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Journal of modern literature, Vol. 23, no. 2 (winter, 1999-2000), pp. 29 1-308. 'You always have in your writing the resistance outside of you and inside of you'
Journal of modern literature, Vol. 23, no. 2 (winter, 1999-2000), pp. 29 1-308. 'You always have in your writing the resistance outside of you and inside of you'
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Journal of modern literature, Vol. 23, no. 2 (winter, 1999-2000), pp. 29 1-308. 'You always have in your writing the resistance outside of you and inside of you'
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Inside and outside: Gertrude Stein on Identity, Celebrity, and Authenticity
Author(s): Kirk Curnutt
Source: Journal of Modern Literature, Vol. 23, No. 2 (Winter, 1999-2000), pp. 29 1-308 Published by: Indiana University Press Stable URL: http://www.jstor.org/stable/3831927 . Accessed: 24/01/2011 03:09 Your use of the JSTOR archive indicates your acceptance of JSTOR's Terms and Con ditions of Use, available at . http://www.jstor.org/page/info/about/policies/terms.jsp. JSTOR's Terms and Condi tions of Use provides, in part, that unless you have obtained prior permission, you may not download an entire issue of a jo urnal or multiple copies of articles, and you may use content in the JSTOR archive only for your personal, non-commercial use. Please contact the publisher regarding any further use of this work. Publisher c ontact information may be obtained at . http://www.jstor.org/action/showPublisher?publisherCode=iupress. . Each copy of any part of a JSTOR transmission must contain the same copyright no tice that appears on the screen or printed page of such transmission. 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Indiana University Press is collaborating with JSTOR to digitize, preserve and e xtend access to Journal of Modern Literature. http://www.jstor.orgInside and Outside: Gertrude Stein on Identity, Celebrity, and Authenticity Kirk Curnutt Troy State University Montgomery "You always have in your writing the resistance outside of you and inside of you, a shadow upon you, and the thing which you must express." ?Gertrude Stein, "How Writing is Written" (1935) In October 1936, Random House published Gertrude Stein's The Geographic al History of America, or the Relation of Human Nature to the Human Mind, a m&ange of closet verse, philosophical dialogue, and prose meditation. Despite the collection's sui generis form, its subject matter was obvious even to resisting reviewers. Having returned to France after her highly successfiil 1934-35 lecture tour of America?her first stateside visit i n three decades?Stein had turned her attention to the problem of how we know who we are. Or, as she put it in her trademark style, "I am I why." Roughly halfway through the book, she summarizes her thoughts in a fragment entitled "The question of identity: A play," which interrogates the logic of a favorite line of nursery doggerel. "I am I because my little dog knows me," Stein begins, "but perhaps he does not and if he did I w ould not be I. Oh no oh no."1 As she insists, there are two selves: an external "I," whom a pet may recogn ize as its master, and an interior "I" that exists independent of observation. Thus, while the dog may know the outer person, that knowledge bears little correspondence to the inner being. "I am I because my little dog knows me," Stein concludes. "That does not prove anything about you it only proves something about the dog" (Geographical, p. 103). Yet sh e does not suggest that 1 Gertrude Stein, The Geographical History of America, or the Relation of Human Na ture to the Human Mind (Random House, 1936), p. 100. Hereafter cited within the text as Geographical. R ichard Bridgman traces Stein's "little dog verse" to Josiah Royce's The Spirit of Modern Philosophy, which she read as an undergraduate at Radcliffe in the 1890s. As he notes, the phrase first appears in her 1929 essay "Saving the Sentence." See Gertrude Stein in Pieces (Oxford University Press, 1970), p. 242. Kirk Curnutt, "Inside and Outside: Gertrude Stein on Identity, Celebrity, and Authenticity," Journal of Modern Literature, XXffl, 2 (Winter 1999-2000), pp. 291-308. ?Foundation for Modern L iterature, 2000. 292 Journal of Modern Literature one can simply ignore the constraints of being known. Geographical History ends on an ambivalent note: "[I]dentity is not there at all but it is oh yes it is." Unavoidable, it is a "nuisance" that we tolerate: "Do they put up with it. Yes they put up with it. They put up with identity" (Geographical, p. 235). The conclusion that we "put up with" identity was not just a philosophical stance on Stein's part. In a more personal way, calling it a nuisance marked a defensive reaction to the self- doubt and creative insecurity that she suffered after the popular reception of The Autobiography of Alice B. Toklas in 1933, the first substantive success of her career. Realizing la gloire she had long pursued exacted an unexpected cost, for she suffered a brief but unprecedented bout of writer's block. Even once able to draft her elliptical detective tale Blood on the Dining-Room Floor, she questioned her freedom to pursue abstruse literary experiments without concern for readers' expectations. Throughout her American tour, she shocked audiences by declaring that artists care little whether their writing is comprehensible. As if to prove her commitment to this principle, she abandoned the reader-friendly voice of the Autobiography and published a series of less accessible works, including, in addition to Geographical History, Lectures in America (1935) and Narration (1936), all of which baffled reviewers who assumed that she had outgrown her old hermetic habits.2 Not surprisingly, Geographical History's derogatory comments on identity often dovetail into dismissals ofthe reader: "When a great many hear you that is an audience and if a great many hear you what difference does it make" (Geographical, p. 72). Stein's ambivalence toward her unexpected popularity has led critics to read Geographical History's distinction between the inner and outer self as a veiled as sertion of artistic autonomy.3 As if assuring herself that an appreciative audience need not sway her convictions, she effectively recommits herself to the literary ideals cultivated during decades of isolation. Unacknowledged, however, is the fact that her reliance on these opposing terms is a strategy characteristic of the era's celebrity discourse. In dichotomies reminiscent of Geographical History's, Leo Braudy describes how an array of movie stars, politicia ns, and writers questioned the connection between their "self and role, body and identity, being and name" in interviews and personality profiles, insisting that the media image did not properly represent the their inner self. For Braudy, these antitheses suggest a pervasive anxiety over the authenticity of celebrity images. As media outlets in the early twentieth century began to fix public attention upon unique and arresting personalities, elevating them to unprecedented heights of visibility, eoncomitant concern over the potential manipulation of audience credulity arose. Editorials cautioned readers to regard the reputations of public figures as constructs perpetuated by press agents and public-relations experts. T o quell this cynicism, celebrities were expected to justify their stardom by demonstrating a commitment to honest self-presentation. As Braudy writes, because audiences craved "not . . . style so much as sincerity" from the famous, for "actions that [didn't] seem to be performed," the "exemplary famous person" became "the person famous for being himself or playing himself.... The less 2 For a representative example of the negative response to Stein's return to a more experimental voice, see F. Cudworth Flint, "Contemporary Criticism," Southern Review (1936), pp. 208-13, rpt. in The Critical Response to Gertrude Stein, ed. Kirk Curnutt (Greenwood Press, 2000), pp. 90-94. 