense of receiving knowledge about the complex substance of her characters' everyday experience—as they themselves perceive it. To be sure, Mrs. Brown concentrates almost unwaveringly on the stormier, more wrenching aspects of the experience of life represented, but her stories seek to enlarge rather than to diminish the people portrayed in them, and it is from this impulse of her...
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"Do you think there could be something like victims without crimes?" asks a woman in Rosellen Brown's Street Games. "Does someone always have to get blamed?" She is writing a letter to her dead junkie husband ("A Letter to Ismael in the Grave"), and struggling to figure out whose fault he was, but she is asking the questions for everybody in this tough, painful, funny, perceptive book.
Street Games is more than a collection of stories. It is a neighborhood of real people who wander in and out of each other's lives in the semirenovated "200" block of George Street in the Gowanus section of Brooklyn. Things happen. People hurt. They blame someone, no one, themselves.
Rosellen Brown takes a lot of risks. Her stories are intensely felt but not sentimental or old-fashioned; they are about class and sex and race without being politically rhetorical or didactic. They work because, though she writes about human suffering, Rosellen Brown is interested not in misery or blame or histrionics, but in everyday life. She gets you inside people and beyond them at the same time. She moves in behind their eyes like a literary ventriloquist and writes with their voices, telling more about them than the words they use because she pays such fine attention to shades of expression, to the feelings behind what people say.
Some of the stories are overwrought. Sometimes a literary phrase creeps in where it...
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Anyone who goes through a good deal of modern fiction must have had this experience so often that it seems like a recurrent bad dream: You read a novel that shows considerable evidence of talent, intelligence, awareness and technical skill, a book that addresses itself to urgent and timely themes—and when you have reached its last page, you find yourself wondering what you are supposed to feel. You have been given plenty to think about, but that's not the real business of fiction, which is to put you in a posthypnotic trance, where your will is no longer your own and you are suffering or are thrilling to the vicissitudes of someone else's life.
For 270 pages of Rosellen Brown's first novel, I assumed that she had something original and startling up her sleeve, that she was going to find a way to fuse her two main themes into a single chord that would sound the hope or doom of mothers and daughters in our day and age. Because it was impossible to accept in any glad sense either the mother or the daughter in "The Autobiography of My Mother." I supposed that Miss Brown was going to tune the tension between them, to rewrite the equation somehow, show me a resolution I never thought of. Everything pointed this way: What other reason could there be for describing such a total antagonism between parent and child but to show us how we would have to learn to live with it or die of it.
Gerta Stein, the mother, is a...
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In her ingenious book of short stories, "Street Games," Rosellen Brown explored the anxieties of the residents of a Brooklyn block. It was an impressive work….
Assault and anxiety are still Brown's subjects in her first novel, "The Autobiography of My Mother," but her focus has narrowed to the occupants of a single dwelling on the Upper West Side. (p. 7)
Three generations of Stein women in one household create the kind of tension that precedes breakdown. Gerda and Renata cannot stop judging one another by the opposing standards that have made of each of their lives, in its way, a suffocating and dead-ended half-life. Like Grace Paley, Rosellen Brown has a talent for writing the things that very intelligent people say and think when they are slowly going crazy. Renata cannot say what she feels—that she wants, desperately, to gain her mother's acceptance; and Gerda cannot feel the things she says. Each woman talks to the reader instead, in alternating narratives, and gradually, powerfully, the interlocking stories of mother and daughter unfold. (pp. 7-8)
As Gerda becomes more emotionally unmovable, Renata grows increasingly inert. The war between the women becomes a struggle over the child, and in her terrifyingly understandable ignorance, Gerda makes plans to gain custody of Tippy. This decision and its consequences form the shocking and yet completely logical climax of a novel about the...
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Anne Lake Prescott
If maternity ever seemed simple, it no longer does. Our madonnas look more hassled than serene, and our pietas show us gazing not at a child but into a mirror. In her subtle and moving first novel [The Autobiography of My Mother], poet and short story writer Rosellen Brown explores this ambivalence and puzzlement with cool-eyed sympathy….
Many novelists would … [be content with] pointing to the generation gap and the outlines of personality which separate us from each other. But Brown is after something more difficult to understand and describe—the recurrence of pattern within a family despite changes of style and condition, a recurrence that both women in part perceive and that explains the title….
