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When I posted about George Gissing’s The Odd Women, I commented that it was indeed an odd book, but I think I undersold or perhaps did not yet understand the sheer oddness of Gissing’s work, not only in a 19th century English context but just in terms of English literature in general.

This is even more obvious in New Grub Street, which takes as its cast a motley crew of struggling writers in 1880s London, and as its themes money and love. More specifically, its themes are:

1. Poverty is horrible and degrading and undermines every other facet of life; and

2. Money is a necessary but not sufficient condition for love. That is to say, you can have money but not love, but love without money cannot last.

Of course these themes are implied in other books (think of Jane Austen’s characters breathlessly discussing the marriage prospects of so-and-so who has thus-and-such pounds a year), but I don’t think I’ve ever seen them expounded with Gissing’s brutal clarity. It’s bracing, stimulating not always to total agreement but certainly to deeper thought, for instance about the fact that people marry not only because they fall in love with an individual but because they love the image of the lifestyle and status they think they’ll have with that person.

Gissing has the Zola-like gift of creating an ensemble cast of characters who illustrate different facets of his theme while also being interesting and individual people in their own right. Gissing is trying to give them all a fair shake, to portray them all so clearly that we can see why they act the way they do. Readers may or may not find it in our hearts to sympathize, but that will be our own decision, not a result of Gissing putting his finger on the scale.

--Sensitive Edwin Reardon, who married upper-middle-class Amy on the strength of one well-received novel and now suffering immense writer’s block. Amy fell in love with both Edwin and the idea of being a successful novelist’s wife, and is appalled to see this dream crumbling under what appears to her to be his refusal to work.

As I’ve struggled with writer’s block for the past couple of years, I feel a great sympathy for Edwin: he quite literally cannot write anything good right now! It’s not his fault! But I can also see why it doesn’t look that way to Amy and her family, especially because the social rules of 1880s London mean there is no graceful road of retreat. Not only is it impossible for Amy to get a job (this is literally unthinkable: not one character ever even imagines it), but now that Edwin has set up as a full-time writer, the whole family would lose caste if he took a job for wages.

--Jasper Milvain, debonair man about town who approaches writing as a business and forthrightly says his goal is to earn a thousand pounds a year. A character type who in many books would be a villain, and I won’t say that he’s not just a bit villainous at times, but he’s also a complex character who definitely has a point. In the tradition of an Austen baddie, he ends up perfectly happy with himself and his choices.

--Alfred Yule, a cranky aging writer of moderate abilities who was never very financially successful, and married a working class woman because he never made enough to support a wife of his own class. There’s a section where Gissing lists a whole bunch of similarly positioned writers who made a similar decision and makes it clear that he thinks this is pretty much always a mistake that will lead to marital disharmony.

--Marian Yule, Alfred Yule’s daughter and assistant, who is to an ever-greater extent perhaps simply writing his articles for him. (We also get a glimpse of two other women writers in Jasper’s sisters, who at Jasper’s suggestion take to writing Sunday school stories to support themselves.)

--Whelpdale, an unsuccessful writer who makes a success of it telling other writers how to write to market. A jolly young man despite all his setbacks.

--Harold Biffen, an extremely poor though talented writer of the realist school who sticks fast to his principles and loves discussing Greek and Latin literature with Edwin Reardon. Would be the tragically romantic starving artist in a garret in another book. Unfortunately wound up in a Gissing book instead.

Having set these and various other figures going, Gissing simply observes them, like a naturalist watching a particularly interesting species of cockatoos. The result is absorbing, as skygiants and genarti can attest, having been subjected to various rants and wails as I tore through the back half of the book. Highly recommended on account of quality, recommended cautiously on account of emotional intensity.