(May Contain Slight Spoilers)

Yesterday my Mom had a surgery to have a melanoma removed from her leg. I thank God that this was discovered at an early stage, but my year has also been profoundly punctuated by another person's battle with cancer. In September, after a heroic two-year battle, my family's friend and closest-neighbor, Karen, passed away. She left behind a husband, a 15 year-old daughter and a 12 year-old son. Watching this family's struggles has affected me as no other death ever has before.

Yesterday I also watched my favorite film: Wit, starring Emma Thompson. Based on the play by Margaret Edson, this film chronicles Professor Vivian Bearing's experience as a patient undergoing treatment for stage-four advanced metastatic ovarian cancer. (“There is no stage five.”) And, yes, true to it's name it's strangely witty. And I use the term deliberately to imply that the wit of this play is ferociously intelligent and just gets funnier with every rewatch/reread.

I dare anyone to watch this film through to its penultimate scene without tears. The last time I watched it with my mom she remarked, through her tears, on how sad it is. But I was smiling through my tears; to me the conclusion of Wit is an unequivocal victory. To explain why let me lead you back to the play. Because while the HBO film – from casting to music - is “excruciatingly spectacular”, the play's the thing. The play this coruscating adaptation is based on is sometimes known as W;t (with a semicolon replacing the 'i'). This refers to its serious dialog with the metaphysical poetry of John Donne, of which Miss Bearing is a “demanding professor”. The film and play both focus attention on one of Donne's most famous poems, Sonnet X , known as “Death Be Not Proud”. The attention is minute, down to - you guessed it - the punctuation. (Comparing her hospital experience to her literary method, Vivian says, “The attention was flattering. For the first five minutes. Now I know how poems feel.”)

The film retains the perspicacious explication of Sonnet X, but with the ending changed, it's easy to miss the play's foundational, victorious theme. Indeed, even in the play we are required to “read between the lines”, so many have only seen half of the two-part theme. Everyone sees the importance of human kindness and connection that Vivian has lacked and looked for in vain from most health-care professionals. Yet that theme, although a vital part of the play, is one never mentioned in the poems that periodically punctuate the play – The Holy Sonnets. (Although the human connection does play a part in Donne's Meditation XVII from which comes the quote, “No man is an island.”)

But the film's underlying theme, as Margaret Edson has herself stated, is about redemption and grace. But grace isn't something that either John Donne or Vivian Bearing have an easy time accepting.

Speaking of the “salvation anxiety” found in Sonnet IX, a character says, “You know you're a sinner. And there's this promise of salvation, the whole religious thing. But you just can't deal with it... It doesn't stand up to scrutiny. But you can't face life without it either...”

Like Donne, or Adam and Eve in the garden, Vivian Bearing has tried to hide from God by “being extremely smart”. The final scenes show Vivian reduced to a childish state, curled up a ball, hiding under the covers and letting out a wail at the suggestion of hearing Donne recited.

But those familiar with more of Donne's poetry will almost immediately connect the play with a poem which it never mentions: "Hymne to God my God in my Sicknesse". This poem contrasts with the doubt that Donne manifests throughout the Holy Sonnets. In it John Donne is victorious over his “salvation anxiety” and asserts that “death doth touch the resurrection.”

Like this poem, the message of the play is victorious over “seemingly insuperable barriers”. The play, which has seemed to question and reject Donne, ends with a striking visual-metaphor for death touching the resurrection.

The greatest lesson of W;t is an intensely Christian one; in fact, so intensely Christian that it probably makes non-Christians uncomfortable. God uses suffering; He batters, over-throws, and breaks us, bringing us to a state of childish dependency, in order to make us new. And this being made new is not an illusionary renewal of youth as in the end of the film version. It is when God's hand shall “bind up all our scattered leaves, for that Library where every book shall lie open to one another.” The message of Wit may be summarized thus: “Therefore that he may raise, the Lord throws down.”

And to paraphrase E.M. Ashford, the presiding genius of the play, "That is not wit. It is truth."

A favorite scene from the film:

(Sonnet XIV was the first Donne sonnet I ever fell in love with, before seeing Wit two years ago. After seeing it, I started reading more Donne and soon saw the connection to "Hymne to God my God in my Sicknesse". I highly recommend this essay that explores the connection of these poems to the play and its theme of Christian grace. It's an essay that would have done Donne proud, by John D. Sykes Jr. entitled “Wit, Pride and the Resurrection: Margaret Edson's Play and John Donne's Poetry”.)

I guess I'd heard of Patrick O'Brian before this week, but I'd never even had enough curiosity to wonder who he was. But at my last violin lesson my teacher mentioned the Master and Commander movie, because of it's use of a Bach piece she was about to assign to me. So I ordered it at the library and my family and I watched. Or rather, my dad was glued to the tv set, I kept asking for explanations, and my mom hid her eyes during the violence and the surgery scenes.

If it weren't for the doctor who reminded me a little of Roger Hamley in Wives and Daughters and Tertius Lydgate in Middlemarch, I probably wouldn't even have bothered noting down the name of the author of the original novel. So maybe that was number 253 on the Read Someday list.

But then I was reading the end of The Jane Austen Book Club again and one character claimed some of O'Brian's scenes could be called Austenesque.

And then I was reading the Yahoo! Janeites digest of the day and a member compared the Bertram sisters' professed knowledge of geography to the portrayal of a woman's geographical knowledge in the Jack Aubrey series.

Yeah, I think O'Brian might be moving up higher on the Soon list.

This post starts out as a review of the book A Jane Austen Education and meanders its way into a post honoring the indescribably wonderful woman born December 16th, 1775.

My Thoughts on A Jane Austen Education: How Six Novels Taught Me About Love Friendship, and the Things That Really Matter by William Deresiewicz

I was at first very excited by the premise of this book. Over the summer and fall I've immersed myself in Jane Austen's works and analyses of them. I've come to appreciate Austen's moral judgments as so subtle and strong that they can still help to guide mine today.

I also appreciate seeing a male author loudly raising his voice in praise of the authoress who, to the misinformed mind or the tragically dull elf, is seen as the “grandmother of romance fiction.” (JA Education p 223) Of course Austen has been praised by countless men, but perhaps one more formerly-derisive man's conversion, after the “score of sappy movies and hundred sentimental sequels” [Ibid] will help detractors re-examine their prejudices.

As a memoir, this book will inevitably be accused of smugness. The author's romantic life (or rather unromantic dating and sex-life) and inability to find a permanent partner costs him much anxiety and seems to be the “plot” to which we return at some point in each chapter. (And, yes, I know this is exactly what many people think Austen and other 19th century female authors are all about, but... I don't see enough irony in this book's approach to "the marriage plot".)

Frankly, the Finally-I-Arrived whiff didn't bother me all that much. Certainly, an Austen novel would delineate character better and teach lessons less tritely, but not even Yale professors like Deresiewicz should be expected to compete with Austen.

What ended up bothering me more was the fact that with “modern morals” Deresiewicz ended up looking more like Austen's cads than heroes. And for me, with my conservative Christian upbringing, contemporary morals just can't reconcile with the strength and subtlety of Austen's probity.

For example, Deresiewicz seemed proud of acting as Austen had taught him when he broke off a friendship with an alcoholic friend, after drinking with him and allowing him to drive home in an impaired state.

Dreesiewicz is also open about his many sexual, but intellectually unequal, relationships, which brought to mind... Mr. Eliot in Persuasion!

I was disturbed by the premise of the statement: “How [Austen's] ideas about sex might have changed in a world of reliable birth control, no-fault divorce, and women's economic independence we cannot say. It is certainly by no means clear that she would have denounced the moral standards of today.”

This is a difficult statement to navigate because it's impossible to know what Austen would be like if she grew up in today's moral climate. Personally, I believe that Austen's moral vision was based upon Christianity. In Mansfield Park (in which Edmund gives a speech on religion as the basis of morality) Mary Crawford takes the stance that Deresiewicz seems to believe Austen's: Promiscuity is bad because it is frowned upon by society and therefore jeopardizes one's social standing and happiness. Edmund is shocked by this view, because the problem here is really about the violation of unchangeable principles, not a mere departure from prudence.

