I picked this up for a couple reasons. 1. I like Jane Austen. 2. As someone who recently finished a YA contemporary version of Hamlet, I thought this might be an interesting comp.
Of course, an agent recently told me that my manuscript is "too on the nose." Somehow this isn't? Oh, but this author is a screenwriter and has connections, plus she made her characters bi-racial (though apart from a passing reference in the story and the book cover, you wouldn't know the difference), so . . .
I'm promise I'm not bitter. (Except maybe I am, a little. At least I'm self-aware and can admit it.)
Look, this is a cute book. It took me a while to get into it, and I actually set it down for a few months, but I'm glad I came back to finish it.
Still, it is very on the nose. Sure, a few things have been changed to update the story, but it hews pretty darn close to the original. Which, if you like Sense and Sensibility, and you don't mind reading [Hollywood-centric] YA, give this a shot.
The ending felt a bit rushed, but overall it's a decent beach read.
Showing posts with label classics. Show all posts
Showing posts with label classics. Show all posts
5.22.2018
TV Movie: Fahrenheit 451
It's been a really long time since I read the book. Like, almost 30 years. I remember liking it, and I remember the main character's name is Montag, and that's about it.
Still, I'm fairly certain this version has been updated to showcase a more likely future dystopia than one created by Bradbury in 1953. Bradbury didn't foresee emojis, ya know?
As for the movie itself—taken on its own merits since, like I said, I don't really remember the book—it was kind of slow. I think Michael B. Jordan did an amazing job, as did Michael Shannon. They were stellar. But the story sort of dragged along at the beginning. It took its time establishing the characters and the world, and then it glossed a bit over Montag's (Jordan) starting to spend time with Clarisse (Sophia Boutella) before rushing the ending. The final ~20 minutes were [finally!] intense, but everything before that was mostly tonal and not terribly engrossing.
Still, Shannon's Beatty was perhaps the best character, the most nuanced. I'd like to hear his story. And the suicide book burner? That was a nice turn.
Also, I liked the bird.
Plus, the whole thing isn't very long, which is refreshing in these days of 2.5-hour movies and books stretched to be unnecessary trilogies. That I could watch it on a weeknight without going past my bedtime gives it an advantage.
I'm sure many people loved it. I thought it was just okay, that the story should have been emphasized differently, but that's just me. They did some interesting things with the material, so I'm not sorry I took the time to watch it, but I couldn't in good faith recommend it to anyone either.
Still, I'm fairly certain this version has been updated to showcase a more likely future dystopia than one created by Bradbury in 1953. Bradbury didn't foresee emojis, ya know?
As for the movie itself—taken on its own merits since, like I said, I don't really remember the book—it was kind of slow. I think Michael B. Jordan did an amazing job, as did Michael Shannon. They were stellar. But the story sort of dragged along at the beginning. It took its time establishing the characters and the world, and then it glossed a bit over Montag's (Jordan) starting to spend time with Clarisse (Sophia Boutella) before rushing the ending. The final ~20 minutes were [finally!] intense, but everything before that was mostly tonal and not terribly engrossing.
Still, Shannon's Beatty was perhaps the best character, the most nuanced. I'd like to hear his story. And the suicide book burner? That was a nice turn.
Also, I liked the bird.
Plus, the whole thing isn't very long, which is refreshing in these days of 2.5-hour movies and books stretched to be unnecessary trilogies. That I could watch it on a weeknight without going past my bedtime gives it an advantage.
I'm sure many people loved it. I thought it was just okay, that the story should have been emphasized differently, but that's just me. They did some interesting things with the material, so I'm not sorry I took the time to watch it, but I couldn't in good faith recommend it to anyone either.
4.15.2016
Movies: The Jungle Book
Starring: Neel Sethi
Voices By: Ben Kingsley, Bill Murray, Idris Elba, Lupita Nyong'o, Christopher Walken
Directed By: Jon Favreau
Written By: Justin Marks, from the book by Rudyard Kipling
Walt Disney, 2016
PG; 105 minutes
4.5 stars (out of 5)
There was a time—it seems very long ago now—when I adored the animated film The Jungle Book. My favorite was always Bagheera. I wanted so badly to be raised by a panther.
With all the remakes and updates that have become so common, I had reservations about this version of the story. But the trailers made it look so good. And it really is. I highly enjoyed it, and my kids loved it. Since they're the target audience (I think, though surely there is also some thought of hitting older people in the nostalgia), I'd count that as a success. By the numbers, it certainly looks to do well.
It's not perfect. There were some moments when the way the animals moved didn't look quite right. And the kid playing Mowgli sometimes came across as too whiny. Not sure if that was the direction or what. I also didn't love ScarJo as Kaa. Not because she's a woman—I understand why they did that—but because that particular actress in the role didn't work for me. But that's a personal thing.