"Autobiography" is long on character and incident, short on plot. It is clever rather than witty, sharply observant rather than satirical. Many episodes are touching; a few others, such as a quasirape, are to me unconvincing (Brown is least persuasive when most lurid). The language seems stiff at times, but then both narrators suffer from stiffness of heart.
The novel's chief strength lies in the author's delicate insistence on the contradictions within each woman. Aimless Renata is an acute observer; chilly Gerda has her commitments and a few moments of chivalrous passion ("Am I not to be allowed my paradoxes?). Brown could have made her another monstrous modern mother, and indeed Gerda is...
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"The Autobiography of My Mother" does exactly as the title suggests: it makes two separate people and identities into one Rosellen Brown focuses on the psychological warfare between an unusual mother, Gerda Stein, and her very disturbed daughter, Renata. Their confrontation clearly and efficiently reveals how emotional ambivalence in a family upsets the members.
Gerda's and Renata's alternating monologues compose the novel. As their voices mesh, their struggle begins to look like that within one person rather than that between two….
Out of these tangled identity questions Brown unravels the central problem for both mother and daughter—ambivalence. Love and hate mingled together keep these women from understanding each other. "The Autobiography of My Mother" also emphasizes the difficulty of self-knowledge. Caught in an unhappy pattern, these people over-simplify and ignore their own motives. Ultimately Gerda rationalizes legally removing her grandchild from the custody of her daughter. She never perceives the irony that she, an oblivious, insensitive parent should see her daughter as an unfit mother.
Despite her many subtleties, Brown's humor is usually direct, as are her ideas and lively images. Her subject matter—the lives of confused, depressed people—does limit these talents. But "The Autobiography of My Mother" does highlight Brown's ability to crystalize the delicate interconnections of...
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[Rosellen Brown] has powers of phrasing, of insight into feeling, of evocation; she has learning and she is, novelistically, ambitious, setting—and bringing off—a difficult section of her novel in a pre-Nazi Germany that she cannot have known firsthand but has to have grasped wholly through imagination and intelligent reading. Rosellen Brown has almost everything a novelist should have except, in The Autobiography of My Mother, a real story. Her extremely intelligent book might more accurately have been entitled Two Characters in Search of a Novel.
The two characters, a mother and a daughter, are each remarkable. An old world figure, the mother resembles someone not altogether unlike the late Hannah Arendt, though in a more activist strain…. European, cerebral, with a mind honed to cut fine distinctions, thinking in an English that makes the requirements of precision that only a well-educated foreigner can bring to the language, she is a most fascinating construction…. As for the daughter, she is very near to a human disaster. A floater out on the sea called counter-culture, she has lived in hippy squalor, sleeping round, picking up then dropping one or another interest, eventually becoming a professional incompetent, a title which she earns indisputably by having a child out of wedlock by a Trotskyist whose fingers smell of cat food. (A nice touch, that last.) Such are Miss Brown's two characters, mother and...
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[The title character of Cora Fry] is a young wife with two children named Nan and Chip, and a husband she thinks of as Fry. No first name. Not that she doesn't love him, but well, she doesn't trust him yet, and she feels trapped in her marriage….
Cora lives in rural New Hampshire. She has always lived there, and she is growing vaguely restless. Watching the lives of others on TV has fed her uneasy wants….
What Cora wants for Cora is what Greta Garbo always said she wanted, it's "luscious freedom / it's not to be needed. To be just alone…."
But the luscious freedom to be alone is not for Cora. When her husband, Fry, takes a night's shore leave from marriage. Cora tries to escape. She moves out. She wrecks her car. She takes the children on the bus to Boston. Then, her anger vented, she returns home. To her worried, welcoming Fry, who "sat still / and worried / swayed in the tidal pull / that brought me home / and still could drown us all."
That tidal pull is what this stream-of-consciousness poem/novel is all about. The tidal pull of the seasons, the sexes, the social norms. Poet Rosellen Brown here pays homage to the ambiguous ties of home and family. Caught in the annual round of gardening, preserving, caring for her husband and children, Cora Fry longs to break loose, envies the muskrat who gnaws himself free from the trap, but cannot emulate him.