(Of course, while believing that modern sexual morals are irreconcilable with Austen's moral vision, I'm aware that Austen herself was no prude, even including a pun about homosexuality in Mansfield Park. Yes, Austen, like Donne, or even Charlotte Bronte, is an author whose attitudes towards sexuality and religion often seem paradoxical and ironic.)

Despite its problems as a memoir, this book contains some excellent insights into Jane Austen's wit and wisdom. It made me love Austen still more, so yes, I would recommend it to the avid Janeite. However, for a subtle examination of Jane Austen's moral philosophy, I'm still laying my hopes on eventually obtaining a copy of Sarah Emsely's Jane Austen's Philosophy of the Virtues.

Well, those were my thoughts on A Jane Austen Education before I read The Jane Austen Book Club. The latter is a charming book: witty, touching and brimming with the color and texture of modern life. But it's the first sentence of the book that reminded me that maybe I needed to be a little less severe in the examination of others' understanding, because "seldom can it happen that something is not a little... mistaken.”.

Karen Joy Fowler's first sentence reminded me that "each of us has a private Austen."

So, who is my private Jane Austen? Well, it's probably clear that she's a Christian. But she's also a woman born with a biting wit that can be devastating and frightening. She's the Augustan rationalist who wrote of the transforming power of love. She's a woman who was very aware of the issues of her time, yet wrote books that teach us about navigating our own time.

Actually, I probably don't fully know “my” Jane Austen yet. This year was my year of becoming a (fanatical) Janeite; I'd fallen in love with Austen four years ago, the summer I was fourteen, but I learned to love Austen this year. I'd already read all the novels (some repeatedly) and could explain why Austen really isn't romantic in the traditional sense, and how she differentiates between static, growing and degenerating characters. But this year I reread five of the novels and read the unfinished works and juvenilia for the first time. And then I devoured scores upon scores of JASNA essays. Over the summer I've lived and breathed Austen and the inevitable result is that I think her so like perfection that I can call her by no other name.

My favorite chapter of A JA Education is the Northanger Abbey one in which Deresiewicz points to Henry and Catherine's discussion of how she has “learned to love a hyacinth.” “The mere habit of learning to love is the thing,” Henry says. (Read some of the chapter here: http://chronicle.com/article/A-Jane-Austen-Education/127269/ )

I don't fully know “my” Jane Austen yet, because the habit of learning to love her is one that will continue to educate and delight me for the rest of my life.

In honor of 236 years of perfection, Jane Austen repeats herslef: “The mere habit of learning to love is the thing.”

Miss Georgiana Darcy hosted some questions on S&S this week. Here are my answers.

1: When did you first read Sense and Sensibility? About four years ago, when I was fourteen. Have you read it since? Yes, I've listened to it as an unabridged audiobook several times and reread it this year for the bicentennial.

2: When did you first watch Sense and Sensibility? I'd seen the trailer for the movie on the A Man for All Seasons DVD and that interested me. I watched the film soon after reading the novel.
Which adaptation was it? Emma Thompson's.

3: If you have watched/heard of more than one adaptation which one was your favorite? (Rants allowed) I've watched the 1981 BBC miniseries, Emma Thompson's film, and Andrew Davies' miniseries. Emma Thompson's version remains my favorite, partially because she is my favorite actress and I've seen this one the most. But my reviews of each version will be posted soon to explain my opinions at greater length.

4: Which three S&S characters drive you crazy? Obviously this answer implies no disrespect to Jane. It's the glory of her craft that her characters can be so real that they drive you crazy.

First and foremost: “Uncle” Dashwood who was so charmed by “such attractions as are by no means unusual in children of two or three years old- an imperfect articulation, an earnest desire of having his own way, many cunning tricks, and a great deal of noise -” as to entail Norland away from our heroines.

Obviously Lucifer... Viz. Lucy (Steele) Ferrars who “may be held forth as a most encouraging instance of what an earnest, an unceasing attention to self-interest, however its progress may be apparently obstructed, will do in securing every advantage of fortune, with no other sacrifice than that of time and conscience.”

It's a little too hard to fill in the third place. Robert Ferrars or Fanny Dashwood could easily fill it. But there are moments when Edward Ferrars or Marianne Dashwood are driving those around them crazy too.

5: Which heroine are you most like: Elinor or Marianne? I used to prefer Elinor (thanks to Emma Thompson playing her) and yet think I was more like Marianne. Reading and Romantic poetry has guided my love of nature, so that I would ask, “'Is there any felicity in the world superior' to a wild storm?” I'm passionate about music and sympathize with Marianne in the desire Edward attributes to her of wanting to buy up all her favorite books and music, that they might not fall into unworthy hands. I'm also very idealistic about relationships. But, like Elinor I'm very reserved about my feelings – I don't easily communicate them even to the people closest to me. And partly due to being a Janeite, I'm highly ironic, I'm easily disgusted by helplessness and emotional self-indulgence and value character over charm and “romantic” qualities.

6: Who would be most enjoyable: (or bearable) Mr. Palmer or Mrs. Palmer? Well, if we're talking about Hugh Laurie and Imelda Staunton as the actors, they're really too perfect together to separate. However, Mr Palmer's continual presence would be merely disconcerting, while, like Emma with Miss Bates, I'd probably eventually descend to mocking Mrs Palmer in public.

7: What would be your reaction if you saw a re-write of Sense and Sensibility where it was Elinor who married Colonel Brandon? The more I know of the world, the more I am convinced of Jane Austen's almost incomparable wisdom and that she can do no wrong. In her other novels she matches her characters perfectly, so that their relationships will develop their characters. (Who can imagine Emma, Anne, Catherine or Fanny ever suiting Mr Darcy so well as Elizabeth?) Elinor and Colonel Brandon are probably too much alike to develop a marriage relationship after Austen's ideal. They both help to balance the less steady minds of the spouses they eventually marry.

8: Where does Sense and Sensibility rank in your list of favorite Austen novels?
That's simply too hard a question. All that I ever know about ranking my favorites is that Emma is always my book of books, except when I'm reading Persuasion.

I've been too busy and too distracted to keep up with blogging for the S&S bicentennial. However, I did watch three S&S adaptations and recorded some of my reactions. So here are some thoughts on the 1981 BBC miniseries starring Irene Richard as Elinor and Tracey Childs as Marianne.



The opening credits start by showing Marianne and Elinor gently rocking on a teeter totter. This probably seemed to the director like a good metaphor for the balance needed between the sisters' conflicting personalities, but it appears, as one review wrote, that they are sleeping. Modern audiences are accustomed to greater energy or creativity in opening credits.

The script of this film, partially because of its greater time allowance, conforms most closely of all adaptations to the dialog of the novel. However, when the script does diverge from the novel it does no credit to the writer, who seemed to understand neither Austen's language, nor her philosophy. Added lines are trite and inadvertently funny.

I consider it a mistake to make Marianne an admirer of gothic novels, rather than Romantic poetry. Speaking of such novels, Tracey Childs as Marianne says, “The heroines are brought to a swoon by heroes who are ruthless, powerful and ready to call upon the devil if need be.” This reminds me of Sir Edward Denham's determined misreading of Richardson's novels in Sanditon.

In fact, in S&S, wickedness is never seen as attractive, even to Marianne. This shows a fundamental misunderstanding of the sensibility of the era, which declared that ungovernable feeling was an evidence of moral empathy and depth.(Ultimately, though never used in Austen, quoting Wordsworth, in Davies' adaptation, conforms most to this view. Though Cowper, quoted in Emma Thompson's adaptation, was the poet Jane Austen mentioned in S&S and Mansfield Park.)

I hate to confess that I'm unsure how much of my prejudice about this adaptation arises from the natural disadvantages of its age. The set for Norland is certainly less opulent than Davies' grandly intimidating one, or Thompson's casually luxurious one. And unlike the rich euphony of these other films, the music of this is tinny and strained.