Nice cowbell joke for Christopher Walken, and he did the Marlon Brando thing well. A little sad to hear Garry Shandling in what must be his last role, or very nearly. Overall, just nicely done. But my kids wondered at the change to the ending, and . . . It's been a long, long time since I've read Kipling. So I don't remember how the stories end. I think my memory of it is largely informed by the early influence of the animated feature. But I also think times and sensibilities have changed quite a bit since then. Instead of a child growing up and leaving to join his "real family" or "real tribe" . . . Instead of him doing what he's told, even if it's something difficult that he doesn't want to do . . . Making a big sacrifice . . . Now the prevailing sense is that he can prove himself and then do whatever he wants once he's earned the respect of those around him. I guess? He can make his own tribe/family. Or something like that.
Then again, maybe leaving Mowgli in the jungle just makes it easier to do a sequel.
"Jungle Book 2: Back to the jungle."
"Jungle Book 2: Jungle Boogaloo."
"Jungle Book 2: The Wrath of Khan."
"You can take the boy out of the jungle, but you can't take the jungle out of the boy."
It pretty much writes itself.
Seriously, though, it was fun. Any issues I had were relatively minor.
Voices By: Ben Kingsley, Bill Murray, Idris Elba, Lupita Nyong'o, Christopher Walken
Directed By: Jon Favreau
Written By: Justin Marks, from the book by Rudyard Kipling
Walt Disney, 2016
PG; 105 minutes
4.5 stars (out of 5)
_______________________________________________________
There was a time—it seems very long ago now—when I adored the animated film The Jungle Book. My favorite was always Bagheera. I wanted so badly to be raised by a panther.
With all the remakes and updates that have become so common, I had reservations about this version of the story. But the trailers made it look so good. And it really is. I highly enjoyed it, and my kids loved it. Since they're the target audience (I think, though surely there is also some thought of hitting older people in the nostalgia), I'd count that as a success. By the numbers, it certainly looks to do well.
It's not perfect. There were some moments when the way the animals moved didn't look quite right. And the kid playing Mowgli sometimes came across as too whiny. Not sure if that was the direction or what. I also didn't love ScarJo as Kaa. Not because she's a woman—I understand why they did that—but because that particular actress in the role didn't work for me. But that's a personal thing.
Nice cowbell joke for Christopher Walken, and he did the Marlon Brando thing well. A little sad to hear Garry Shandling in what must be his last role, or very nearly. Overall, just nicely done. But my kids wondered at the change to the ending, and . . . It's been a long, long time since I've read Kipling. So I don't remember how the stories end. I think my memory of it is largely informed by the early influence of the animated feature. But I also think times and sensibilities have changed quite a bit since then. Instead of a child growing up and leaving to join his "real family" or "real tribe" . . . Instead of him doing what he's told, even if it's something difficult that he doesn't want to do . . . Making a big sacrifice . . . Now the prevailing sense is that he can prove himself and then do whatever he wants once he's earned the respect of those around him. I guess? He can make his own tribe/family. Or something like that.
Then again, maybe leaving Mowgli in the jungle just makes it easier to do a sequel.
"Jungle Book 2: Back to the jungle."
"Jungle Book 2: Jungle Boogaloo."
"Jungle Book 2: The Wrath of Khan."
"You can take the boy out of the jungle, but you can't take the jungle out of the boy."
It pretty much writes itself.
Seriously, though, it was fun. Any issues I had were relatively minor.
10.07.2015
Theatre: Dracula by LATW
I can't seem to escape Hamlet these days (not that I especially want to, but still). This being Dracula, there was a lot of Hamlet in it.
But anyway.
This was an interesting production. The characters dressed the part but performed at microphones while foley artists provided sound effects and a screen projected atmospheric background images. Sort of like watching a radio performance, really, though there were some acted bits to give a good sense of what was going on.
And it was all exceptionally well done.
In particular, Alexis Jacknow as Mina, Nicholas Hormann as Van Helsing, and Patrick Wenk-Wolff as the titular Count did stand-out work, but honestly, everyone was fabulous. It was a real treat to watch.
I brought my 9-year-old son, too, and yes, he got a bit freaked out at times. The wolves howling, and Summer Spiro's (Lucy) ear-piercing screams . . . But at the end of it all, he professed to liking it. "It was cool," he said, which is high praise from the likes of a jaded pre-teen. Still and all, if you have squeamish kids (mine likes scary stuff), this probably isn't the show for them. And mine is still just young enough to have the sexual overtones go over his head. But only just; it's a sultry story and this production doesn't gloss it.
The show is roughly two hours, no intermission. An evening well spent.
But anyway.
This was an interesting production. The characters dressed the part but performed at microphones while foley artists provided sound effects and a screen projected atmospheric background images. Sort of like watching a radio performance, really, though there were some acted bits to give a good sense of what was going on.
And it was all exceptionally well done.
