Elizabeth Bishop’s Great Village

Home was a vexed question for the American-born poet Elizabeth Bishop (1911-1979), as it is for anyone who travels as much as she did. Her father was from Worcester, Massachusetts, but he died eight months after she was born. Her mother was a Bulmer from Great Village, thirty-five kilometres west of Truro in Nova Scotia, but she was confined definitively to a mental hospital when Elizabeth was six. Her grandparents loomed large, aunts and uncles, then boarding school, then Vassar in the early Thirties. She felt she could never go home again. As her poem “The Prodigal” puts it: “And then he thought he almost might endure / his exile yet another year or more.”


Elizabeth Bishop in her teens

Elizabeth all her life retained connections with her mother’s family and the landscape and seascape of Nova Scotia. Her poems and prose pieces show an affinity for the sea along a line of longitude from Nova Scotia to Brazil. She lived on and off for ten years in Key West, Florida and for fifteen years in Brazil. She returned to Boston in the 1970s.


Great Village is just inland from the north shore of Minas Basin on the Bay of Fundy. The indigenous Mi’kmaq First Nation people were supplanted by the Acadians – French settlers – in the seventeenth century. Scots Ulster people in turn settled there, as is testified by the names – Londonderry, McCallum Settlement, Wilson’s Garage, Mahon Cemetery. The Great Village River runs to red-marl and silt, wharfs where a thriving shipbuilding industry kept the local economy afloat in the nineteenth century. In Bishop’s day and in ours, the village is a shadow of its former self: houses thinned out, stores become antique shops, church and coffee shop conjoined.

A shelfie in the Elizabeth Bishop House, Great Village, Nova Scotia

A shelfie in the Elizabeth Bishop House, Great Village, Nova Scotia

Colm Tóibín describes the landscape well in his little book On Elizabeth Bishop (Princeton University Press, 2015):

…a strange coastal flatness, with deep inlets all around. It is as though the whole place could be inundated by tides at any time. If the village is built on dry land, there is a suggestion that it was not always dry, or its dryness comes as a sort of accident, a quirk of nature. The place is filled with watery northern light…


Former Esso Station on the right, St. James Presbyterian Church left

The Bulmers on her mother’s side were fairly well-to-do country people. Her grandfather was a tanner. His house, where Elizabeth Bishop spent the years 1914-1916 and summer holidays thereafter, is still standing at the junction of three roads, opposite Wilson’s Garage which was formerly an Esso Station, brought to vivid life in the poem “Filling Station”.

Somebody embroidered the doily.

Somebody waters the plant,

or oils it, maybe. Somebody

arranges the rows of cans

so that they softly say:


to high-strung automobiles.

Somebody loves us all.

The house is now known as Elizabeth Bishop’s House and operates as a writers’ retreat and a venue for commemorative events. Its status is precarious, though, and as I write it is up for sale to someone who will preserve its unique literary heritage.


Front door of the Elizabeth Bishop House in Great Village, Nova Scotia

We were fortunate to meet photographer Laurie Gunn, who showed us around. She was busy preparing for the one-day Elizabeth Bishop Festival on the following Saturday. Laurie is President of the Elizabeth Bishop Society of Nova Scotia and explained the dilemma regarding the house and the difficulty of keeping heritage alive in such an out of the way place as Great Village, with only a summer season for visitors.


Some of the fittings and decorative objects in the house date from the beginning of the last century. Elizabeth’s tiny bedroom looks out on the road and the gas station. The kitchen and pantry used to face a blacksmith’s on one side and still face the Presbyterian church on the other. Bishop’s poems are full of objects which become talismans, signifying time and event. In “Sestina” she recalls her grandmother in the kitchen “beside the Little Marvel Stove, / reading the jokes from the almanac,”. The child watches the “teakettle’s small hard tears / dance like mad on the hot black stove.”