Irene Childs as Elinor appears stoic, yet has more of Elinor's sharp lines than Emma Thompson retained.

Tracey Childs, delivers her lines in a manner which seems condescending and affected to me. Yet Marianne's goal is to be the opposite of affected - to always speak her feelings. It is this trait in the character (and in other film portrayals of the character) that leads us to be charmed by the "amiable prejudices" of her young mind.

Although the characters of Colonial Brandon and Edward Ferrars are not fleshed-out in this film version, this is also true of the male characters in the book. Emma Thompson has called Edward Ferrars "rice-puddingy" and this Edward Ferrars is true to the novel merely through not being charismatic.


The acting quality of the "minor" characters varies. It would be an insult to Imelda Staunton to compare her performance as Charlotte Palmer with the one in this film. My personal favorite was the portrayal of John Dashwood.
He is highly funny, yet not entirely unsympathetic. One of the drollest moments is as he delightedly lifts his glass of wine to his lips.

I can't call this a favorite adaptation, but its the best opportunity I'll ever get to hear a discussion comparing the heights of the little Dashwood and Middleton boys. Perhaps someday this portrayal of Marianne's progression from an admirer of gothic novels to an admirer of "the majestic Milton" will lead me to revisit and reanalyze it.

Last night I dreamed that I was telling my parents "The Chettams received that DVD." I think I have gone a little too far. One most pull up. Reading great books from the 19th century, that sort of thing, is good -- up to a certain point. (A certain point, you know.) But dreaming about fictional characters, being more concerned about the politics of Middlemarch than of Canada, debating whether to vote for Tyke or Farebrother, longing to go visit the Garths... it will not do, you know. I must pull up.

Yes, I'm rereading "Middlemarch". And, no, I can't resist throwing a metaphorical egg at Brooke of Tipton.

(My thoughts on rereading S&S for the Austenprose bicentenary challenge turned into this essay-like piece.I am well aware that to transform it into a really credible essay, as I may someday do, would require better bibliography and editing. And, yes, I am Canadian. I must apologize for every post I make on this blog.)











When, in 1811, Jane Austen paid for the publication of her first novel, Sense and Sensibility, she had already written two other novels that would later be published. These were Susan (an early draft of Northanger Abbey) and First Impressions (which would later become, under the title of Pride and Prejudice, her most popular novel, with her most endearing – and indeed her own best loved - heroine). Why then did she choose to publish the manuscript originally known as Elinor and Marianne?



The fact is that I do not know her motives. However, I would like to suggest that S&S, often devalued by critics, provides the foundation for properly understanding Austen's themes in all her successive novels.



Working backwards, from theme to its foundation, I would like us first to hold that Jane Austen's overarching theme in all six novels is about morality. It is not my purpose now to defend this view, which has been ably argued by eminent academics and writers, but I will provide in my notes the names of several works which have helped to confirm me in this early-formed opinion. (1)



In holding this view of Austen as primarily concerned with moral development in the lives of her characters, we must expunge the notion that didacticism is synonymous with cant – a thing Austen deplored and satirized mercilessly. Rather we must acknowledge, with C.S. Lewis (2), that some riveted basis is necessary to the irony that was Austen's coloring lens.



Presupposing Austen to be a didactic novelist, it is wholly appropriate that her first novel should set forth her basis for right living. This, I believe, S&S does. Certainly Jane Austen was not trying to hoist a new basis for morality on the world. The morals in her world were already well established by religion and reason. The religion was that of the Church of England, formal and perhaps impersonal, but still elevating Biblical principles. The Enlightenment had also elevated reason and Austen especially was a daughter of the cool-thinking Samuel Johnson. C. S. Lewis wrote, “The great abstract nouns of the classical English moralists are unblushingly and uncompromisingly used: good sense, courage, contentment, fortitude, 'some duty neglected, some failing indulged,' impropriety, indelicacy, generous candor, blamable distrust, just humiliation, vanity, folly, ignorance, reason. These are the concepts by which Jane Austen grasps the world... All is hard, clear, definable; by some modern standards, even naively so.” (2)



Austen, of course, never ignored the inherent irony of the fact that, while strict codes of conduct were theoretically applicable to all, wealth, position and (male) gender negated them for some. Still, the majority of society had sense, piety or pride enough to see manners as indicative of character and to deplore, for example, the lasciviousness of the Lydias, Wickhams and Willoughbys.



But by the time Austen wrote S&S a new mindset was beginning to influence the conduct of some persons, typified in Marianne Dashwood. This mindset was based on the belief that “man was naturally benevolent; that he had an innate moral sense... and that this faculty spontaneously led the individual to satisfy his impulses of sympathetic goodwill through his personal relationships.” (3)



This philosophy was at first known as sensibility, but soon evolved into the Romantic movement. The Romantic poet John Keats, whose work was first published only six years after S&S, wrote, “I am certain of nothing but the holiness of the heart's affection and the truth of Imagination.” Readers of S&S can doubtless hear an echo of Marianne Dashwood's sentiments in these words, for it is a truth universally acknowledged that Jane Austen set out to prove the superiority of sense by subjecting sense and sensibility to similar experiences.



Romantic poets, publishing contemporaneously with Jane Austen included Byron and Shelley, whose ideas led them to the abandonment of traditional morality, especially where it guided love and sexuality. Philosophical and mental progression toward sexual license is implicitly shown in the fate of the two Elizas - a fate that could easily have become Marianne's. It is also probable that Austen, so often accused of ignoring the great events of her day, understood that certain Romantic ideas had played a part in the French Revolution and created a miniature, in her portrayal of the two Elizas' seductions and Marianne's break-down, of the degeneration of morality and society that resulted in France.



Of course the Romantic movement claimed a benevolent interest in others, based upon what must naturally be empathetic and noble human feeling. Marianne undoubtedly believed herself to be fostering her better feelings when, after Willoughby's desertion, she wallowed in her lachrymosity. Austen informs us that “Marianne would have thought herself very inexcusable had she been able to sleep at all the first night after parting from Willoughby. She would have been ashamed to look her family in the face the next morning, had she not risen from her bed in more need of repose than when she lay down in it...” But her “noble” feelings led her to give “pain every moment to her mother and sisters.”



Here Austen refutes Keats' assurance of the holiness of the heart's affections or impulses, and takes her stand with the Biblical pronouncement that the human heart is “deceitful above all things and desperately wicked.” (Jeremiah 17:9) A consistent theme in Austen's novels is the need for self-knowledge, especially regarding inherent selfishness. Elinor's strongest indictment against Willoughby was that of selfishness, declaring that “his own enjoyment, or his own ease, was, in every particular, his ruling principle.” It would appear that Willoughby followed his own heart, as youth today are often advised to do.



Yes, of course Austen's emphasis on hard rules of duty and honor is incongruous with the emphasis of our own society on individuality, self-expression and following one's heart. We probably sympathize with Marianne in ignoring conventions that seem to us silly, but Austen showed the value of those conventions for protecting, for example, the honor of a young girl. The manners of the day, appearing to us formal and insincere, were a sign of respect and a safeguard against wounding the feelings of others.



While Austen placed decorum on a foundation of unselfish principle, she did not teach that it must entail fawning attendance or even admiring respect. The Miss Steeles are shown to be selfish in going beyond the call of politeness in their behavior to Lady Middleton; they seek what they can gain from her, but Lucy at least is perfectly willing to wound others for her own aggrandizement. Especially to Elinor she professes great sensibility, while her aim is the very “sensible” one of securing a husband and thereby a fortune.



Lucy's story concludes with an ironic statement of her good fortune, reminding us that while Austen may be a moralist, she is also a realist. “The whole of Lucy's behavior in the affair, and the prosperity which crowned it, therefore, may be held forth as a most encouraging instance of what an earnest, an unceasing attention to self-interest, however its progress may be apparently obstructed, will do in securing every advantage of fortune, with no other sacrifice than that of time and conscience.”