3 See, for example, John Malcolm Brinnin, The Third Rose: Gertrude Stein and Her W orld (Little, Brown, 1959), pp. 350-51. Gertrude Stein on Identity 293 you actually had to do or create [an image] in order to be famous, the more truly famous you [were] for yourself, your spirit, your soul, your inner nature." The star who publicly announced that "my body [or image] is not me; now accept the 'real me'" was not necessarily pronouncing the image false, however. He or she was insisting instead that the public reputation did not accommodate the many facets of the inner self. Doing so displayed the enviable resolve to remain "real" or "true to himself no matter how the spotlight of fame might threaten his or her self-image. By the mid-1930s, such pronouncements were so pervasive that the celebrity identity crisis became a rhetorical staple of popular culture. By confessing the effort required to be "real," performers established themselves as "ideal versions" of their audience: "Through them [fans] can judge [their] own performances and in their sincerity read how to imply that there is no artifice, only the naked heart."4 Reading Stein's 1934-37 comments on identity in the context of celebrity reveals the ways in which she employed the inside/outside trope to authenticate her fame and win credibility for her writing. In both her book-length efforts and lesser-known periodical contributions, she repeatedly describes the "confusion" that occurs when the outer self i s mistaken for the inner "I," and she insists that an emphatic act of self-possession is the lone remedy for this crisis. The prescription is embedded in such complex texts as Lectures, Narration, and Geographical History, in which Stein defines true art as an expression of an interior "I" that various reception contexts (newspapers, letters, public speaking) tempt readers to ignore in favor ofthe public image. This problem is addressed more directly in the two autobiographical works that bookend this period of her career. In both the neglected essay "And Now" and Everybody'sAutobiography, her second memoir, she personalizes the problem of authenticity by describing her own brush with fame. Claiming that her popularity momentarily distracted her from her literary program, she inoculates herself against the self-deceptive dangers of publicity by dedicating herself to her craft, thus remaining true to her inner essence. While this declaration of artistic intent marks Stein's effort to establish the sincerity of her work, it also suggests how discursively the ideology of authenticity affected those caught in the glare of public attention in the 1930s. Stein may have indeed been, as Car l Van Vechten assured her, "on every tongue like Greta Garbo,"5 but as that quintessential Hollywood star also understood, fame was not free of obligation. Regardless of metier, the 1930s' media personality was required to prove herself a natural talent and not a manufactured phenomenon. Of course, the terms inside and outside appear in Stein's writing long before the mid-1930s. In The Making of Americans (written between 1906 and 1911, but not published until 1925), they dramatize the conflict between one's "bottom nature" and extrinsic influences that 4 Leo Braudy, The Frenzy of Renown: Fame and its History (Oxford University Press, 1986), pp. 579, 572-73. Charles Bernstein has briefly explored Stein's distinction between entity and identity. Except for a cursory aside noting that her belief in the former "represents a freedom from history .. . for which one well might have longed in Europe in 1935," Bernstein is more philosophical than contextual in his approach. As such, the influence of Stein's fame upon her ideas of selfhood goes unmentioned. See "Stein's Identity," Modern Fiction Studies, XLH, (1996), pp. 485-88. 5 The Letters of Gertrude Stein and Carl Van Vechten, 1913-1946, 2 vols. ed. Edwar d Burns (Columbia University Press, 1986), Vol. I, p. 277. 294 Journal of Modern Literature "flavor" or temper its expression. Although the former shapes the individual's "important feeling of himself to himself inside him . . . from [his] beginning to [his] ending," its determining influence is circumvented when external kinds of "nature or natures" a re observed and imitated. "Every one is one inside himself," Stein insists, but those concerned with the way in which they are perceived by others alienate themselves from this inner "feeling inside them."6 As a strategy for recovering the bottom nature, she began experimenting with an anti-mimetic style of verbal portraiture in the 1910s. As she later recalled in her lecture "Poetry and Repetition," the trademark techniques employed in such lyrics as "Galeries Lafayette" and "Mi-Careme" (cadenced repetition and the continuous present tense most obviously) marked an effort to penetrate the surface confusion of identity in order to "find out inside every one what was in them."7 Equally important, The Autobiography of Alice B. Toklas imbues her nomenclature with an uncharac teristic specificity that allows Stein to contrast the inner sanctum of her expatriate abode to the outer world of Parisian Modernism. As J. Gerald Kennedy has shown, descriptions of Stein's famous Montparnasse atelier function as a "sign of identity, a projection of [a] personality" whose constant and unchanging character is figured in "the stable details of place." Competing sites of modernist production, including the various domiciles of Hemingway and Pound, merit a passing mention indicative of their transitory contribution to literature. By contrast, constant evocations of 27 rue de Fleurus create "an almost Proustian image" of "Stein's defining [and enduring] presence."8 But Stein's use of this antithesis to create what Kennedy calls an "operative fiction" that allows "the writing self [to] arbitrarily dissociate itself from the world in which writing occurs" assumes heated immediacy in the aftermath of her memoir's success. In an early sign of its importance, the September 1934 Vanity Fair essay "And Now" invokes the dualism as a remedy for the writer's block suffered the previous year just as the Atlanti c Monthly serialized the Autobiography and the Literary Guild named it a book-of-th e-month selection. Apologizing for once criticizing fellow writers for succumbing to sterility after comparable achievements, she now understands why public recognition "cut[s] off yo ur [creative] flow" so "the syrup does not pour."9 As she insists, fame intrudes upon the writer's sense of self, for whereas her personality had "always been completely included in myself as . . . any personality naturally is," her celebrity status tempted her to see herself through her audience's 6 Gertrude Stein, The Making of Americans: Being a History ofa Family's Progress (Contact, 1925; rpt. Dalkey Archive, 1995), p. 149-50. 7 Gertrude Stein, "Poetry and Repetition," Lectures in America (Random House, 1935 ), p. 183. Subsequent references to lectures gathered in this collection are hereafter cited within the text as Lectures. 8 J. Gerald Kennedy, Imagining Paris: Exile, Writing, and American Identity (Yale University Press, 1993), pp. 68-69. 9 "And Now: And so the time comes when I can tell the story of my life," Vanity Fa ir XLm, 4 (September 1933), pp. 33, 65; rpt. in a slightly different form in Gertrude Stein, How Writing is Written, ed. Robert Bartlett Haas (Black Sparrow Press, 1974), p. 63. Subsequent references to this and other pieces repr inted in Hass's collection are hereafter cited within the text. The inside/outside trope is also prevalent throughout Stein's Four in America, written between the publication ofthe Autobiography and "And Now." Here Stein questions whether the intrinsic selves ofa quartet of influential personalities (George Washington, Wilbur Wright, Ulysses S. Grant , and Henry James) could enter the extrinsic world had these men exerted their genius in a different mdtier. In other words, she questions whether Grant would be the same person if he were an artist instead of a soldier/politician. Although Stein frequently alluded to Four in her public appearances, she was unable to find a publisher for it during her lifetime. Gertrude Stein on Identity 295 eyes. Suddenly?in a line that prefigures Geographical History?she felt that "I was not just I because so many people did know me." The result was a double blow . Fame not only prompted an identity crisis ("I lost my personality") but halted the prolific writing schedule which she had maintained for decades: "For the first time since I had begun to write I could not write and what was worse ... I began to think about how my writing would sound to others, how could I make them understand, I who had always lived within myself and my writing." "And Now" ends on a happy note, however, as Stein affirms her