Dawn Powell (1896-1965) is remembered for her witty, quirky, often moving fiction... Perhaps it was something about her early years that contributed to the visions that she depicts in her novels and stories.
Dawn Powell was born in Mt. Gilead, Ohio on November 28, 1896 to Roy King Powell and Hattie Sherman Powell. Her mother died just seven years later, on December 6th, in what appears to have been a botched abortion. She lived with a series of relatives until her father remarried in 1907. At this time, she also began writing stories and poems. In 1910, her stepmother burned some of her notebooks. She ran away from home, and went to live with her aunt. After living with her aunt for several years, Powell graduated from Lake Erie College in 1918, and became a freelance writer for a number of magazines and newspapers.
In 1922, Powell began work on her first novel, Whither, which was published in 1925. She wrote She Walks in Beauty in 1925, though this novel wasn't published until 1928. And, she began The Bride's House, which was published in 1929. During this time, she continued writing short stories, plays, and freelance articles, including book reviews for the New York Evening Post. In 1930, Dance Night was published. She considered it to be her best work.
In 1922, Powell began work on her first novel, Whither, which was published in 1925. She wrote She Walks in Beauty in 1925, though this novel wasn't published until 1928. And, she began The Bride's House, which was published in 1929. During this time, she continued writing short stories, plays, and freelance articles, including book reviews for the New York Evening Post. In 1930, Dance Night was published. She considered it to be her best work.
Dawn Powell's Best Work?
Dance Night is the story of Morry and Jen, but it's also about Morry's mother. You realize that broken promises and shattered dreams sometimes come to something, though it's not always what exactly a person hoped.
Morry says, "Aw, a guy wants to see something ahead of him... we don't want to be stuck in this god-forsaken dump all our lives at the same stinkin' little jobs." But there are different ways of getting away from the ties of small town nothingness, whether it's by killing a husband or simply by walking away.
One way of walking away was by taking the next train out of town. The train was more than just a means of escape. It represented employment, the arrival of new workers. As Powell writes, "Now the evening fast train roared through Lamptown, its triumphant whistle soaring over the factory siren, in its vanishing echoes the beginning of a song trembled, a song that belonged to far-off and tomorrow."
Dance Night is the story of Morry and Jen, but it's also about Morry's mother. You realize that broken promises and shattered dreams sometimes come to something, though it's not always what exactly a person hoped.
Morry says, "Aw, a guy wants to see something ahead of him... we don't want to be stuck in this god-forsaken dump all our lives at the same stinkin' little jobs." But there are different ways of getting away from the ties of small town nothingness, whether it's by killing a husband or simply by walking away.
One way of walking away was by taking the next train out of town. The train was more than just a means of escape. It represented employment, the arrival of new workers. As Powell writes, "Now the evening fast train roared through Lamptown, its triumphant whistle soaring over the factory siren, in its vanishing echoes the beginning of a song trembled, a song that belonged to far-off and tomorrow."
The Dream Goes On: Come Back to Sorrento
Powell's books are quite filled with dreams. In Come Back to Sorrento (originally published under the title, The Tenth Moon, in 1930), Connie Benjamin dreams of what might have been. Editor Tim Page traces the origins of the novel to a diary entry on January 1, 1931, when Powell writes of "the tragedy of people who once were glamorous, and now trying in mediocre stations to modestly refer to their past."
Powell writes about Connie: "What belonged to her and was hers was the period from supper until dark when she played with her life, shaped it this way and that. The figures in this hand-wrought dream world were drawn from memory and fancy, they fell into whatever roles she appointed like familiar toy soldiers."
Connie once wanted to be a singer, and at least one great teacher had thought she had talent. Instead of becoming a famous singing star, she ran away with a circus performer, and he left her pregnant and destitute. She was rescued by Gus Benjamin, a kindly shoemaker, but there was no hope that Connie would ever succeed in her dream. Powell writes that "the chill of approaching winter was to slowly creep over [Connie] as hemlock might steal through her veins, the victim conscious of her fate."
Powell's books are quite filled with dreams. In Come Back to Sorrento (originally published under the title, The Tenth Moon, in 1930), Connie Benjamin dreams of what might have been. Editor Tim Page traces the origins of the novel to a diary entry on January 1, 1931, when Powell writes of "the tragedy of people who once were glamorous, and now trying in mediocre stations to modestly refer to their past."
Powell writes about Connie: "What belonged to her and was hers was the period from supper until dark when she played with her life, shaped it this way and that. The figures in this hand-wrought dream world were drawn from memory and fancy, they fell into whatever roles she appointed like familiar toy soldiers."
Connie once wanted to be a singer, and at least one great teacher had thought she had talent. Instead of becoming a famous singing star, she ran away with a circus performer, and he left her pregnant and destitute. She was rescued by Gus Benjamin, a kindly shoemaker, but there was no hope that Connie would ever succeed in her dream. Powell writes that "the chill of approaching winter was to slowly creep over [Connie] as hemlock might steal through her veins, the victim conscious of her fate."
Turn, Magic Wheel
Of course the victims of Turn, Magic Wheel are of a very different sort. This work was published in 1936, after several initial rejections of the novel fragments. It is a book about the consequence of writing about real people. In this novel, Powell writes about Dennis Orphen who is the author of The Hunter's Wife, which told the story of Orphen's good friend Effie Callingham.
Effie had been under the delusion that nobody really knew that her husband had left her for good, and the book caused an identity crisis of sorts. Effie thinks, "I wish I could find myself again, but I hunt in vain for a familiar clue through every door of my mind and there is nothing of me there, nothing. There is no inside of me, nothing but tactile sensations..."
Another question is brought to the surface in this book... How far should a writer go for material? Orphen tells Corinne, "A literary man has to go a great many places and do a lot of queer, often disagreeable things for his material, my dear. It's the artist's cross."
But, is there ever a point when material should not be used? Of course, those are the questions probably for another time and place...
It's at least interesting to see how Powell puts war into her novels. It's squeezed down in there beside the money, lust for power, and other events that happen in the life of a New Yorker.
Of course the victims of Turn, Magic Wheel are of a very different sort. This work was published in 1936, after several initial rejections of the novel fragments. It is a book about the consequence of writing about real people. In this novel, Powell writes about Dennis Orphen who is the author of The Hunter's Wife, which told the story of Orphen's good friend Effie Callingham.
Effie had been under the delusion that nobody really knew that her husband had left her for good, and the book caused an identity crisis of sorts. Effie thinks, "I wish I could find myself again, but I hunt in vain for a familiar clue through every door of my mind and there is nothing of me there, nothing. There is no inside of me, nothing but tactile sensations..."
Another question is brought to the surface in this book... How far should a writer go for material? Orphen tells Corinne, "A literary man has to go a great many places and do a lot of queer, often disagreeable things for his material, my dear. It's the artist's cross."
But, is there ever a point when material should not be used? Of course, those are the questions probably for another time and place...
It's at least interesting to see how Powell puts war into her novels. It's squeezed down in there beside the money, lust for power, and other events that happen in the life of a New Yorker.