But S&S also reminds us that scrupulous decorum may be united with cold selfishness, as in the case of Lady Middleton, and kindness of heart united with vulgarity, as with Mrs. Jennings.



Indeed, Austen's thesis in S&S is too sophisticated to be confined to two polarized characters, or to credit all goodness to sense, all evil to sensibility. Marianne and Elinor both possess faculties for reason and emotionalism. To show that Elinor, contrary to frequent first impressions, is not a consistent model of sense, we need only instance her unreasoned conviction that the hair in Edward's ring is her own. And Marianne is rather un-romantic in her need for 2000 pounds a year.



But other characters too are presented in light of their relations to sense or sensibility. Ian Watt points out, “The opening scene, with the John Dashwoods' coolly disengaging themselves from their solemn family obligations to support Mrs. Dashwood and her daughters, begins the book, it must be noted with an attack on the abuses, not of sensibility, but of sense, in its prudential economic meaning. John Dashwood is much more a caricature of a narrow view of sense than Marianne is of sensibility; while his wife, as Jane Austen tells us, is a 'strong caricature' of him.”(3) Again, selfishness is the root of human evil and inherent in motives and thinking. Yet we often see John, Fanny and Mrs. Ferrars alleging noble motives for what we, through the narrator, see as very selfish deeds. Austen again agrees with Jeremiah that the human heart is deceitful: “who can know it?”



At least four of Austen's novels reach their zenith in the heroines' realization of their self-deception. But how does this take place when self-deception is so natural? (For Emma, Elizabeth and Catherine it comes through the heroes' instrumentality, awakening them to love, as well as to their own evil hearts.) Marianne must go through a (well-nigh literal) death and resurrection experience (4). The symbolism and rhetoric is intensely Christian, but Austen goes further and has Marianne declare of her realization during her illness: “I saw in my own behavior... nothing but a series of imprudence towards myself, and want of kindness to others... My illness, I well knew, had been entirely brought on by myself, by such negligence of my own health, as I had felt even at the time to be wrong. Had I died, - it would have been self-destruction... I wonder that the very eagerness of my desire to live, to have time for atonement to my God, and to you all, did not kill me at once.”



Marianne had awoken to newness of life, but like every other Austen heroine, her primary question was now to be, “How should I live my life?” (5) Her conclusion is one which we sense Austen approves, while ironically understanding Marianne's impetuous nature and the inevitability of mistakes. Conduct, Marianne concludes, is to be “checked by religion, by reason, by constant employment.” (6) This guide for “right living” was to be built on in Austen's successive brilliant explorations of the morality of day-to-day living.





Notes



All works cited in the following notes explore elements contributing to Austen's didactic themes.

1. See James Collins in “Fanny Was Right: Jane Austen as Moral Guide” or in A Truth Universally Acknowledged: 33 Great Writers On Why We Read Jane Austen)

2. See C.S. Lewis in “A Note on Jane Austen”, included in A Truth Universally Acknowledged

3. Quoting Ian Watt in “On Sense and Sensibility” in A Truth Universally Acknowledged

4. See Anne Richards in “The Passion of Marianne Dashwood: Christian Rhetoric in Sense and Sensibility"

5. See Jane Austen's Philosophy of the Virtues by Sarah Emsley

6. I have not explored the dangers of idleness, as presented in S&S, but would recommend this article on the subject.

This is not a review. I can't write much about my feelings about Daniel Deronda without pouring out the secret springs of my soul and my imagination. Nor is it an analysis, though Daniel Deronda is a fascinating treatise on several subjects, most notably the politics of female oppression and the nascent Zionist movement in the 19th century.

No, this is a tribute to a book after mine own heart. Daniel Deronda, though not so perfectly crafted as Middlemarch, is one of those books I wish I could have written. Not because it's perfect, not because I could have written it better, but because I feel that its spirit has been brewing in me and because I've imagined shadowy visions of its scenes before I ever picked it up.

My soul is joined to this novel because of its exploration of women's desire to perform musically - my own greatest desire, which I then place in a fictional character. But always, in my imagination, when my character went to a severe musician, asking for his honest appraisal of her voice, she stood on the verge of declaring with Gwendolen,“ If I have not talent enough to make it worth while... I shall never sing again.” And then she was reminded that “a man's reach should exceed his grasp, or what's a heaven for.”

Not only did DD address my own ambition to sing, the ending chapters also reminded of Elizabeth Barrett Browning's Sonnet from the Portuguese #6. I've long loved the cerebral, moral and spiritual relationship portrayed in this sonnet and desired to write of such a relationship myself. But in many ways it could only be achieved in a Victorian novel. To say that George Eliot has written a novel perfectly realizing the themes of this sonnet would be both an injustice to George Eliot's realistic understanding of human nature and to Elizabeth Barrett 's passionate outpourings over Robert Browning.

Firstly, Gwendolen is not Daniel's moral equal. Up until the very end Gwendolen views Daniel only in relation to herself, never thinking of his feelings and concerns. Nor is their relationship half so “romantic” as Andrew Davies' adaptation has made some believe. And yet the last interview between Daniel and Gwendolen, in both the novel and the BBC series, reminded me immediately of my favorite love sonnet of all time.

VI. Go from me. Yet I feel that I shall stand
Go from me. Yet I feel that I shall stand
Henceforward in thy shadow. Nevermore
Alone upon the threshold of my door
Of individual life, I shall command
The uses of my soul, nor lift my hand
Serenely in the sunshine as before,
Without the sense of that which I forbore -
Thy touch upon the palm. The widest land
Doom takes to part us, leaves thy heart in mine
With pulses that beat double. What I do
And what I dream include thee, as the wine
Must taste of its own grapes. And when I sue
God for myself, He hears that name of thine,
And sees within my eyes the tears of two.



And because my soul is bound to the soul of Robert Browning...almost as if he were my own Deronda figure... and because I always associate this poem with my own longings after great artistic ability in song... here is an excerpt from that piece of painful perfection which is “Andrea del Sarto”.

I do what many dream of, all their lives,
—Dream? strive to do, and agonize to do,
And fail in doing. I could count twenty such
On twice your fingers, and not leave this town,
Who strive—you don’t know how the others strive
To paint a little thing like that you smeared
Carelessly passing with your robes afloat,—
Yet do much less, so much less, Someone says,
(I know his name, no matter)—so much less!
Well, less is more, Lucrezia: I am judged.
There burns a truer light of God in them,
In their vexed beating stuffed and stopped-up brain,
Heart, or whate’er else, than goes on to prompt
This low-pulsed forthright craftsman’s hand of mine.
Their works drop groundward, but themselves, I know,
Reach many a time a heaven that’s shut to me,
Enter and take their place there sure enough,
Though they come back and cannot tell the world.
My works are nearer heaven, but I sit here.
The sudden blood of these men! at a word—
Praise them, it boils, or blame them, it boils too.
I, painting from myself and to myself,
Know what I do, am unmoved by men’s blame
Or their praise either. Somebody remarks
Morello’s outline there is wrongly traced,
His hue mistaken; what of that? or else,
Rightly traced and well ordered; what of that?
Speak as they please, what does the mountain care?
Ah, but a man’s reach should exceed his grasp,
Or what’s a heaven for?

Obviously I've oversimplified this great novel appallingly and I recognize dozens of fascinating areas to be explored. I just don't have the time to edit all my outpourings over this novel into something more coherent, but must pay it some tribute here.

It is a truth universally acknowledged that “the first challenge you face when writing about Pride and Prejudice is to get through your first sentences without saying ‘It is a truth universally acknowledged…’”

And there, with a little quote from Martin Amis, I’ve taken care of that prerequisite to this post.

Is there any felicity in the world superior to rereading a beloved book? I'm not sure how many times before I've read P&P, but it is a book which must always be read with delight and no less fascination because one knows the plot perfectly.