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Cora Fry works because Brown has found a persona close to herself: the spirit of a woman in a small New England town, half pioneer, half modern. Brown is secure enough as a poet to let the words stand on their own, to know when she's said enough, not to explain or justify what she's said. She's strongest where she's most alone, working from the primitive parts of herself. The poems leave a lot unsaid, they make us stop and think, relate them to our own life. At times some of the modern images seem a little surface, but they also serve to show the reader this isn't really grandmother's old days; the poet still has to exist right here…. Brown knows what she's doing, and she does it well.
Rochelle Ratner, in a review of "Cora Fry," in Library Journal, Vol. 102, No. 6, March 15, 1977, p. 713.
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[Rosellen Brown] writes in her second novel, "Tender Mercies," an arabesque, Faulknerian prose … which ordinarily tries the patience by making metaphor the familiar landscape of action without justifying the style of metaphor. Complicatedly beautiful.
However, in "Tender Mercies" she has created such a powerful dramatic situation that almost no degree of stylistic ornamentation could diminish it. Dan Courser, in a moment of coltish exuberance, has swung the hull of a boat he is steering over his swimming wife, and caused her to be paralyzed from the neck down. Now, at the beginning of the novel, he has snatched her from a rehabilitation center and driven her home, with her two young children to their house in New Hampshire, where they will begin the awesome journey across the gulf of their mutual resentment and guilt.
I'm still not certain that the style of "Tender Mercies" is specifically apt to its dramatic situation, or that it serves to make of that situation any sort of resonant metaphor. Laura, the crippled wife, thinks, feels, and dreams in imagistic italics, which surely reflect a tenuous grip on the real world, but the third-person narrative that embodies Dan's point of view is sometimes at odds with his supposedly rough-hewn Yankee style. Still, the prose does serve to filter what in blunter language might have been unbearably painful. And it gives Miss Brown scope to make of a brutal situation an often...
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In Rosellen Brown's Cora Fry, a long cycle of poems narrated by the woman of the title, we find many things that may remind us of Frost, rural loneliness, for example; but we do not find … [Frost's] particular compression and resonance…. The voice and consciousness of Cora Fry are too weak to echo long after her. Brown's characters don't seem to have any place to begin from, any point of solitude, selfhood, or inwardness. Not quite in touch with things, they are brutal and grasping, prodigiously lonely, and pathetically modern. They are either imprisoned in their houses or hurtling someplace in their cars and consequently have no connection to those corners of the landscape where the human traces blend back into the earth…. The highway runs like a ribbon through Rosellen Brown's book, and it is no surprise that Cora Fry has a bad, perhaps a deliberate, car accident two-thirds through the book.
Cora Fry is the story of a woman who sees only a few things, and those, only intermittently. The housewifely poems sound like Sylvia Plath…. Some of Cora's poems about her husband also resemble those in Ariel…. The analogy with Plath makes sense because, like her, Cora is a woman emerging from herself during the Fifties and Sixties; and, like Plath, she doesn't quite reach the surface. History touches Cora rarely; the shock waves in her world are more local in origin. But unlike Frost and other American Romantics...
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It is not entirely an original device to place a handicapped person at the centre of a piece of fiction; perhaps, however, it may be seen as a kind of reaction to all those tales of domestic life in which troubles proliferate in conditions of absolute normality: … [The heroine of Tender Mercies] is in a spectacular predicament: she is paralysed from the neck down, as the result of an accident caused by her husband in a moment of thoughtlessness. The theme of the novel is rehabilitation, in a wide sense; it's a difficult subject, rife with unease and emotion, full of dangers, for the novelist, of lapses of taste and errors of form. (p. 62)
The details of the situation are distressing, the feelings of the characters are complicated by guilt and a special variety of bitterness, so highly charged it's almost converted into a positive force. One possible tone of conversation is a defensive smartness with an undercurrent of acid; Tender Mercies is not a book about futile indulgence. At the worst moments the husband, the culprit, resorts to a desperate clowning.
It's a difficult subject, but the author has achieved a density of language and feeling which represents an efficient fusion of manner and matter: this is reality on a special plane. Just occasionally the sensitive touch becomes a little too marked and showy; it is simply going too far, for example, to present the thoughts of maimed Laura in a format...
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Lynne Sharon Schwartz
[Civil Wars], a densely packed and morally scrupulous chronicle, occupies a place long vacant and waiting. It belongs to our recent history. It is both political—an account of civil rights activists living through that moment's ambiguous, often deadening aftermaths—and literary—part of a group of realistic novels, many but not all by women, that insist on the family as a social model and potently depict it as strained by the opposing demands of private and public values. Love and work, our perennials.