artist ic resilience by describing how she recovered from this crisis. Unlike "all those young men whose syrup did not pour," she resolved her creative emergency through a relatively simple procedure: "I have come back to write the way I used to write . . . because now everything that is happening is once more happening inside" (Writing, p. 66). By ignoring public conceptions of her and rediscovering her inner, true self, Stein boasts of renewed confidence in the symmetry between her identity and her art. Because "there is no use in the outside," she encourages fellow writers to turn their back on their public image. "If you see the outside you see just what you look at," she states, "and that is no longer interesting." "And Now" thus charts the stages through which artists must pass if they are to guard against the pitfalls of fame. From the naive assumption that "success is all right" and "if there is anything in you it ought not to cut off the flow" (Writing p. 63), Stein's experience teaches her the necessity of preventing a debilitating self-consciousness by not confusing her inner self with her public image. As she concludes, perceptions of an artist's identity will always differ from her own self-image, so the best recourse is not to worry about reputation: "If [the public image] is going to change it is of no interest and if it is not going to change it is of no interest and so what is the use of looking" (Writing p. 66). As Richard Bridgman suggests, the attitude toward fame in "And Now" raises some perplexing questions. To begin with, Stein "was hardly an unknown suddenly thrust into prominence." Why notoriety flustered her is curious, for "[s]he had a reputation, several of them in fact, and had long listened to her merits and deficiencies being debated in public."10 Since 1910, Stein's New York clipping service had steadily forwarded her the voluminous commentaries which she inspired in the press, including many that derided her as a Barnumesque opportunist exploiting the public's unquenchable thirst for quirky, peculiar personalities. Far from being bothered by the endless parodies and caricatures, Stein prided herself on engendering controversy. Although disappointed by the rarity of serious critical attention, she nevertheless insisted that "humorous references to Gertru de Stein's work" proved that editors and columnists were intrigued by her literary experiments, however involuntarily: "[T]hey do quote me," she declares in the Autobiography. "[T]hat means that my words and my sentences get under their skins although they do not know it."11 Readers of "And Now" might have wondered additionally why she expressed such aversion to commercial success since several passages in her autobiography covet the popular appreciation which she disdains in Vanity Fair. At several points, her memoir even values 10 Richard Bridgman, Gertrude Stein in Pieces, p. 235. 11 Gertrude Stein, The Autobiography of Alice B. Toklas (Harcourt, Brace, 1933), p. 244. Hereafter cited within the text as Autobiography. 296 Journal of Modern Literature public approval over critical praise: "[A]s she always explains she could ... [n]ever have enough of glory. After all, as she always contends, no artist needs criticis m, he only needs appreciation. If he needs criticism he is no artist" (Autobiography, p. 235). A similar attitude is apparent in the brief essay "The Story of a Book," published in the literary journal Wings amid the success ofthe Autobiography and nearly a year before she wrot e "And Now." Here Stein describes the satisfaction that she felt when the Atlantic Month ly finally enthused over her work after years of rejecting it. Rather than express trepidation toward fame, Stein rebukes Atlantic editors for long assuming that she was an anathema to the common reader: "It can easily be realized that after these years of faith that there is and was a public and that sometime I would come in contact with that public. . . . [A]fter these years to know that I have a public gives me what the French call a coeur 16ger, it makes me not light-hearted but it leaves me unburdened" (Writing, p. 62). Boasts of being "unburdened" by celebrity are also prevalent in her 1933-37 correspondence, in which one finds her claiming that she is "adoring being successful, completely and entirely adoring it."12 By contrast, the identity crisis that "And Now" describes merits only tangential mention. Substantiating the fleeting biographical corroboration for Stein's anxieties toward celebrity is less important than understanding the authenticating function served by their public confessions. By invoking the inside/outside trope, she was employing a formula popular among stars for legitimating their notoriety by calling attention to the disparity between their in ternal and external selves. As early as 1927, actress Clara Bow, filmdom's preeminent "It girl," distanced herself from the ebullient character that made her famous: " I know that everyone looking at me on the screen says: T'll bet she's never unhappy.' The truth is that I haven't been happy for many, many months. The person you see on the screen is not my true self at all; it's my screen self." A year later, Joan Crawford directly addressed fans as she distinguished her celluloid persona from her off-screen identity: "I was afraid to tell my [life story] to you. You have one idea of Joan Crawford, now you are going to have another."13 More relevant to Stein, F. Scott Fitzgerald in 1936 initiated a minor controversy by announcing in a series ofEsquire essays known collectively as The Crack-Up that he was no longer the Jazz-Age reveler whom the media had painted in the 1920s. Living up to his reputation, he insisted, had caused a "disintegration of. . . personality." Only by " slay[ing] the empty shell who had been posturing at [playing his public self] for . . . years" could he effect a "clean break" and recover his real identity: "The man I had persistently tried to be became such a burden that I have 'cut him loose,'" Fitzgerald announces. "I have now at last become a writer only."14 Linking these and countless similar confessions is the insistence that fame confines the artist to a restrictive public identity. For Bow and Crawford, both frustrated with portraying superficial ingenues, admitting the complexities of their private life was a 12 Unpublished letter to Lindley Williams Hubbell, June 1933, Yale Collection of American Liter ature, Beinecke Rare Book and Library, Yale University, New Haven. For a brief allusion to Stein 's writer's block, see her 15 October 1933 letter to Van Vechten in Letters of Gertrude Stein and Carl Van Vechten, Vo l. I, p. 280. 13 Bow is quoted in Marjorie Rosen, Popcorn Venus: Women, Movies, and the American Dream (Coward, McCann & Geoghegan, 1973), p. 86; Joan Crawford, "The Story ofa Dancing Girl," rpt. in Photoplay Treasury, ed. Barbara Gelman (Crown, 1972), p. 88. 14 F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Crack-Up by F. Scott Fitzgerald, ed. Edmund Wilson (New Directions, 1945), pp. 76, 81, 83. Gertrude Stein on Identity 297 conscious strategy to modify their image so that audiences would accept them in more sophisticated roles. Similarly, The Crack-Up signaled Fitzgerald's desire to retire h is reputation as a writer of lighthearted Saturday Evening Post stories and win recognition as a mature author. In each case, insisting that the public identity does not accurately represent the inner "I" is an act of artistic self-possession. It allows artists to proclaim their disinterest in the outer world of fame and to present their motive solely as expressing their intrinsic self. While audiences today are accustomed to stars grappling in public with the relationship between their inner and outer selves, it is important to note that 1930s' narratives such as "And Now" constitute a new genre whose self-conscious concern with authenticity marked an evolution in the practices of publicity management. Up through the 1920s, it was assumed that circulating details ofa celebrity's private life could endorse his or her public image, even if this meant fabricating facts. In a phrase popular among film publicists, the "real" life was to parallel the "reel" life.15 By the late 1920s, however, a variety of scandals eroded public faith in the congruence between identity and image. As a result, the need arose for more sophisticated narrative forms to authenticate the