A Life's Work

  Additional Praise for Rachel Cusk’s

  A Life’s Work: On Becoming a Mother

  “I loved reading it, and found it fascinating, but I also found it dangerous. An incitement to riot … it’s an extraordinary piece of work and the writing is utterly beautiful. … I laughed out loud, often, in painful recognition.”

  —Esther Freud, author of Hideous Kinky

  “She captures the absolute shock of suddenly finding yourself responsible for another person—with no training, no guidance, and, indeed, no one coming from their planet to take them back. A brilliant book—and so funny too.”

  —Kate Atkinson, author of Behind the Scenes at the Museum

  “[Rachel Cusk] anatomizes motherhood as Montaigne anatomized friendship or Robert Burton anatomized melancholy. She observes her own sensations and transfers them, still bleeding, to the page where some alchemy of her prose renders this most fascinating and boring of all subjects graceful, eloquent, modest, and true.”

  —Daily Telegraph

  “What is really startling about A Life’s Work is that it is genuinely post-feminist, not in the sense that we do not need feminism anymore, but in the sense that it implicitly points to the holes in the familiar feminist discourse. If we do away with the notion that the personal is political, as feminism-lite is wont to do, who gets left holding the baby? … Cusk has crafted a work of beauty and wisdom.”

  —New Statesman

  “It is as compulsive as a thriller.”

  —The Observer (London)

  “The clarity of her writing matches its depth of content, as Cusk endeavors to discover what it means to be a parent. Ultimately, what Cusk offers is an exposé of motherhood that extracts its myths and reworks them into personal truths.”

  —Library journal

  “A penetrating, sometimes joyful and amusing, sometimes frightening and disturbing look at pregnancy and motherhood … Parents will love this beautifully written, frank, and absorbing book.”

  —Booklist

  “A powerful, often funny account of pregnancy, childbirth, and mothering that doesn’t gloss over the pain, mystery, and confusion—but does celebrate the wonder … Mothers and prospective mothers will find the experience as told here daunting—as well as intact, true, and whole.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  A Life’s Work

  On Becoming a Mother

  RACHEL CUSK

  Begin Reading

  Table of Contents

  Copyright Page

  Thank you for buying this

  Picador ebook.

  To receive special offers, bonus content,

  and info on new releases and other great reads,

  sign up for our newsletters.

  Or visit us online at

  us.macmillan.com/newslettersignup

  For email updates on the author, click here.

  The author and publisher have provided this e-book to you for your personal use only. You may not make this e-book publicly available in any way. Copyright infringement is against the law. If you believe the copy of this e-book you are reading infringes on the author’s copyright, please notify the publisher at: http://us.macmillanusa.com/piracy.

  For Adrian

  Acknowledgements

  I wish to thank Reagan Arthur and Georgia Garrett, for many deeply felt conversations and communications on the subject of motherhood. My stepdaughter, friend and ultimate ally Molly Clarke is an unspoken presence in these pages: I hope that one day she will read them and like them. She may not remember the dark February night on which she gave me her lucky necklace, but I do.

  As child is equivalent with imagination, the mother’s language becomes unimaginative, imperative, abstract. As the child is growth, she becomes static and empty, unable to react with spontaneous novelty. As the child is timeless, eternal, she becomes time-bound, scheduled, hurried. Her morality becomes one-sidedly responsible and disciplinarian. Her sense of future and hope is displaced on her actual child; thereby postpartum depression may become a chronic undertone. As her actual child carries her feelings of vulnerability, she may over-attend to it to the neglect of herself, with consequent resentments. Also, her thought processes become restricted to adult forms of reason so that the ghost voices and faces, animals, the scenes of eidectic imagination become estranged and feel like pathological delusions and hallucinations. And her language loses its emotion and incantational power; she explains and argues.

  James Hillman, ‘The Bad Mother’

  Introduction

  If at any point in my life I had been able to find out what the future held, I would always have wanted to know whether or not I would have children. More than love, more than work, more than length of life or quantity of happiness, this was the question whose mystery I found most compelling. I could imagine those other things; giving birth to a child I could not. I wanted to know whether I would go through it, not because this knowledge would have made motherhood imaginable, but because it seemed to me that the issue could not remain shrouded in uncertainty without becoming a distraction. It was this distraction, as much as the fact of motherhood itself, that I wanted to have within my control. I regarded it as a threat, a form of disability that marked me out as unequal. But women must and do live with the prospect of childbirth: some dread it, some long for it, and some manage it so successfully as to give other people the impression that they never even think about it. My own strategy was to deny it, and so I arrived at the fact of motherhood shocked and unprepared, ignorant of what the consequences of this arrival would be, and with the unfounded but distinct impression that my journey there had been at once so random and so determined by forces greater than myself that I could hardly be said to have had any choice in the matter at all.