My views on Elizabeth Bennet are perhaps the most altered. Of course Lizzy is one of the world's most universally loved heroines and I'm far from ceasing to love her. Indeed, I think I love and respect her more because I recognize better than before the strength of her faults. Certainly, in comparison to her mother and sisters she is a model of propriety and one wonders what exactly it is that makes her and Jane so much less vulgar, although they have received little more direction than their other sisters. This http://www.jasna.org/persuasions/on-line/vol22no1/ellwood.html article cites Doris T. Robin in deducing “that initially Mr. Bennet was an actively involved father, drawn to little Jane by her beauty, serene benevolence, and self-discipline (conspicuously like and unlike her mother), and drawn even more to little Elizabeth by her quick intelligence (very like his own). In the early days, he would also have been supported by hope that the crucially necessary boy was just around the corner.  Robin holds that it is thanks to his involvement that the first two daughters thrived and became secure personalities, in spite of their hopelessly childish mother.”

But Elizabeth, with all her virtues, is a Bennet sister. Her easy prejudice and pride, in so easily discerning a character on first impressions, is well known. She is also easily infatuated with Mr. Wickham, and her behavior, unintentionally, is too forward to Mr. Darcy. Most interesting are her father's words to her after the announcement of her engagement. “I know that you could be neither happy nor respectable, unless you truly esteemed your husband; unless you looked up to him as a superior. Your lively talents would place you in the greatest danger in an unequal marriage. You could scarcely escape discredit and misery.” Here we see something fascinating. Perhaps Elizabeth could never be so vulgar and entirely heedless and unthinking as Lydia; as her father declares, she has something of quickness about her. But this pronouncement is still strangely disturbing. What would have happened to Elizabeth if she had considered practicality and married Mr. Collins? Probably something very ill, though I cannot quite conjecture what. But certain it is that a man like Mr. Darcy, whom she can respect, is as necessary to Elizabeth's good character as she is to his recognition of his selfishness and pride.

Of course in looking at Mr. Bennet's sobering words to Lizzy, one should not ignore his own utter culpability in the degradation and disgrace of his family. He has been softened in the film versions ( http://www.jasna.org/persuasions/on-line/vol27no2/seeber.htm ) but Mr. Bennet is a character almost as reprehensible as Mrs. Younge (the woman who facilitates Georgiana and Wickham's elopement). Yet Austen writes of him in a manner which decrees that like Elizabeth, we must continue to love him, even while acknowledging those points in which he has been negligent.

It's fascinating to view the way practical concerns – namely money – were so much a part of thoughts about marriage in those days. Charlotte Lucas I condemn less than I ever have, despite the revolting nature of marrying without respect. However, Lizzy would have turned out worse than Charlotte or Mr. Bennet in such a situation.

But Elizabeth’s refusal of Mr. Collins hardly brands her a poster girl for romantics. She has several experiences where she knows her feelings could be deepened into love, but she exercises control over her own feelings. Even after acknowledging her feelings for Darcy to herself she can decide, “If he is satisfied with only regretting me, I shall soon cease to regret him at all.” Mr. Darcy can actually afford to be more romantic than Elizabeth. With his fortune he could not easily expect a refusal from a girl with no better prospects, so there was on that head no reason to repress his feelings.

In conclusion, P&P is the story of how Elizabeth escapes a dysfunctional* family, but also makes choices to ensure that she does not perpetuate the shame that seems to be her birthright. As stated before, without Darcy, Elizabeth would degenerate. This is what makes P&P one of the great love stories of all time - not dramatic declarations of the impossibility of living apart, nor the fairy-tale aspect of “the poor girl gets a prince” - no, it’s how Darcy and Elizabeth grow, learn of themselves and become better people because of their love. Still, one can't ignore the question of what would have happened to Elizabeth if not for Mr. Darcy. There's a certain fascination in what is undoubtedly a macabre prospect.

And yet it must never for a moment be forgotten that Jane Austen does not write of dysfunctional families with pathos, but rather with keen and biting irony. Her novels teach us to declare with Elizabeth, “Follies and nonsense, whims and inconsistencies do divert me and I laugh at them whenever I can.”

This is the charm and power of P&P. It can be considered a morality play, with a self-respecting, yet thoroughly human heroine, delivered through the medium of laughter. For who of us who love Elizabeth do not dearly love to laugh?


(* dysfunctional not to the stringent, violent or abusive degree we may understand that word today, but certainly to a degree which is morally negligent and reprehensible and brings shame and lasting unhappiness to the family.)

And a final interesting quote:
“In Pride and Prejudice, everything about Elizabeth—her poverty, her inferior social position, the behaviour of her family, her initial preference for Wickham, and her refusal of Darcy’s first offer of marriage—all these things ideologically should lead if not to death, at best to genteel poverty and spinsterhood.”
Karen Newman, “Can this marriage be saved:  Jane Austen makes sense of an ending,”

A new year had barely started when on January 8, 2011, The Wall Street Journal published what may well have become its most controversial article of the year. Entitled “Why Chinese Mothers Are Superior” it began by reminding Western parents of the common stereotype of the Asian prodigy child by stating, “A lot of people wonder how Chinese parents raise such stereotypically successful kids. They wonder what these parents do to produce so many math whizzes and music prodigies...”

The author, Yale Law School professor, Amy Chua, then proceeded to uncover the Asian-prodigy secret, explaining how she had raised her daughters. The things her daughters were not allowed to do included attend a sleepover, be in a school play, watch TV or play computer games, choose their own extra curricular activities, get any grade less than an A, not be the top student in all subjects, or play any instrument other than the piano or violin. Furthermore, playing an instrument in the Chua family meant practicing about three hours on school days, not to mention weekends and holidays, which were regarded as extra time to get ahead of their peers.

But it was the story of a piano piece called “The Little White Donkey” that officially branded the article controversial. Chua told how she had forced her seven year-old daughter to practice a piano piece late into the night, without breaks for dinner, water or even the washroom. The practicing was punctuated by Chua yelling threats and her daughter tearing up the sheet music, only to have it taped together again. But, as far as Chua was concerned, such matches between herself and her daughter, which only increased in frequency and virulence, were ultimately worth it, because there was a world full of other prodigies out there who her daughters must work tirelessly to rival.

The article provoked plenty of response, and doubtless served its purpose in promoting Chua's book Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother. The responses streamed in from the horrified, who declared Chua's methods abusive, from the, well... abusive... who sent Chua death threats, the heartily commendatory, and the apologists who reminded everyone that the memoir had an element of self-parody. Many acknowledged that too many youth have lost the work ethic of other generations and cultures, which had to struggle against greater odds to succeed. But most still expressed a need for a balance of parental discipline and drive with self-expression, independence and freedom.

But few, of course, have examined this vigorous drive for success from a Christian, and more specifically, Adventist, perspective, which I here aim to do.

Firstly, the Bible seems to support a rigorous work ethic. The writings of Solomon are filled with condemnations of slothfulness and injunctions of parental discipline for foolish youth. Solomon also enjoins his readers, “Whatsoever thy hand findeth to do, do it with thy might.” In another verse he assures us of the success which will attend such efforts, “Seest thou a man diligent in his business? he shall stand before kings; he shall not stand before mean men.” Certainly Biblical Christianity is a high incentive for the diligent improvement of time and talents.

But Christianity also raises the concern of pride inherent in constant competition to be the best. The apostle Paul instructed the Philippians, “Let nothing be done through strife or vainglory; but in lowliness of mind let each esteem other better than themselves. Look not every man on his own things, but every man also on the things of others.” Certainly this would preclude the attitude Chua espouses that it is a failure when someone else comes out above you. The Christian recognizes that their worth comes, not from what they can do, but from their status as a child of God. Yet this will produce in them a spirit of love to God and others which will produce diligent, but unselfish, effort.