The Little Marvel Stove in the kitchen of Elizabeth Bishop House

The Little Marvel Stove in the kitchen of Elizabeth Bishop House

A steep narrow staircase leads to the bedrooms under the eaves, with their patchwork quilts and heirloom furniture. Nova Scotia seems to have an antique shop in every village, filled with household bric à brac from farms and homesteads that have moved up in the world, or moved on to the next one. From the back windows of the Elizabeth Bishop House there is a view of the tidal basin, the land flat, the silt red, the tide out: “rich mud / in burning rivulets; / on red, gravelly roads, / down rows of sugar maples, / past clapboard farmhouses / and neat, clapboard churches, / bleached, ridged as clamshells,”.


Elizabeth Bishop’s bedroom, Great Village, Nova Scotia

These rooms and views, the detail of a homeplace, as it might be termed in Ulster, were to enter her poems and prose. (My spellcheck doesn’t like the word ‘homeplace’ and keeps changing it to ‘someplace’.) In an unpublished poem called “A Short, Slow Life”, Elizabeth describes an almost crofter-like existence:

It was close, it was warm.

Along the dark seam of the river

the houses, the barns, the two churches,

hid like white crumbs

in a fluff of gray willows and elms,


Bishop’s prose memoir “In the Village” recalls her childhood, leading a cow to pasture, all the details of parish pump and local characters. In the poems it is the sea that steps forward, proffering “wave after wave”. “The Moose” describes the Nova Scotia maritime landscape perfectly, its long dull distances determined by the inroads of the sea, its map dotted with “Wilderness Areas”, a cartographer’s nod to how recently this part of the world has been settled by Europeans:

From narrow provinces

of fish and bread and tea,

home of the long tides

where the bay leaves the sea

twice a day and takes

the herrings long rides,


One of her great uncles was a painter of local renown (“Your Uncle George … You know, he was quite famous, an R. A….) and in “Poem” she considers the virtues of ordinariness as a wellspring of art:

Useless and free, it has spent seventy years

as a minor family relic

handed along collaterally to owners

who looked at it sometimes, or didn’t bother to.

One of Uncle George’s paintings, a self-portrait, still hangs in the parlour. Bishop’s “Poem” memorialises “this literal small backwater” and how insignificant the homeplace can be, viewed from a distance, and yet suffused with personal significance, the progenitor of art. She understood the delicate balance in poetry between being true to life and the hallucinatory, the vision, a balance Colm Tóibín compares to Vermeer or to the Danish painter Vilhelm Hammershøi.

… how touching in detail

– the little that we get for free,

the little of our earthly trust. Not much.

About the size of our abidance

along with theirs: the munching cows,

the iris, crisp and shivering, the water

still standing from spring freshets,

the yet-to-be dismantled elms, the geese.


Great Uncle George’s (R. A.) self-portrait


Schwarzenbach’s America

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Annemarie Schwarzenbach (1908-1942) was a Swiss writer who visited the United States on two occasions before her untimely death at age 36. Her first visit was in 1936-1937 in company with the American photographer Barbara Wright, with whom she was having an affair. Schwarzenbach’s second visit was shorter, from late May 1940 into 1941, at the beginning of the war, when Paris had already fallen to the Germans.

On Nantucket, 1940

Annemarie Schwarzenbach on Nantucket, 1940.

During that first photo-journalistic trip she observed American labour relations, the effect of Roosevelt’s New Deal, and the conditions of the rural and mining poor in the South and in Pittsburg. Schwarzenbach was reporting on assignment for Swiss papers, among them the National-Zeitung and the Luzerner Tagblatt. Some of Schwarzenbach’s photos are stunning. The pair must have turned heads in the rural and industrial south.


Barbara Wright photographed by Annemarie Schwarzenbach, November-December 1937

But the Swiss reporter’s analysis of American society and economics seems a mirror image of our own troubled times for the poor and the dispossessed. Schwarzenbach was a committed Left-winger, at a time when Europe had swung to the right. Her comments on the labour union politics of John L. Lewis, on sharecropping, on the dearth of social safety nets are particularly interesting eighty years later.

