Curtis, whose previous subjects include the midcentury painters Grace Hartigan and Elaine de Kooning, has written the kind of straightforward, informative book that Hardwick frequently deplored — a “scrupulous accounting of time” (as Hardwick derisively put it), a recitation of the facts that stretch across Hardwick’s long life, with scarcely little that truly captures the compressed intensity of the work itself.
Still, the book is a start. “A Splendid Intelligence” is the first biography of a writer who is mainly known among the other writers who revere her, serving as a solid (if stolid) resource and accessible introduction. Ample quotations from Hardwick allow her restless quiddity to come through.
As a biographer, Curtis is sober, respectful, diligent; having sifted her way through a paper trail that covered Hardwick’s 91 years, it’s as if she realized she had a responsibility to include some of Hardwick’s own vociferous complaints about the genre. “A Splendid Intelligence” begins with lines from the last page of Hardwick’s autobiographical novel, “Sleepless Nights,” that gently rebuke the fixation on biographical detail: “Sometimes I resent the glossary, the concordance of truth many have about my personal life, have like an extra pair of spectacles. Such fact is to me a hindrance to memory.” Curtis has decided to elide the short phrase “have like an extra pair of spectacles,” replacing it with an efficient set of ellipses — forsaking an elegant metaphor in what looks like an overzealous pursuit of readability.
Hardwick wasn’t especially enamored of “readability,” which she called a “cozy little word.” She was drawn to the thickets of ambiguity and contradiction. She wrote about Hedda Gabler’s “beguiling coldness” and Sylvia Plath’s mixture of “domesticity and annihilation.” Gabler, a fictional character, seemed to be just as real for Hardwick as the decidedly nonfictional Plath. In “Sleepless Nights” Hardwick blurred the line between experience and imagination, with a narrator named Elizabeth whom we get to know mostly through her observations of others. At one moment she slows down and lingers on the view outside her window; at another she speeds through “divorce, abandonment, the unacceptable and the unattainable, ennui filled with action, sad, tumultuous middle-age years shaken by crashings, uprootings, coups, desperate renewals.”
Curtis, by contrast, treats time methodically — a steady accrual of and then, and then, and then. Hardwick was born in 1916 in Lexington, Ky., the eighth child of 11. Her father, a charming, lackadaisical plumber, secretly siphoned off what little money the family had to procure for himself a boat, which was discovered only after his death. Hardwick attended the University of Kentucky before moving to New York to pursue a Ph.D. at Columbia, summarily dropping out by skipping her oral exams. She followed that by writing a novel, some short stories, some criticism; The Partisan Review became a home for her work, as did The New Yorker. In 1963, Hardwick helped found The New York Review of Books.