The Christian also cannot seek success at all costs because there is only one thing which is worth the giving up of all else. “Our Redeemer is the pearl so precious that in comparison all things else may be accounted loss.” Christ Object Lessons p. 115

Violin virtuoso, Jaime Jorge, is an example of someone pushed towards excellence by his mother, yet with higher principles than self aggrandizement. At the age of nine, standing before a panel of accomplished judges, he was given the opportunity to go abroad to study music and represent Cuba through his music. But with one condition - that he would declare he did not believe in God. “Instantly,” he said, “I remembered my parents telling me that 'it is better to obey God, rather than men'. I knew what my response would be.” Doubtless, his parents who had sacrificed much to give him a musical education, were proud to know that their son had also developed such a strong faith and independence of mind. He had his priorities straight, and God later opened the way for him to minister to others through music, while making his faith a central part of his performances.

In conclusion, Ellen White stated in Child Guidance p.164 the reason that the Christian must strive for excellence. “Our first duty to God and our fellow beings is in self-development. Every faculty with which the Creator has endowed us should be cultivated to the highest degree of perfection, that we may be able to do the greatest amount of good of which we are capable.”


Note:
The didactic tone of this post stems from this being a badly-edited version of a school essay. Despite my apparent confidence, I'm the last person in the world who should write with any authority on this subject. I'm a struggling Christian, a lazy daughter and student and a mediocre musician. But I still have an opinion and now you've read it. ;) To show the irony of this post, maybe I'll post my essay on "How to Cultivate Laziness " - a topic on which I have much expertise. However, I don't have any readers, so...

March 7^th

Nice Work by David Lodge

Warning: May contain spoilers!

I first heard of this book through a friend who mentioned that Emma Thompson had turned down the part of Robyn Penrose in a TV movie due to her engagement with Kenneth Branagh's theatre company. My friend said that the main characters were intertextual references to Margaret Schlegel and Mr. Wilcox of Howards End and Margaret Hale and Mr. Thornton of North and South. She quoted Mr. Wilcox's exclamation on meeting Robyn Penrose, “Jesus wept! Not just a lecturer in English literature, not just a woman lecturer in English literature, but a trendy lefty feminist lecturer in English literature! A tall trendy leftist feminist lecturer in English literature!” For those familiar with Emma Thompson as an actress and an individual it is obvious that I can only echo my friend, “Can you imagine anyone else in that role? It's perfect!” It was settled. I had to read this book.

The book-jacket states: “David Lodge here takes as a model the Condition-of-England novel of the nineteenth century, and causes that neglected prototype to dance to a startlingly modern and infectiously entertaining tune.” Indeed, I'd never before realized how recent and how modern the year 1986 really was, since I was born seven years later and generally know more of the year 1517.

The modernity of the setting in which we find Victor Wilcox, managing director of an engineering firm, is largely due to his wealth. And his wealth regulates the lives of his wife and children, with whom he is dissatisfied. He is just at that uncomfortable middle-age time of life when, although he is a successful business man, he has settled into a groove of mild dissatisfaction with the direction of the world he inhabits.

Robyn Penrose is an intellectual, a temporary lecturer in English literature, specializing in the Victorian Industrial Novel. She's passionate about ideas, many of them leftist tenants of Marxism or feminism and has been active in their propagation through campaigns and picketing.

When the two are brought into contact through a Thatcher-government scheme to connect universities with industry, Robyn's reaction to a factory parallels Margaret Hale's. One might expect this thoroughly modern woman, already an expert on Victorian industry, to be more aware of the practical, industrial world, however ugly, but entering the poor, industrial area, her culture-shock is summed up in the words of D. H. Lawrence, “She felt in a wave of terror the grey, gritty hopelessness of it all.” The “dark satanic mills” of the Victorian era can no longer be romanticized, this is the real thing and she also compares the conditions in which the workers toil to Dante's Inferno.

Naturally, she and Vic clash over their different world views and, just as naturally in such a novel, love plays a place, though a somewhat more comical one than the earnest Victorians would have envisioned.

The most disturbing aspect of an otherwise thoroughly enjoyable, funny novel lies in its amorality. Robyn's (and to a lesser extent, Vic's) insouciant attitude toward adultery made me begin to dislike her. I hoped this was merely a flaw in the character, but reviews on Amazon indicate that the insouciance is actually Mr. Lodge's. My issue is not with the portrayal of what often happens, but with a portrayal without natural emotional consequences.

Several Amazon reviewers have expressed disappointment in the novel's ending, failing to realize that it is a satirization of the tropes used to end Victorian industrial novels. Robyn Penrose is given access to every one of these options – marriage, emigration, a legacy – and is “saved” by the one that appears least likely to modern minds, thus giving an excellent finish to such a satirical book.

Here are a few amusing, but fascinating quotes to illuminate Robyn as a character and a feminist prototype:

These are some of her thoughts on the novel North and South by Elizabeth Gaskell: “It hardly needs to be pointed out that industrial capitalism is phallocentric... The characteristic imagery of the industrial landscape or townscape in the nineteenth-century literature – tall chimneys thrusting into the sky, spewing ribbons of black smoke, buildings shaking with the rythmic pounding of mighty engines, the railway train rushing irresistibly through the passive countryside – all this is saturated with male sexuality of a dominating and destructive kind... For women novelists, therefore, industry had a complex fascination. On the conscious level it was the Other, the alien, the male world of work, in which they had no place... On the subconscious level it was what they desired to heal their own castration, their own sense of lack... We see this illustrated very clearly in Mrs. Gaskell's North and South... Margaret is at first repelled by Thornton's harsh business ethic, but when a strike of workers turns violent, she acts impulsively to save his life, thus revealing her unconscious attraction to him, as well as her instinctive class allegiance... The interest Margaret takes in factory life and the processes of manufacturing... is a displaced manifestation of her unacknowledged erotic feelings for Thornton...”

And on Robyn's office: “The walls are covered with posters illustrative of various radical causes – nuclear disarmament, women's liberation, the protection of whales – and a large reproduction of Dante Gabriel Rossetti's painting, “The Lady of Shalott”, which might seem incongruous unless you have heard Robyn expound on its significance as a matrix of male stereotypes of the feminine."

( This link has the Rossetti painting I feel most likely is referred to here, as well as links to others.

Warning: Nice Work contains some coarse language and sexuality. Reader discretion is advised.

Finished March 2nd
Paradise Lost by John Milton

Even more than with most literary works, it's impossible to come to Paradise Lost without preconceived opinions. The epic has influenced our culture for hundreds of years and was once one of the most universally read texts in the English-speaking world. It's popularity has declined, but perhaps its intimidating stature has increased as its readership has lessened. More importantly, the story of PL is one derived from the best selling book of all time. The Bible has influenced the world in countless ways, both good and ill. Whatever your beliefs, you have heard something of the Genesis account and have been influenced in some way by interpretations of it.

I came to PL with great expectations. Growing up Seventh-day Adventist, the stories of the creation and fall of man were portrayed as undeniable verities. Especially central and unique to Adventism is background information on the fall of Lucifer and the plan of redemption framed "from the foundations of the world".

Certainly the Bible contains a sketchy account of who Lucifer was, how he fell and the war in heaven. But two authors have given greater details, not obvious in the Biblical account. These authors are Ellen White and John Milton and their accounts bear striking resemblances. Indeed, Adventist author Ellen G. White has been accused of copying ideas from the epic. It is not my purpose here to decide among the various options, whether Mrs. White purloined Milton, was merely influenced by the prevalence of his ideas in Protestant consciousness or whether both were Divinely inspired in their accounts.

All this serves to explain why I read Milton with more credulity than is typical to do today. I would agree that Milton's Satan is charismatic, but I failed to see Milton's God as so arbitrary as He is typically viewed. My emotions and my reason were preset to agree with the passages presenting God as just, merciful, omnipotent, wise and victorious.

Precisely because I came to Milton with sympathy and could almost view him as he viewed himself, in a prophetic role, our points of divergence jarred me. It was harder to view them strictly as literary ideas to be examined in a detached manner. It is true that Milton is a powerful and intimidating writer to almost all readers, but to me he was a threatening one because I agreed with him so frequently. (In his pious tendencies, that is. I know that revolution foments beneath his godly exterior, and, yes, I know Blake's theories on Milton's sympathy with the devil.)