  This book is an attempt to describe something of that arrival, and of the drama of which childbirth is merely the opening scene. It is, necessarily, a personal record of a period of transition. My desire to express myself on the subject of motherhood was from the beginning strong, but it dwelt underground, beneath the reconfigured surface of my life. A few months after the birth of my daughter Albertine, it vanished entirely. I wilfully forgot everything that I had felt so keenly, so little time ago: I couldn’t bear, in fact, to feel it. My appetite for the world was insatiable, omnivorous, an expression of longing for some lost, pre-maternal self, and for the freedom that self had perhaps enjoyed, perhaps squandered. Motherhood, for me, was a sort of compound fenced off from the rest of the world. I was forever plotting my escape from it, and when I found myself pregnant again when Albertine was six months old I greeted my old cell with the cheerless acceptance of a convict intercepted at large. What I had begun cautiously to think of as freedom became an exiguous hammock slung between the trunks of two pregnancies: I was surrounded, and it was then that the strange reality of motherhood grew apparent to me once more. I wrote this book during the pregnancy and early months of my second daughter, Jessye, before it could get away again.

  I make this explanation with the gloomy suspicion that a book about motherhood is of no real interest to anyone except other mothers; and even then only mothers who, like me, find the experience so momentous that reading about it has a strangely narcotic effect. I say ‘other mothers’ and ‘only mothers’ as if in apology: the experience of motherhood loses nearly everything in its translation to the outside world. In motherhood a woman exchanges her public significance for a range of private meanings, and like sounds outside a certain range they can be very difficult for other people to identify. If one listened with a different part of oneself, one would perhaps hear them. ‘All human life on the planet is born of woman,’ wrote the American poet and feminist Adrienne Rich. ‘The one unifying, incontrovertible experience shared by all women and me
n is that months-long period we spent unfolding inside a woman’s body … Most of us first know both love and disappointment, power and tenderness, in the person of a woman. We carry the imprint of this experience for life, even into our dying.’

  There are, of course, many important analyses, histories, polemics and social studies of motherhood. It has been seriously examined as an issue of class, of geography, of politics, of race, of psychology. In 1977 Adrienne Rich wrote the seminal Of Woman Born: Motherhood as Institution and Experience, and it is inspired by her example that I offer my own account. Yet it was my impression, when I became a mother, that nothing had been written about it at all: this may merely be a good example of that tone-deafness I describe, with which a non-parent is afflicted whenever a parent speaks, a condition we acquire as children and which leads us as adults to wonder in bemusement why we were never told – by our friends, by our mothers! – what parenthood was like. I am certain that my own reaction, three years ago, to the book I have now written would have been to wonder why the author had bothered to have children in the first place if she thought it was so awful.

  This is not a history or study of motherhood; nor, in case anyone has read this far and still retains such a hope, is it a book about how to be a mother. I have merely written down what I thought of the experience of having a child in a way that I hope other people can identify with. As a novelist, I admit that I find this candid type of writing slightly alarming. Aside from the prospect of self-revelation, it demands on the part of the author a willingness to trespass on the lives of those around him or her. In this case, I have trespassed by omission. I have not said much about my particular circumstances, nor about the people with whom I live, nor about the other relationships inevitably surrounding the relationship I describe with my child. Instead I have used aspects of my life as a canvas upon which my theme, which is motherhood, may conveniently be illustrated.

  But the issue of children and who looks after them has become, in my view, profoundly political, and so it would be a contradiction to write a book about motherhood without explaining to some degree how I found the time to write it. For the first six months of Albertine’s life I looked after her at home while my partner continued to work. This experience forcefully revealed to me something to which I had never given much thought: the fact that after a child is born the lives of its mother and father diverge, so that where before they were living in a state of some equality, now they exist in a sort of feudal relation to each other. A day spent at home caring for a child could not be more different from a day spent working in an office. Whatever their relative merits, they are days spent on opposite sides of the world. From that irreconcilable beginning, it seemed to me that some kind of slide into deeper patriarchy was inevitable: that the father’s day would gradually gather to it the armour of the outside world, of money and authority and importance, while the mother’s remit would extend to cover the entire domestic sphere. It is well known that in couples where both parents work full-time, the mother generally does far more than her fair share of housework and childcare, and is the one to curtail her working day in order to meet the exigencies of parenthood. That is an issue of sexual politics; but even in the most generous household, which I acknowledge my own to be, the gulf between childcarer and worker is profound. Bridging it is extremely difficult. It is one solution for the father to remain at home while the mother works: in our culture, the male and the female remain so divided, so embedded in conservatism, that a man could perhaps look after children without feeling that he was his partner’s servant. Few men, however, would countenance the injury to their career that such a course would invite; those who would are by implication more committed than most to equality, and risk the same loss of self-esteem that makes a career in motherhood such a difficult prospect for women. Both parents can work and employ a nanny or childminder, or sometimes each can work a shorter week and spend some days at home and some at work. This is rather more difficult if one of you works at home, in spite of the widely held belief that a career such as my own is ‘ideal’ if you have children. An unfair apportioning of domestic responsibility to the home worker is unavoidable. Their role begins to resemble that of an air traffic controller.