stars' worthiness for fame by confirming their resolve not to falsify their public presentation. The celebrity identity crisis proved eminently popular in part because it acknowledged the potential falsity of images, while reassuring audiences that public figures were committed to truthful self-presentation. As Joshua Gamson argues, "By embracing the notion that celebrity images were artificial products and inviting readers to visit the real self behind those images," such confessions "defused the notion that celebrity was really derived from nothing but images."16 Early celebrity journalism insisted that the inner and outer self were interchangeable, but 1930s' versions emphasized disparities between the two, not in order to impugn the phenomenon of stardom but to validate it. Celebrities who deserved fame were those who were not corrupted by their public image. A true star ignored the glare of public recognition and remained devoted to perfecting his or her chosen craft. By announcing Stein's disinterest in the outer world of fame, "And Now" appealed to a code of authenticity that was at once new and widespread in the discourse of celebrity. Implicitly insisting that she was famous for the right reason?she was an artist?she obviated the assumption that she sought attention for its own sake, thus fulfilling what Francesco Alberoni calls the central imperative of celebrity autobiography: "To demonstrate that such a great improvement of status has been obtained not by illicit means but thanks to meritorious conduct and to exceptional or charismatic qualities."17 And yet if the goal of "And Now" 15 In a relatively early example of celebrity journalism, a 1919 Photoplay interview with actor Lew Cody emphasizes similarities between the role he portrays on screen (the "male vampir e," the masculine counterpart ofthe female vamp) and his off-screen identity. Cody is described as "the eminent authority" on lotharioism because he is known for his "vamping* both "a la celluloid and au natural." There is no intima tion of a theatrical facade; actor and acted are indistinguishable. Cody's fame is a professional achievement (he "originated the male vampire on the screen") enabled by personal expertise (he possesses in "real life" the same seductive charms that make his rakish film persona so irresistible). See Adela Rogers St. Johns, "Confessions of a Male Vampire," in Photoplay Treasury, pp. 54-56. 16 Joshua Gamson, Claims to Fame: Celebrity in Contemporary America (University of California Press, 1994), p. 38. 17 Francesco Alberoni, "The Powerless 'Elite': Theory and Sociological Research on the Phenomenon of the Stars," in Sociology of Mass Communications: Selected Readings, ed. Denis McQuai l (Penguin, 1972), p. 90. 298 Journal of Modern Literature was to legitimate Stein's writing on the eve of her triumphant return to America by demonstrating the sincerity of her intent, the effort was only partly successful. While the media was charmed by her charisma, proving that her art was not "illicit" posed a more formidable challenge. Despite her personal success, critics continued to doubt the merits of her work, creating an odd bifurcation of opinion in her post-1933 reception history. Whereas such previous experimental efforts as Tender Buttons (1914) or Lucy Church Amiably (1931) elicited accusations that she was a trickster?a "self-advertiser of pseu do-intellectual antics," as one critic memorably put it?reviewers of later efforts congratulated her for her sincerity even as they denounced her aims. The New York Herald Tribune's Lewis Gannett, for example, described Stein as "wholly natural" upon meeting her in New York in late 1934. Significantly, Gannett's review of her cryptic poetry collection Portraits and Prayers never questions whether Stein genuinely believes in her literary ideals, although he finds them "utterly meaningless" and "laughable" in practice. Rather, he tries to reconcile the lack of pretension which she exhibited in person with the spurious obscurity of her style: "She insisted so amiably, so without pose, so convincingly, that her prose really makes sense to any one who can read . . . that I tried very hard to make sense of [it], I regret to report complete failure."18 Such bafflement is hardly unique. Indeed, Stein's public visibility duri ng her American tour actually threatened to widen the breech between author and oeuvre. The more med ia attention devoted to her personality, the more her writing became a mere adjunct to it. As she confronted fame during her public appearances, then, she struggled to correct the perception that she was better read about than read. Bryce Conrad summarizes the strategy by which Stein aimed to right this imbalance of attention: "[R]ather than simply putting herself on display, she would attempt to introduce her newly-won audience to the texts on which she wanted her reputation to rest. The lectures which she composed for that purpose"?published in Lectures in America and Narration?mark her "most incisive and uncomp romising effort to explain the assumptions about language and perception that inform her most difficult texts."19 But Stein wanted more than just to articulate her aesthetic assumptions; she needed to legitimate them by grounding their authority in the same standard of authenticity appealed to in "And Now." Through the inside/outside dichotomy, she defines art as an expression ofthe inner, true self; as she repeatedly insists, capturing the inmost "feeling of being" in words is for her the artist's preeminent obligation. Equally important, she calls attention to the ways in which different media distract readers' appreciation of this internal essence, causing them to confuse it with the external "I." Once we recognize the emphasis placed on authenticity in these theoretical essays, their implied message is fairly obvious: Stein's writing is sincere (and therefore worthy of serious critical regard) because it encapsulates the essence that is the inmost "I." On the surface, her insistence that art must express the inner self sounds like a simple Lewis Gannett, "Books and Things," New York Herald Tribune, 7 November 1934, p. 6, rpt. in The Critical Response to Gertrude Stein, pp. 78-79. The "self-advertiser" quote comes from Richard Burton, "Posing," Minneapolis Bellman, 17 October 1914, p. 5, rpt. in The Critical Response to Gertrude Stein, pp. 163-5. 19 Bryce Conrad, "Gertrude Stein in the American Marketplace," Journal of Modern Li terature, XIX, (1995), p. 228. Gertrude Stein on Identity 299 avant-garde rejection of marketplace rewards, as when in "What is Engl ish Literature," she claims that artists cannot simultaneously serve "god and mammon": "If you write the way it has already been written . . . then you are serving mammon, because you are living by something some one has already been earning or has earned. If you write as you are to be writing then you are serving as a writer god because you are not earning anything" (Lectures, p. 54). More important than not "earning anything," serving God as writer guarantees authenticity. The writer who "says what he intends to have heard by somebody" is guilty of using words "indirectly," a process which falsifies expression since facilitating reception necessitates catering?voluntarily or not?to prevailing interpretive conventions. In "writing anything directly," however, the artist focuses exclusively on the "relation between the thing done and the doer." The resulting work will "achieve the 'complete quality of completeness'" since the inside is free to be transcribed into words without concern for external prerequisites of meaning-making (Lectures, pp. 23-24). The importance of authentic self-expression is further elaborated in Geographical History, in which Stein constructs an even more intricate chain of oppositions so as to highlight the problem of confusing the inner self and the outer "I." Here she employs the word identity, equating it with human nature, which, as she repeatedly announces, "is not interesting it .. . is occupying but it is not interesting" (Geographical, p. 143). Instead, she places her trust in the human mind, her new preferred synonym for the interior being: "Inside in any human mind there is not there is no time and there is no identity otherwise what is inside is not" (Geographical,^. 