One of the first things I questioned was Milton's view on the Holy Spirit. There are great shadows of heresy lurking there. First I thought it was in viewing the Holy Spirit as a mere impersonal force or essence proceeding from God; but I was greatly disturbed, later into the poem, to discover that his muse, who is described in language evoking the Holy Spirit, has female attributes. (John Rogers' exploration of the maternal and hermaphroditic language used in the beginning passages deepened my unease almost into horror. The language I had first thought an incomparably beautiful prayer to the third-person of the godhead is intensely, shockingly unorthodox.)

Secondly, Milton, while exalting Christ as Warrior, Savior and King, seems to have taints of heresy in his christology as well. I think Milton's Christ was a created being, raised to rulership (and perhaps godhood) by the Father (who in this act appears inexplicable and arbitrary). Loving the Christ revealed in the New Testament seems to me the key to rooting for the inaccessible God when reading the epic. Whether or not Milton intended us to identify the Son with Jesus from the NT is unclear. As ever, the reader's interpretation reveals more of himself than of the text.

Yet these theological matters, although disturbing theologically, are fascinating . But Milton's authoritarian voice thrusts something worse onto my perspective with undismissible rancor. It's something I knew before was in his work and I could easily dismiss or laugh at in Samson Agonistes. But I fear a feminist can't ignore Milton's misogyny in PL. Ah, perhaps Virginia Woolf herself has raised its stature through her own attempt to see past “Milton's bogey” in A Room of One's Own. But the misogyny is there. Perhaps it's even there in the Bible and Milton articulates it more horribly. Perhaps I should proceed to ignore it and view PL as a great and fascinating work of literature and stop looking at it so religiously. And perhaps, merely because this is the great, incomparable Milton saying such things it's impossible to ignore. Ugh, that's depressing. I think I need Milton's Satan to rescue me from the arbitrary, patriarchal, blind revolutionary who made him so famous while ostensibly condemning him to obloquy.

My problem in reading Paradise Lost is well stated by John Rogers in the end of his 12th Yale lecture on Milton. "If Milton is right that he was inspired by God to write this poem, then the body of this epic really is very much like the angelic body - it is infused in every part (and we have to believe that it is infused) with the spirit of God and it is nothing less than all heart, all intellect and all sense."


Finished on January 31
The Sound And The Fury by William Faulkner

(This post consists of several paragraphs, written at different times, some on the Literature Network Forums, as I formed my thoughts on this incredible novel. This accounts for any repetitiveness in the thoughts presented.)
I first became interested in reading Faulkner when I read his Nobel Prize acceptance speech. Of course that speech talks about the endurance of man's spirit, but the connection is not at first apparent when reading TSATF. TSATF is about degeneration, stagnation and characters flawed to the point of tragedy. But perhaps in acknowledging these problems, Faulkner makes the strongest case for what is great and good. By displaying the dysfunctional family, he argues for love. He must sympathize with even his most degenerate characters, and show that they have reasons for what they are, that man is not naturally evil and the process by which he degenerates. Of course, Faulkner also vindicates the “underdogs” - Benjy, Caddy and Dilsey.

The fact that the book displays cruelty and degeneration does not necessarily mean it can not have uplifting principles and purpose. Unless, perhaps, we are teaching very young children, it is dishonest to display good as always (apparently) triumphing, or otherwise to display life with a rosy hue. There is tremendous selfishness and pain in this world, and one can not make an argument for the immortality of good while ignoring this. One must somehow show that virtue will triumph, even when apparently trodden down.

Perhaps, too, in learning to “grieve on universal bones” the first step towards being uplifted is taken. We have to know what these universals truths and verities are, and we have to deeply grieve for them, and in so doing deny stoicism or nihilism about their loss. Once we have grieved for them, then they can become dear to us and we can seek their triumph. An apparent defeat is often the rebirth of a cause.

In TSATF, Dilsey, although she never receives her due respect from the Compsons, is the one who “endured”, probably because she is one of the most unselfish characters. Maybe I'm wanting it to be so, but the final chapter feels like a vindication of religion and mercy. Perhaps it's a plea for decency of the heart, not merely outward pride, in our relations with each other and with ourselves. I've also read that Benjy's wild cries, in the final chapter, when the wrong way is taken could be significant to the theme...

Jack of Hearts on the Literature Network Forums responded to my confused ramblings thus:

The way a person interprets literature is revealing of the values and perspectives that person holds. Our understanding is a reflection of ourselves and (normative statement warning) infinitely valuable to reflect upon.

Perhaps one of the greater elements of Faulkner's work is it feeds no morality in any objective effort. It's up to a reader to fill that gap, and (blatant personal 'tell' warning) could there be anything more reflective of life itself?

North and South by Elizabeth Gaskell (A reread)

“We have all of us one human heart.”

North and South is a powerful book and an absorbing read! It deserves attention along with other literary classics with similar themes, such as Pride and Prejudice or Howards End.

N&S is a class-conflict novel. Although its title refers to regional disparities, it deals much with the conflict of two classes within one Northern city, Milton. But the disparate viewpoints which Mrs. Gaskell, with the clear-sighted magnanimity her readers love, tried to reconcile are bigger than the novel. No easy solution exists. The novel does not end with a utopia created. It could not, and Mrs. Gaskell must have been well aware of this, for she made Mr. Thornton acknowledge the remaining problems even as he connected with his workers. The end may seem too easy and conventional for one that explores such themes, but Mrs. Gaskell uses the love story between two individuals of different perspectives to reveal the human hearts involved in public struggle and to reconcile the warring perspectives. How effectually she did this could be questioned, but the strength of the book certainly lies in the characters she used to illustrate the principles and ideas animating the conflicts.

So, without further ado, I shall give a few comments on what struck me about some of these characters. My comments will be brief, for these characters have been, and will be, explored in greater depth elsewhere. I will not give a full analysis or summary of the novel either, for this too has been done before.

Personally, I see Margaret as an orphan even before the deaths of her parents. We are never really given any explanation as to why she grew up in London, while her parents lived in the country, but it is obvious from the start that she does not fit in with her Aunt Shaw's lifestyle and stood as one apart. Almost as soon as she returns to live with her parents, Margaret must make decisions (such as rejecting a proposal) on her own, without helpful advice from them. Indeed, soon she must make decisions for them. Their eventual deaths actually free her from constantly having to spare their sensitivities. In a way, Margaret must be a stable figure for her own parents, but, like Lizzy Bennet, she is young and prejudiced. Perspicacity, and even maturity, do not equal soundness of judgment.

Usually there is something silly about cheer-leading for a favorite hero, however literary. But by the end of N&S even this Jane-ite subscribed to the view expressed by some as, “Mr. Thornton > Mr. Darcy”. (Mr. Darcy is misunderstood because he is shy. He's certainly an honorable man of good character who overcomes his pride through love of Lizzy, but he remains a rich man who himself admits to having been spoilt as a child.) Mr. Thornton, though at first not predisposing, has built up a tower of words, actions, non-actions and self-control enough to laud several men with his own definition of “manly”. He continues to love Margaret and to seek her best good even when he has reasons to despise her which Darcy never had for Lizzy. How can one not love Mr. Thornton? Well, through misunderstanding and prejudice, of course.

Nicholas Higgins emerges as one of the best characters, fully worthy to be the one who connects with Thornton, because they are both men of honor, made outwardly hard by circumstance.

Mr. Hale, although an almost annoyingly weak and undecided character, ought to be given his just dues for all he was willing to do for conscience. It is possible Mrs. Gaskell intended his religious views to play a larger role and then changed her mind during the serial's publication.

Mr. Bell, towards the end of the novel, seems to bring with him Mrs. Gaskell's delightful, almost Austenesque, flashes of humor which greatly add to the final chapters.

Mrs. Thornton is the strongest female character, aside from the heroine. She is generally an unsympathetic character, but she could be viewed as a foil to Margaret. Their similarities as strong, proud women are contrasted by their viewpoints coming from different regions, classes and generations. One finishes N&S wondering if, when, and how their mutual love for John Thornton will break the walls of pride and prejudice between.