But the pioneering time is over: the West has been won. Social upheaval has taken place and henceforth workers remain workers or join the army of eight million unemployed – the landless farmer, in debt, whose holding has been ravaged by dust storm, erosion and flood, who has lost all hope of owning the land. The middle class remains where it is while a small number of investors form the new aristocracy.


Tuskegee, Alabama, 1937


Negro boys at the port, Charleston, South Carolina, 1937

Negro boys at the port, Charleston, South Carolina, 1937



The Swiss community of Gruetli in Tennessee, photo by Annemarie Schwarzenbach, 1937

During her second American stay in 1940, she met up with her old friends Erica and Klaus Mann in New York. She met the writer Carson McCullers, who fell in love with her. McCuller’s follow-up novel to her Book of the Month The Heart is a Lonely Hunter was Reflections in a Golden Eye, which she dedicated to the striking-looking Schwarzenbach. They met at the Bedford Hotel in New York City.

We agreed to meet the following day for lunch, and fixed a time an hour before I was to leave New York. I had a coffee and she had a glass of milk and a slice of buttered bread, which she left untouched. While she wrote down her address, I noticed her hands trembling and that her handwriting was barely legible. While I spoke, she leaned in with her pale child’s face and fixed her big grey eyes on my lips, as though she was hard of hearing.

carsonattypewriter 3

Carson McCullers, about the time she met Annemarie Schwarzenbach

Schwarzenbach spent the summer on Nantucket and wrote two of her best pieces on the island, where she rented a cabin in Siasconset. The first is a fine description of Nantucket life at the beginning of the war:

And the gardens: unforgettable. They bear no relation to the enormous green expanses of the English lawn, to the geometrical arrangements of Mogul-style gardens in India, or the hanging gardens of Semiramis. They recall most of all the gardens of farmers in the Emmental. But in Emmental there aren’t as many roses as there are on Nantucket. Wild briar roses grow in profusion over picket fences, climbing on the roofs of sea captains’ houses, on barns, farmhouses.


Following this second round of reporting from the United States, she returned to Switzerland and headed off again to Portugal, the Congo and Morocco. But it was in Switzerland, in the Engadin, that she fell off her bicycle and died as a result of injuries, at age thirty-four, in 1942.


Stumbling Blocks

I found myself coming home at night in Berlin and staring at the pavement. Once I’d seen the first Stolperstein, I started noticing them all over the place. Then I actively looked for them. Stolpersteine are literally ‘stumbling blocks’, brass covered cobbles embedded in the pavement, with the names of victims of the Holocaust engraved on them.


They are the idea of artist Gunter Demnig, who began the project of commemorating victims in 1995. So far, a total of 48,000 have been embedded in 18 countries, usually marking where Jewish victims used to live, but also Roma, Sinti, homosexuals and Jehovah’s Witnesses – all minorities persecuted by the Nazis.


It can be a strange, sobering experience to come across – to step across – a cluster of cobbles late at night, knowing an entire family, entire families had been removed from there.


They bring thoughts, too, about appropriation of houses and shops. The people who live there now, or their parents, are housed where others were evicted. The multi-national company securely on the boulevard is really a franchise on a graveyard.


I imagine too that the presence of Stolpersteine helps to humanise history and might spark many a conversation between parent and child. The city of Berlin has developed educational programmes – paths of memory – around these memorials:

The programme offers support to young people researching the lives of victims, helping place them in the historical context of the specific persecution they were subjected to. The idea is that they should learn about the many mechanisms of stigmatisation so that they can better recognise their continuities and become aware that any form of discrimination can have, and has had, radical consequences, including terrible suffering.


Photo: Karin Richert

There is a Stolperstein website with a map indicating the location of all the memorial cobbles in Berlin. And a documentary charts the development of the project.

Stolperstein - Poster 1

Stolperstein – the documentary