182). Late in the book, she meditates on yet another favorite refrain?"what is a masterpiece"?to illustrate her insistence that true art encapsulates this inside: "Poetry is not identity no that it never is. . . . [But] a great deal of poetry is what is seen. And if it is then in so far as it is it is not a master-piece. What is seen may be the subject but it cannot be the object of a master-piece" (Geographical, p. 202). The passage echoes a contemporaneous address, "What Are Masterpieces," which Stein delivered at Oxford and Cambridge in February 1936: "[S]o always it is true that the master- piece has nothing to do with human nature or with identity, it has to do with the human mind and the entity that is with a thing in itself and not in relation." Few works of art are truly great because artists tend to "live in identity and memory that is when they think." They "know they are they because their little dog knows them, and so they are not an entity but an identity. And being so memory is necessary to make them exist and so they cannot create master-pieces."20 Stein concludes the address by recalling "And Now" an d alluding again to her own creative crisis: "When you are writing before there is an audience anything written is as important as any other thing and you cherish anything and everything that you have written. After the audience begins, naturally they create something that is they create you, and so not everything is so important" (Masterpieces, p. 94-5). Although Stein fails to elaborate on the means by which the readers' construction of an implied author affects comprehension ofa work, one can infer an interpretive phenomenon similar to Foucault's "author function." Presuming knowledge of the authorial identity, audiences delimit the work's meaning by interpreting it according to the values embodied by the public image. Foucault's description 20 Gertrude Stein, "What Are Master-pieces and Why Are There So Few of Them," in Wh at Are Masterpieces (Pitman, 1940), p. 88, 90. Hereafter cited in the text as Masterpieces. 300 Jou rnal of Modern Literature of this process empioys Stein's terminology in describing how the image allows readers to "characterize a certain mode of being of discourse": "It would seem that the author's [image] does not pass . . . from the interior of a discourse to the real and exterior individual who produced it; instead, [it] seems always to be present, marking off the edges of the text, revealing its mode of being."21 The related danger, according ... to Stein, is that artists will inhabit this public identity and further alienate themselves from the intrinsic self. In cautioning artists against confusing the public and the private self, Stein was not insisting that audiences are superfluous to art. Rather, her lectures call upon her favorite antithesis to define the correct interpretive protocols that will ensure proper appreciation ofthe writer's inner "I," a process she calls "recognition." "There is an audience of course there is an audience," Stein concludes in her final Narration lecture, delivered at the University of Chicago in March 1935. "Undoubtedly that audience has to be there for the purpose of recognition and that audience must be at one with the writing, must be at one with the . . . recognition must have nothing of knowing anything before or after the recognition."22 The main obligation of readers is to "separate themselves from the land so they can see it" (Narration, p. 51). That is, they must purify themselves of extratextual preconceptions ofthe author's identity so that they can directly engage the words. In recent years, critics have compared these ideas on reception to various reader-response theories, occasionally arguing that Stein ascribes so much interpretive authority to audiences that they function as defacto collaborators.23 Her description of "recognition" here suggests a far more passive role for the interlocutor, however, one confined to appreciating the essence fixed within the work. By focusing attention on "the thing in its essence being completed" (Narration, p. 42), audiences approach writing not as a communicative exchange initiated by a speaker but as an objetd'art wholly self-contained. Just as artists shelter their writing through the fixity of their inward gaze, audiences must refrain from contaminating it by projecting extrinsic assumptions about the author's identity upon it. Stein's lectures also explore the way in which the medium of writing encourages readers to confuse the outer self for the authentic "I." Ne wspapers are most guilty of this because they presume that audiences are intrigued by actions and not by essences: "Dillinger and Lindbergh were and are exciting," she writes in the March 1935 New York Herald Tribune piece, "American Newspapers." "[A]nd that is not because the story their story is exciting what .. . 21 Michel Foucault, "What Is an Author?" in The Foucault Reader, ed. Paul Rabino w, trans. Josu6 V. Hararu (Pantheon, 1984), p. 107. Elsewhere I have shown how parodies of Stein in the 19 20s and 1930s enacted the "author function" by interpreting aspects of her style as expressing unflattering perso nality traits. Thus, to critics, her preference for simple sentence constructions was nothing but "baby talk" that they could ridicule as a sign of her unsophisticated, childlike intellect. See my "Parody and Pedagogy: Teaching Styl e, Voice, and Authorial Intent in the Works of Gertrude Stein," College Literature, XXm (1996), pp. 1-24. 22 Gertrude Stein, Narration: Four Lectures by Gertrude Stein, ed. Thornton Wilder (University of Chicago Press, 1936), p. 60. Hereafter cited within the text as Narration. 23 See, for example, Harriet Scott Chessman, The Public Is Invited to Dance: Repres entation, the Body, and Dialogue in Gertrude Stein (Stanford University Press, 1989). Chessman argues that Stein's experimental works offer a feminist alternative to the masculinist reception theories of Wolfgang Iser and Roland Barthes. Whereas those two theorists describe reading as "this violent masculine pleasure" through which "t he (female) text is filled (and 'fulfilled') by the (male) reader, who must limit the text's promiscuous 'inexhaustibility' to o ne configuration of significance," Stein defines her implied audience "as equal lovers or intimate acquaintances, separate but always open to the possibility of 'coming together.'" See pp. 8-11 in particular. Gertrude Stein on Identity 301 is really exciting is that they are exciting" (Writing, pp. 90-91). Assuming that public interest arises from the deeds of such figures,* newspapers emphasize the temporally bound events surrounding them and thus ignore the real source of their fascination, which for Stein is their personality. This idea appears as well in the third Narration lecture, in which Stein again cites Dillinger and Lindbergh as dynamic characters whose essential selves are overlooked by reporters fixated by their deeds. Although "sometimes a personality" such as theirs "breaks through an event" reported by the media, that essence is "soon smoothed over" as attention is drawn to the criminal plots in which they are involved. Because newspapers ignore the inside, they represent "real life with the reality left out, the reality being the inside and the newspapers being the outside" (Narration, pp. 39-40). This assessment of journalism is idiosyncratic; in this period, most commentators, including Walter Lippmann, condemned newspapers for focusing exclusively on personalities and exploiting the newly discovered "personal interest" angle of their stories.24 For Stein, however, reporters are too focused on "what is happening." If "the business ofthe artist is to be exciting" in a way that "really does something to you really inside you," newspapers are not conducive to this endeavor; interested in "happenings," they fail to understand that the choice makes "it... not their business to be exciting" (Narration, p. 41). Not surprisingly, the audience-oriented medium most congenial to communicating the inner essence is the most private: letter writing. As Stein insists, it is the lone type of exchange that does not inspire confusion: "[I]t really is the only time in writing when the outside and inside flow together without interrupting, not generally with much concentrating, but still at any rate with not much interrupting." Although "directed to some one," the epistle "does not make the inside outside or the outside inside" because it leads to "diffusion" instead of confusion (Narration, p. 55). By