Film

With N&S, for once I saw the series before reading the novel. I'd fallen in love with Wives and Daughters (the book) several months before and randomly picked up the N&S DVD at the library. Well, I fell in love with it and... (this is embarrassing to admit precisely because I'm in a crowded boat) with Richard Armitage as Mr. Thornton.

It's probably a good thing I didn't read the book first, because Sandy Welch's adaptations of two of my other favorite novels, Emma and Jane Eyre, are worthy of anathema. Fortunately, I saw this adaptation first, so I can still like it.

One of its best achievements was in portraying the fomentation among the union workers, perhaps even more effectively than the book, through bringing us into their midst while they are rowdy and riled. The very nature of cinematography is also suited to portrayal of the harsh and repellent conditions among the poor of the North.

Oh, and yes, when it comes to the controversial scene where Mr. Thornton beats a worker, I'm firmly in the camp that it entirely contradicts the self-controlled character Mrs. Gaskell was at such pains to portray in him.

Ultimately, it's impossible for any film to be as good as a classic book, but this one shines light on important aspects and boasts an exquisite cast. It is thoroughly enjoyable.

(I may share further thoughts on N&S soon, as I will next be reading David Lodge's Nice Work which, I believe, draws on N&S.)

February is the month of Heroine Love at the Heroine's Book Shelf, but due to time constraints, I've simply copied and pasted a blog I wrote at the Literature Network Forums on Anne Shirley.

A Tribute to the Anne-girl

I must needs 'fess up. My Favorite Authors list is a mercurial and incomplete thing, but I have omitted one of my favorite novelists. Margaret Atwood explains for me. “’Anne of Green Gables’ is one of those books you feel almost guilty liking, because so many other people seem to like it as well. If it’s that popular, you feel, it can’t possibly be good, or good for you.” . Of course that guilt is only compounded when the book’s author, L. M. Montgomery, does not enjoy the same level of popularity on Litnet (that grand arbitrator of all things literary) as Shakespeare, or even Jane Austen.

Lucy Maud Montgomery, the author of “Anne of Green Gables”, was raised on Prince Edward Island, Canada. She early showed talent as a writer, and had the unique felicity of seeing her first published book, the aforementioned, become a best seller and children’s classic. She also wrote poetry, short stories, and dozens of other novels, whilst living the busy life of a wife and mother.

“Anne of Green Gables” has the reputation of a humorous, but idyllic tale for girls. These elements it does have, doubtless the reason that even in my antagonistic-towards-fiction upbringing, I was allowed to read it. Reading AoGG, however, set me on the course of fiction reading that I’ve pursued since.

I have read every one of the 20 novels published during Montgomery’s lifetime, several volumes of her short stories, and books of criticism on her work. I acknowledge that, while I have come to appreciate many vastly different authors, Montgomery remains among those who most influenced me as a preteen.

Allow me to share some of my favorite things about Montgomery's most beloved heroine, Anne Shirley.

Recently I came across a book entitled “100 Years of Anne with an ’E’”, which discussed the various influences that led to the creation of the character Anne Shirley. I became excited and began to pace the library floor, as I read the theory of Anne as a Wordsworthian poet figure. Wordsworth, it so happens, was my first great love in poetry. He and Montgomery together have been as parents nurturing and raising my love of beauty and nature.

If the following quote by Montgomery does not remind you of Wordsworth... well, then you might never have read him.

"It has always seemed to me ever since early childhood, amid all the commonplaces of life, I was very near to a kingdom of ideal beauty. Between it and me hung only a thin veil. I could never draw it quite aside, but sometimes a wind fluttered it and I caught a glimpse of the enchanting realms beyond - only a glimpse - but those glimpses have always made life worthwhile."

Here’s how Melissa Mullins sets forth her thesis in chapter four of “100 Years of Anne with an E”.

“As Anne and Matthew pass a couple of natural landmarks, the ‘Avenue’ and ‘Barry’s Pond’ on the way to Green Gables, Anne interrupts her own monologue to gasp and yelp in wonder as she inquires after them. Her ecstatic encounter with the ‘Avenue’ leaves her temporarily speechless, ‘It’s beauty seemed to strike the child dumb. She leaned back in the buggy, her thin hands clasped before her, her face lifted rapturously to the white splendour above’. Matthew mistakes this reaction for physical concerns, thinking she’s tired and hungry,. Actually this incident is our first and most documented glimpse of Anne the Romantic poet figure, specifically the Wordsworthian poet figure. Matthew’s words break the silence, and Anne comes ‘out of her reverie with a deep sigh’ and looks at him ‘with the dreamy gaze of a soul that had been wandering afar, star-fed,’ declaring, ‘It’s the first thing I ever saw that couldn’t be improved upon by imagination’. But, indeed, Anne does insist upon improving it by renaming it ‘the White Way of Delight’. This is only the first of many such incidents throughout the book in which Anne renames a location with such authority that it is never again referred to by its original name. This experience with the ‘Avenue’ - Anne’s exuberant exclamation, ‘Mr. Cuthbert! Oh, Mr. Cuthbert!! Oh, Mr. Cuthbert!!!’ followed by her distant silence and subsequent naming - recalls Wordsworth’s thoughts on the creation of poetry, which should be:

The spontaneous outflow of powerful feelings; it takes its origin from emotion recollected in tranquility: the emotion is contemplated, till, by a species of reaction the tranquility disappears, and an emotion, kindred to that which was before… is gradually produced…"

But there’s more to “Anne of Green Gables” than the Romantic elements and the addition of another work to tradition of girlhood classics.

Consider the cases presented in two letters that tied as winners of an “Anne of Green Gables” Centennial Contest. One is from a young woman. But not one like me - a Canadian book-worm identifying with my cross-country sister. This young woman discovered Anne while living a life of repression in a tyrannical Middle Eastern environment. Anne -a character who unintentionally, but hilarious, scandalizes the community - became a symbol of a female who, through merely being herself, challenged her society's restrictions and rose triumphant.

The other letter is not surprising because of its writer's environment – the writer is Canadian and a minister. But he is male. Why should it matter? We are all human. If Anne is indeed a poet figure, then perhaps, as Coleridge and Woolf would have it, there is something a little androgynous under all her desire for puffed sleeves.
(The following link includes experts from the two letters mentioned above.)
http://www.canada.com/ottawacitizen/...f-e285b0fe3d77


And then, Margaret Atwood has “another way of reading ‘Anne of Green Gables‘, and that's to assume that the true central character is not Anne, but Marilla Cuthbert. Anne herself doesn't really change throughout the book. She grows taller, her hair turns from ‘carrots’ to ‘a handsome auburn‘, her clothes get much prettier, due to the spirit of clothes competition she awakens in Marilla, she talks less, though more thoughtfully, but that's about it. As she herself says, she's still the same girl inside. Similarly, Matthew remains Matthew, and Anne's best chum Diana is equally static. Only Marilla unfolds into something unimaginable to us at the beginning of the book. Her growing love for Anne, and her growing ability to express that love - not Anne's duckling-to-swan act - is the real magic transformation. Anne is the catalyst who allows the crisp, rigid Marilla to finally express her long-buried softer human emotions. At the beginning of the book, it's Anne who does all the crying; by the end of it, much of this task has been transferred to Marilla. As Mrs Rachel Lynde says, ‘Marilla Cuthbert has got mellow. That's what.’”

Source:
http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/2008...margaretatwood


No, L.M. Montgomery was not Shakespeare, or even Jane Austen. But, (yes, Mr. Carpenter, I simply must italicize that but) Lucy Maud Montgomery as verily found her sentence as did Shakespeare or Austen. She crafted an immortal world out of the materials available to her. She was not perfect, but if perfection is writing of pig-sties when one might write of sunsets... then... I'll take the sunsets. As Montgomery said herself, “Sunsets are just as real as pig-sties and a darn sight pleasanter…”