  Full-time paid childcare was what I, with the blithe unsentimentality of the childless, once believed to be the solution to the conundrum of work and motherhood. In those days fairness seemed to me to be everything. I did not understand what a challenge to the concept of sexual equality the experience of pregnancy and childbirth is. Birth is not merely that which divides women from men: it also divides women from themselves, so that a woman’s understanding of what it is to exist is profoundly changed. Another person has existed in her, and after their birth they live within the jurisdiction of her consciousness. When she is with them she is not herself; when she is without them she is not herself; and so it is as difficult to leave your children as it is to stay with them. To discover this is to feel that your life has become irretrievably mired in conflict, or caught in some mythic snare in which you will perpetually, vainly struggle.

  In my case a decision was made to demolish traditional family culture altogether, and it was regarded by other people with amazement, approval and horror. The most punitive, unworkable version of family life appears to be less worthy of general comment and concern than simple unconventionality. My partner left his job and we moved out of London. People began to enquire about him as if he were very ill, or dead. What’s he going to do? they would ask me avidly, and then, getting no answer, him. Look after the children while Rachel writes her book about looking after the children, was his reply. Nobody else seemed to find this particularly funny.

  Looking after children is a low-status occupation. It is isolating, frequently boring, relentlessly demanding and exhausting. It erodes your self-esteem and your membership of the adult world. The more it is separated from the rest of life, the harder it gets; and yet to bring your children to your own existence, rather than move yourself to theirs, is hard too. Even when you agree on a version of living that is acceptable to everybody, there are still longings that go unmet. It is my belief that in this enterprise generosity is more important even than equality, if only because the demonology of parenthood is so catholic, drawing to itself epithets of ‘good’ and ‘bad’ that are largely absent from our experience of ordinary life. As a mother you learn what it is to be both martyr and devil. In motherhood I have experienced myself as both more virtuous and more terrible, and more implicated too in the world’s virtue and terror, than I would from the anonymity of childlessness have thought possible.

  I have tried to explore some of these issues in this book, with the aim of answering the larger question of what it is to turn from a woman into a mother. My definitions, of woman and of mother, remain vague, but the process continues to exert on me a real fascination. It is, I don’t doubt, much the same process that it has always been, but the journey involved is, in my view, far longer for us than it was for our own mothers. Childbirth and motherhood are the anvil upon which sexual inequality was forged, and the women in our society whose responsibilities, expectations and experience are like those of men are right to approach it with trepidation. Women have changed, but their biological condition remains unaltered. As such motherhood provides a unique window to the history of our sex, but its glass is easily broken. I continue to marvel at the fact that every single member of our species has been born and brought to independence by so arduous a route. It is this work, requisitioned from a woman’s life, that I have attempted to describe.

  This book is a modest approach to the theme of motherhood, written in the first heat of its subject. It describes a period in which time seemed to go round in circles rather than in any chronological order, and so which I have tried to capture in themes rather than by the forgotten procession of its days. There will doubtless be other years for whose insights I will wish I had waited. Instead I have borrowed the insights of others by including in this book some dis
cussion of those novels that I read or recalled during its writing, which seemed to me to give voice to my theme. It is a partial and personal selection: literature has long since discovered and documented this place of which I thought myself to be the first inhabitant, and there are countless poems and novels that could take the place of those I have chosen. It is more to illustrate the particular transformation of sensibility that motherhood effects than to find its most perfect expression that I have mentioned books at all: my experience of reading, indeed of culture, was profoundly changed by having a child, in the sense that I found the concept of art and expression far more involving and necessary, far more human in its drive to bring forth and create, than I once did.

  For now, this is a letter, addressed to those women who care to read it, in the hope that they find some companionship in my experiences.

  Forty Weeks

  In the changing rooms at the swimming pool you can see the bodies of women. Naked, they have a narrative quality, like cave paintings; a quality muted by clothes and context, a quality seen only here, in this damp, municipal place where we are grouped anonymously, by gender. Though I too have the body of a woman, the sight still briefly arouses in me a child’s fear, a mixture of revulsion and awe for these breasts and bellies and hips, this unidealised, primitive flesh which, forgetful here of its allure, seems composed purely of reproductive purpose. The hairdryers sing, the locker doors bang open and shut, the tiled floor of the shower room runs with unguents and foam. Veined, muscled legs stalk to and fro; bare arms untangle matted hair and towel skin that quivers with exertion. Breasts and bellies and hips, customised with moles and scars, with skin smocked or smooth, engraved like runes or blank as new-sculpted marble: declarative and material, they exist as objects, communicating by form alone. Sometimes there are children in the changing rooms and I see them stare in the way I used to stare, and half want to still: in illicit wonder and terror at the suggestiveness of the adult physiognomy, its frank protrusions and fur and patina of age or experience bespeaking untold mysteries of pleasure and pain, of copulation, gestation and birth. Like a trailer for a horror film, the adult body hints broadly at what must remain uneasily within the precincts of the imagination until legitimate entrance to its full unfolding is attained.