diffusion, she suggests that the aura of confidentiality that private correspondence presupposes allows the writer to externalize the inside without compromising its authenticity. Because the audience presumably possesses some appreciation of the inner self, the author is less tempted to cater to expectation and falsify the expression. At the same time, the reader is less likely to impose assumptions of the authorial identity onto the words and to alter the constitution ofthe inside. The mutuality that letter writing promises frees the writer from that crippling self-consciousness that more overtly determines other compositional contexts. But the medium most on Stein's mind as she cautioned against the confusions ofthe outside was the very one through which she delivered her ideas?the lecture. Public presentation of the inner essence obviously threatens its authenticity, she argues in Narration, for audience attention is fixed on the writer's physical presence, which may solicit those presumptions of identity so detrimental to recognizing the authentic, interior being. For the writer herself, lecturing is a "double life": "[I]f you are reading what you are lecturing then you have a half in one of any two directions, you have been recognizing what you are writing when you were writing and now in reading you disassociate recognizing what you are reading from what you did recognize as being written while you were writing" (Narration, p. 57). In "What Are 24 Walter Lippmann, "Blazing Publicity: Why We Know So Much about Teaches' Brown ing, Valentino, Lindbergh, and Queen Marie," rpt. in VanityFair: Selectionsfrom America's Most Memorable Magazine: A Cavalcade ofthe 1920s and 30s, ed. Cleveland Amory and Frederic Bradlee (Viking Press, 1960), pp. 121-22. 302 Journal of Modern Literature Master-pieces," Stein concludes that this physical presence precludes lect uring from achieving the status of true literature: "One ofthe things that I discovered in lecturing was that gradually one ceased to hear what one said one heard what the audience hears one say, that is the reason that oratory is practically never a master-piece" (Masterpieces, p. 86). The demands ofthe audience are too immediate and pressing in a live appearance; the self-consciousness that reception engenders inevitably leads the writer's gaze outward instead of inward, thus eroding the integrity of the performance. In explaining her ideas on creativity, reception, and the various media determining them, Stein was not just offering an extended primer for making her literary experiments comprehensible. Rather, her lectures underscore the inescapable reality that writing in an age of celebrity is an act of public performance. Lectures in America, Narration, and Geogr aphical History claim with avant-garde insistence that the inside must be sheltered from external influences which compromise the sincerity of artistic effort; yet Stein also understands that in a culture which equates visibility with accomplishment, the consequence of ignoring the outside is obscurity. However virulently she maintains the inside/outside distinction, her concern with the "confusion" that occurs when the two come into confl ict suggests that the real interest in these writings is not dismissing identity but coping with it. For the artist desiring at least a modicum of public appreciation with out becoming subject to it, the key to managing confusion rested in the commitment to authenticity. As Braudy suggests, remaining real for celebrities of the 1930s involved poise in addition to sincerity. The question that celebrity discourse repeatedly asked was "whether you could take the immense focus on you while you were [existing in the public eye]. Not only can you perform but also can you do it while everybody watches you."25 Initially upon returning to France in May 1935, Stein complained of the pressures of public performance in such lectures as "What Are Master-pieces." But by the next spring, as she began a follow-up to Alice B. Toklas recounting her adventures in America, her attitude toward fame shifted. Instead of lamenting its burdens, Everybody's Autobiography announces that celebrity is no bother at all because, as Stein continually demonstrates, she is attuned to her inner essence. Various image managers during her journeys attempt to finesse her public image, yet Stein resists any distortion of her authentic self. Exerting rigorous fidelity to the inside, she refuses to let the outer world of publicity affect her. In this way, this second memoir testifies to the sort of self-possession that artists of the era were expected to cultivate if they were to manage the confusion augured by the outside. The strength of Stein's self-possession suggests why, in Everybody's Autobiography, she finds celebrity more amusing than confusing. If "And Now" insists that "there is no use in the outside" (Writing p. 66), this reminiscence celebrates the privileges that accompany fame, including the widespread recognition that, according to the previous essay, erodes the artist's confidence. Repeatedly, Stein notes how she and Alice B. Toklas were ap proached during their American travels by strangers who welcomed them home after their decad es abroad. Far from a disconcerting experience, she finds these encounters both exciting and "natural." At one point, she describes a mob of autograph seekers that descends upon her at a Dartmouth football game; when her hosts offer to escort her from the stadium t o escape the nuisance, ' Braudy, The Frenzy of Renown, pp. 573-74. Gertrude Stein on Identity 303 Stein declines because "there never was anything that was a bother."26 Even more striking given her dismissive attitude toward journalism in "American Newspapers" and Narration, she enjoys interviews with reporters and finds their questions engaging, even when they cover her lectures "as if [they] were a wrestling match" (Everybody 's, p. 223). Stein can insist that "it is a very very pleasant thing" to be "a real lion a real celebrity" without impugning her motive for being famous because she appeals to what Richard Dyer calls the "reigning notions" of authenticity that allow celebrities to appear as "something more?truer, more real?than an image." According to Dyer, "[A]uthenticity is established or constructed in media texts by the use of markers that indicate lack of control, lack of premeditation and privacy. We must know that . . . [the celebrity's] star quality" is not manufactured but is "grounded in her own immediate (= not controlled), spontaneous (= unpremeditated) and essential (= private) self. That guarantees that her stardom is not a con, because an authenticated individual is acting as the guarantor of the truth of the discourse of her stardom."27 In the early sections of Everybody's Autobiography, Stein fulfills this prerogative by qualifying the promotional impetus for returning to America. In revealing the intent behind her tour, she makes an important distinction between the commerce of literature and celebrity: "Jo Davidson always said one should sell one's personality and I always said only insofar as that personality expressed itself in work. It always did bother me that the American public were more interested in me than in my woxk"(Everybody's, p. 51). The key phrase here is "insofar as." Stein does not claim that selling oneself is inappropriate. Instead, she entertains the idea of a lecture tour only because the personality that she will inevitably commodify constitutes the essence of her writing. It is this link between her intrinsic self and her work that justifies her willing engagement with the machinery of American publici ty. Trusting that the public "would not be interested in me if it were not for my work," she implicitly promises to enter the public eye only to redirect attention back to her work, where it properly belongs. Submitting to media scrutiny out of fealty to her art, Stein casts herself as a naive initiate to the world of celebrity, one who is not only inattentive but is indifferent toward public relations. In effect, she controls her public image by appearing not to control it. Nowhere does Stein's attitude toward fame seem more unpremeditated and spontaneous than in her account of her itinerary's organization. Initially, she entrusts the tour's planning to William Aspenwall Bradley, the Paris-based literary agent who sold Alice B. Toklas to Harcourt, Brace and brokered its serialization in the Atlantic Monthly. Bradley proves too willing to compromise her authenticity for continued commercial success, however. Rather than place her many unpublished manuscripts with a commercial imprimatur, he encourages her to capitalize on the success of her best-seller and produce a sequel. More troubling, he contracts Stein's appearances through a lecture bureau so as to maximize their profitabi lity. "He wanted me to be managed by somebody," Stein complains. "[N]aturally there is nothing to manage" (Everybody 's,p. 127). When Bradley balks at her poor busine ss sense, demanding 26 Gertrude Stein, Everybody's Autobiography (Random House, 1937; rpt. Exact Chang e, 1993), p. 204. Subsequent references to this work will be cited within the text. 27 Richard Dyer, "A Star is Born and the Construction of Authenticity," in Stardom: Industry of Desire, ed. Christine Gledhill (Routledge, 1990), p. 137. 