In her first novel, "The Autobiography of My Mother," Miss Brown wrote about the political rigors of one generation's giving way to, or indirectly leading to the personal fragmentation of, the next. In "Tender Mercies," her subject was a marriage tested by a dreadful accident. In "Civil Wars," these themes are re-examined and recombined, emerging more wisely pondered, more tensely wrought. The cast of characters is larger, and the Southern landscape, physical and spiritual, is richly rendered.
Jessie and Teddy Carll and their children, Andy, 14, and Lydia, 11, are the last white family living in a lower-middle-class neighborhood in Jackson, Miss., in 1978….
Teddy's bigoted sister and brother-in-law are killed in an auto accident, inexplicably leaving their two children in the Carlls' care. Not only a bigger house but a more spacious way of life must be found, one that can accommodate a...
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Now that the 1960s generation has come of middle age, a little nostalgia for the old activist days seems to help take the edge off the big chill of life in the 1980s. In the therapeutic thaw, however, memories have a way of turning muddy. The essence of the era, to judge from versions of it offered by recent movies and fiction (and politicians), was a warm communal spirit—just what's missing these days. The actual political causes that brought together all the hopeful, youthful bodies generally get skimpier treatment; so do the private pursuits that have since split up the members of that generation, who are older and more encumbered now.
Rosellen Brown's large novel about two veterans of the Civil Rights Movement is a remarkable exception to such selective recollections of the 1960s. Not that there isn't muddiness in this ambitious novel, an epic of sorts. There is, literally: Civil Wars ends with a flood. And there is figurative murkiness as well, but it comes from delving into the ambivalent truths of the past and present, not from skimming too quickly over the styles of the times. In Civil Wars, as in her striking first novel, The Autobiography of My Mother (1976) and her acclaimed Tender Mercies (1978, no relation to the movie of the same name), Brown aims to confront her characters with unwieldy circumstances and see how resilient they turn out to be. Her own style is vigorous and graceful as she...
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Civil Wars, should the title mislead, is not an evocation of the Old South. It is a startling, chilling introduction to the New South, where social upheaval has taken out all the sugar and left the sting….
[Civil Wars is an] unfailingly well-written book, a story that could just as easily be named Tender Ironies in an echo of Brown's second novel, Tender Mercies….
It takes a new cadence to tell this novel of the New South, and Brown's rhythm is consistently strong. Her prose is packed, of course, with irony, and with a bitter but very real humor. Out go the back roads and magnolia-scented symbols of the Old South and in come the expressways and startling emblems of the New South. Brown conjures it beautifully…. (p. 9)
Her characters could easily have fallen into a new brand of stereotype: the middle-aged civil rights workers could have been laughable, forever sitting around and listening to Pete Seeger albums. Instead, they are treacherously good, leading the reader to an expectation then taking a sharp turn. Teddie is a complex ascetic, with his own battles raging inside, a front-lines radical whose purity of purpose is tarnished by his chauvinism and egotism. Jessie is a sympathetic heroine, but there's a bit of nagging and some middle-age, middle-class compromising that keep her driving a jagged unpredictable path.
But Brown's characterization is...
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Rosellen Brown is a novelist of marriage and the family. Her subject is the lives of men and women as husbands and wives, mothers and fathers. Her story is how the immediate world looks to one of her characters at a moment when attachments that have taken years to knit themselves up threaten to unravel. Her method is to pay concentrated attention to what her character registers during the time of crisis. Tender Mercies, Brown's last novel, was set in Vermont among hippie dropouts leading marginal country lives, and Civil Wars is set in Mississippi among ex-civil rights workers whose lives are equally uncentered. In each novel the social setting feels accurate and persuasive, but the single-minded attention paid to a moment in the kitchen or the bedroom while a marriage is coming to pieces is Brown's real context. This attention is her metaphor. It is what gives her the patience and the skill necessary to make her writer's intelligence move forward. This new novel is a fine example of the increased authority of her prose….
Throughout Civil Wars, we are inside Jessie's head. The way she sees—how she orders experience, interprets motive and event—is the way we see. Her thoughts about how their life came to be as it is are peripheral—a stream of pride, confusion, and regret about the Movement that does not run very deep. Her thoughts about the children are alive with tenderness and concern. Her thoughts about...
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