304 Journal of Modern Literature to know how she expects to make money, she declares her integrity: "[C]ertainly I said I do want to get rich but I never want to do what there is to do to get rich" (Everybody's, p. 132). Invoking principle over packaging, Stein posits her artistic autonomy against the marketing of her public image. As an emissary of authenticity, she demonstrates in her dealings with Bradley the resolve necessary to remain true both to her aesthetics and to her essential self. In a comparable way, Stein emphasizes her spontaneity and lack of pretense by depicting her return to America as a haphazard picaresque instead of a massively successful business venture that, according to Carl Van Vechten, left her "several thousand dollars the richer."28 After protracted dissatisfaction with Bradley, she fires him and entrusts organizational duties to Toklas and an informal entourage of loyalists that includes Van Vechten, W.G. ("The Kiddie") Rogers, and Thornton Wilder. Several self-deprecating episodes emphasize the amateurism of the enterprise. During a stay at the Algonquin Hotel, for example, Toklas misplaces her date book, which contains the only list of Stein's engagements that the two have bothered to maintain. Here Van Vechten serves as the foil for her ind ifference to success; by mildly rebuking the women for not maintaining better records, he evinces the sort of professionalism that, were Stein to exhibit it, would make her fame seem calculated and contrived. Instead, she and Toklas take the advice of the wife of Al gonquin owner Henry Case: "Mrs. Case said why are you fussed it will come back again, it did" (Everybody's, p. 201). Equally potential disasters elicit the same indifference. Upon arriving in America, Stein loses her voice, "a sure metaphor," according to Conrad, "for the appropriation which she feared might happen in America if the mass media were to take control of her image."29 Yet Stein's first performance cures this concern as confidence in the legitimacy of her ideas assures her she need not worry about her press coverage. During a later speech at the Dutch Treat Club, she encounters a fellow lecturer who, after three years o f public speaking, still visibly shakes while addressing an audience. Without hesitation, Stein accuses h im of feigning his anxiety: "I said, you are making believe being nervous in order to be effective, I said, aren't you" (Everybody's, p. 183). Admitting that displaying one's anxiety is a popular oratorical technique for gaining audience sympathy, Stein not only disarms the gesture's appeal but again advances her authenticity. Having solved her unease with lecturing by turning to the inside and ignoring audience reaction, she reinforces her claim that she is just as she presents herself. Tailoring neither herself nor her ideas for public c onsumption, she can be famous without succumbing to self-consciousness. Other unusual aspects of the tour further underscore Stein's unpremedit ated approach to her celebrity. At each lecture stop, she restricts attendance to five hundred, a whim that (as she is careful to note) frequently turns away at least two or three times that number. When a Columbia University official announces that more than a thousand tic kets have been distributed for one performance, Stein threatens to cancel the engagement. As she informs the stunned functionary, she will not accommodate a mass audience at the expense of her art: "I have written these lectures they are hard lectures to read and it will be hard to listen to them, anybody not used to lecturing cannot hold the attention of more than a roomful" (Everybody's, 28 Letters of Gertrude Stein and Carl Van Vechten, Vol. I, p. 322, note 1. 29 Bryce Conrad, "Gertrude Stein in the American Marketplace," p. 229. Gertrude St ein on Identity 305 p. 181). Later, a similarly bemused sponsor of her Princeton appearance marvels at the irony of discouraging students from attending the event. "[U]sually in university lecturing I have to get an audience," Stein reports him saying. "[Y]ou say you will not have more than five hundred and to keep it down to five hundred I have had an awful time. I think it is a great joke" (Everybody's, p. 187). Stein also refuses introductions at the s tart of each lecture. Dismissing the formality as "silly," she reinforces her image as an unwilling celebrity unimpressed with the trappings of fame: "[E]verybody knew who I was if not why did they come," she wonders (Everybody's, p. 181-82). This unpretentious, homespun self-presentation allows Stein to appear no nplused by her notoriety; she accepts her visibility in the media but remains wholly unaffected by it. Excluded from Everybody's Autobiography are any incidents that might undermine this persona and make her seem concerned with her representation in the press. Stein does not mention, for example, that she busied her supporter James Laughlin in preparing abstracts of her lectures, which were strategically distributed to journalists to preclude misquotation.30 Nor does she offer an account in the closing pages of why she came to write a second memoir. While Alice B. Toklas ends with a self-reflexive climax as Stein promises to record her recollections and produce a best-seller, Everybody's Autobiography concludes with the far less dramatic scene of Stein and Toklas returning to their summer residence in Bilignin, France. Although denouncing Bradley's efforts to oblige her contractually to a second autobiography, she makes no mention of the pressure which Random House placed upon her to pro duce a commercial manuscript and reverse the slumping sales trend precipitated by Lectures in America and Geographical History. Had she confessed her publisher's influence on her, of course, she would have impugned her motives for writing a sequel to Alice B. Toklas, opening herself to the accusation that she was more concerned with success than she admi tted. Stein also enhances the sincerity of her self-presentation by describing encounters with various publicity apparatuses that threaten her authenticity. When a photographer asks her to pose for a newspaper layout, she proves so oblivious to the media that she must beg a definition of the unfamiliar word. Once aware that it refers to "four or five pictures of you doing anything," she consents to the photo session but resists any staging: "[H]e said there is your airplane bag suppose you unpack it, oh I said Miss Toklas always does that oh no I could not do that, well he said there is the telephone suppose you telephone well I said yes but I never do Miss Toklas always does that." Gamson notes that celebrity photography had only recently moved in this period from formal, glamorous portraits to more candid and intimate shots of the famous at home and play. Rather than idealize stars as "demoeratic royalty" or "popularly 'elected' gods and goddesses," the trend depicted stars as "more and 30 For accounts of Stein's concerns regarding her press coverage during the American tour, see William G. Rogers, When This You See Remember Me: Gertrude Stein in Person (Rinehart, 1948), pp. 120-38; James Laughlin, "About Gertrude Stein," Yale Review, LXXVH (1988), pp. 528-37; Bennett Cerf, At Random: The Reminiscences of Bennett Cerf (Random House, 1977), pp. 101-08. Cerf calls Stein a "publicity hound" as he catalogues the frequently degrading tricks employed to publicize her experimental works from the mid-1930s. Foremost among these unflattering promotional efforts was the jacket copy composed for Geographical History, in which he boasted of his own bafflement over its meaning. His comments bothered many reviewers, who quest ioned why a guardian of literary culture would sponsor an artist he could not understand. The copy thus bore the unintentional effect of sensationalizing Stein's peculiarity at the expense of the serious regard which she coveted. 306 Journal of Modern Literature more mortal" and as "blown-up versions ofthe typical."31 Photos of celebrities cooking dinner or cavorting with their children endorsed their authenticity by confirming the normalcy of their existence, thereby tightening the network of identification between idols and fans. Stein's exchange with the photographer advances her genuineness by inverting this new tradition: refusing to pose in ordinary actions which she would not ordinarily perform, she at once draws attention to the authenticating function of the star-at-home imagery while demonstrating her commitment to avoid misrepresenting herself. "Well he said what can you do," she describes the perplexed photographer as demanding. "I said I ca n put my hat on and take my hat off and I can put my coat on and I can take it off and I like water I can drink a glass of water. . . . [H]e said do that so I did that" (Everybody's, p. 225). The resulting photo spread, she implies, captured her as she truly is, unaltered by the lens of media interest. Encounters with Hollywood luminaries occasion similar opportunities to display her indifference toward image management. At a New York tea party, Stein is introduced to Mary Pickford, who, after a brief conversation, suggests that they pose for a photograph. But before a newspaperman can arrive to document the meeting, partygoers question the propriety of celebrities from such diverse arenas communing in public. According to Stein, Pickford's sudden coolness to the photo opportunity was baffling: "I was intereste d just what it was that went on inside Mary Pickford. It was her idea and then when I was en thusiastic she melted away. They all said that what she thought was if I were enthusiastic it meant that I thought that it would do me more good than it would do her.. . others said perhaps after all it would not be good for her audience that we should be photographed together." While Pickf ord's behavior reveals her calculated attitude toward fame, Stein describes h erself as naive of the imperative of complimentary press. Indeed, the phenomenon is so alien to her she announces her intent to study it: "I was very much interested to know just what they know about what is good publicity and what is not" (Everybody's, p. 6). A later gathering in Beverly Hills offers Stein an opportunity to voice her most explicit justification of her fame. Celebrities envious of her notoriety, including Charlie C haplin and Anita Loos, approach her and beg for her secret for monopolizing press attention. Stein's response is initially flippant: "[T]hey wanted to know how I had succeeded in getting so much publicity, I said by having a small audience." In explaining the media's interest in her, however, she once more calls upon authenticity: "The biggest publicity comes from the realest poetry and the realest poetry has a small audience and not a big one , but it is really exciting and therefore it has the biggest publicity" (Everybody's, p. 292). Had she been willing to fabricate her work to appeal to a larger audience, she might have been more popular?but more anonymous, too. Instead, by being so unequivocally "real," both she and her work merit the attention which they receive, for her authenticity is the source ofthe media's interest in her. In this way, Stein legitimates her celebrity while subtly boasting that she deserves it. Everybody's Autobiography represents the cathartic culmination of Stein's anxieties over identity, celebrity, and authenticity. After 1937, she continued to employ the inside/outside Gamson, Claims to Fame: Celebrity in Contemporary America, p. 29. Gertrude Stein on Identity 307 dichotomy in writings as varied as her novel Ida (1941), the theatre piece Yes Is For a Very Young Man (begun in 1944), and Brewsie and Willie (1946), her tribute to the allied soldiers of World War II. Yet these texts are not intensely concerned with the problem of articulating the intrinsic personality in the external world. What few comments Stein does offer on the phenomenon of modern fame in later works suggest that the issue no longer troubled her. In Paris France (1940), she notes that "publicity in France is really not important, tradition and their private life and the soil which always produces something, that is what counts." A conversation with Charles Lindbergh's wife confirms the assertion; upon meeting Stein, Mrs. Lindbergh expressed relief over the European media's unintrusive coverage of her family's tragedy: "In America of course she had suffered they had suffered from publicity. In . . . France they pay attention to you when you meet, but they do not bother you because in between they do not know that you are there." While the French value artists and writers, they also grant them the anonymity necessary to escape self-consciousness. Creating true art in the ville lumiere, she decides, is relatively easy because, unlike the situation in America, "everything is private and personal."32 Stein's mid-1930s' work also characterizes a unique moment in the deve lopment of celebrity discourse. Whether by declaring one's disinterest in fame (as she does in "And Now") or by demonstrating an ability to resist its distortions and remain real (as in Everybody'sAutobiography), public figures were obligated to justify the mass attention which they received and to uphold the values of authenticity. Stein fulfilled this duty with humor and aplomb; unlike her erstwhile pupil Hemingway, she was never so sensitive to charges of image fabrication that she resorted to caricatured behavior to defend her reputation.33 Had she written in a later era, her sense of playfulness might have even all owed her to indulge in what P. David Marshall calls the "demonstrative and flamboyant display of artifice and transformation" evident in the careers of many Postmodern celebrities. T hat is, by flouting the prerogative of sincere self-presentation, she could have "played with identity and image" to create "an ironic modality to the claims in [celebrity journalism] for authenticity." Instead of advancing her authentic self, she might "appeal to an aesthetic in which the performer has the 'genius' to transform like the brilliant actor," thus making "[t]he key to [her] continuing appeal" the "continual deferral of the resolution of the enigma" of her real personality.34 Ultimately, however, this esthetic was unavailable to Stein and her contemporaries; concerns about the legitimacy of modern fame were too pressing to allow image manipulation to flout norms of authenticity. As such, the inside/outside proved a valuable rhetorical tool for 32 Gertrude Stein, Paris, France (Scribner's, 1940), p.10, 109. 33 In one famously unflattering instance, Hemingway struck Max Eastman in the face with a copy of Eastman's own book after the New Republic columnist suggested in print that Hemingway's highly publicized obsession with blood sports was a public-relations device. Attempting to diagnose the personality beneath the public facade, Eastman suggested that the fascination with bullfighting and big-game hunting belied sex ual uncertainties?a comment that Hemingway interpreted as an accusation of impotence. Of course, the brawl, which took place when the writers unexpectedly encountered each other at their publisher, Charles Scribner's offic e, was heavily reported in gossip columns. Some accounts suggested that Eastman pinned Hemingway to the floor, while others insisted t hat Hemingway's red-bloodedness soundly pommeled the effete forces of intellectualism. Regardless, the incident deeply damaged Hemingway's reputation. See John Raeburn, Fame Became ofHim: Hemingway a s Public Writer (Indiana University Press, 1984), pp. 60-68. 34 P. David Marshall, Celebrity and Power: Fame in Contemporary Culture (University of Minnesota Press, 1997), p. 194. 308 Journal of Modern Literature justifying her press coverage and promoting her work. Only through it could she confirm her essential sincerity to a blossoming media culture anxious of its power to fabricate and disseminate images of celebrity.