In particular, Alexis Jacknow as Mina, Nicholas Hormann as Van Helsing, and Patrick Wenk-Wolff as the titular Count did stand-out work, but honestly, everyone was fabulous. It was a real treat to watch.
I brought my 9-year-old son, too, and yes, he got a bit freaked out at times. The wolves howling, and Summer Spiro's (Lucy) ear-piercing screams . . . But at the end of it all, he professed to liking it. "It was cool," he said, which is high praise from the likes of a jaded pre-teen. Still and all, if you have squeamish kids (mine likes scary stuff), this probably isn't the show for them. And mine is still just young enough to have the sexual overtones go over his head. But only just; it's a sultry story and this production doesn't gloss it.
The show is roughly two hours, no intermission. An evening well spent.
3.14.2015
Movies: Cinderella
Starring: Lily James, Cate Blanchett, Richard Madden, Helena Bonham Carter
Directed By: Kenneth Branagh
Written By: Chris Weitz
Walt Disney, 2015
PG; 112 minutes
3 stars (out of 5)
_______________________________________________________
A solid enough take on the fairy tale, if lacking anything fresh.
It's the same old story: Happy young Ella has two loving parents. Her father is an upper middle-class merchant. But then Ella's mother takes ill and dies, and in time the father remarries. Then he, too, dies and Ella is left to the harsh abuse of her stepmother and stepsisters. Ella strives to be kind and courageous—a lingering promise she made to her mother—in the face of overwhelming cruelty.
And why are the stepmother and stepsisters so cruel? Jealousy, one supposes, or simply because they can be and like to exercise power whenever possible. We do see the stepmother eavesdrop as Ella's father tells Ella he loves her and still misses her mother. This certainly must put some spike in stepmama's punch. I guess it's a nod to there being a reason for this woman to behave so badly; in the fairy tale, and even in the animated classic, the ruling presumption is that some people are just bad. Though one might at least be left wondering why Ella's father, by all accounts a kind and loving man, married this woman in the first place.
As for the stepsisters, one assumes they're going by example.
Some of the touches from the 1950s cartoon are on display: fat little Gus the mouse, and the cat Lucifer, and even the stepsisters retain the names Drisella and Anastasia, and the family name remains Tremaine. We're also treated to a fair share of Mickey Mouse designs in the house.
Lily James does a nice enough job, though there were moments she reminded me a bit of Jessica Lange for some reason. Cate Blanchett as the stepmother wields her proficient screen power in the same way as Bette Davis of old, and I was pleasantly surprised to see Sir Derek Jacobi in the role of the king. Richard Madden, too, does a nice job with the little he's given. And Nonso Anozie has quite a presence as a captain in the king's guard; I look forward to seeing him in Pan.
My daughter and all the little girls filling the cinema were suitably impressed with the film; in particular the transformation scenes of pumpkins becoming carriages and, later, returning to pumpkin form. The power of big, beautiful dresses cannot be denied. But afterward my daughter declared, "But all that death and dying! I didn't like it!"
The upshot of the film, if one bothers to think about it much, must be that kindness will be rewarded (eventually) . . . Rather a sense of karma, or "what you put out into the universe comes back to you" or something. And that true royalty is something internal rather than external, not something you're born to but something you project. This gives hope to all the little girls who visit Disneyland and Disney World, for even as Ella in the movie says, "But I'm not a real princess!" she is told to enjoy it [the ball, which may as well be an allegory for the Disney amusement parks] while she can.
Today you may be a Disney princess, but tomorrow it may be back to the attic with you . . . Just keep faith and keep being kind, bear up under terrible odds, and some day it may pay off when a powerful man sees your worth. Or something.
Directed By: Kenneth Branagh
Written By: Chris Weitz
Walt Disney, 2015
PG; 112 minutes
3 stars (out of 5)
_______________________________________________________
A solid enough take on the fairy tale, if lacking anything fresh.
It's the same old story: Happy young Ella has two loving parents. Her father is an upper middle-class merchant. But then Ella's mother takes ill and dies, and in time the father remarries. Then he, too, dies and Ella is left to the harsh abuse of her stepmother and stepsisters. Ella strives to be kind and courageous—a lingering promise she made to her mother—in the face of overwhelming cruelty.
And why are the stepmother and stepsisters so cruel? Jealousy, one supposes, or simply because they can be and like to exercise power whenever possible. We do see the stepmother eavesdrop as Ella's father tells Ella he loves her and still misses her mother. This certainly must put some spike in stepmama's punch. I guess it's a nod to there being a reason for this woman to behave so badly; in the fairy tale, and even in the animated classic, the ruling presumption is that some people are just bad. Though one might at least be left wondering why Ella's father, by all accounts a kind and loving man, married this woman in the first place.
As for the stepsisters, one assumes they're going by example.
Some of the touches from the 1950s cartoon are on display: fat little Gus the mouse, and the cat Lucifer, and even the stepsisters retain the names Drisella and Anastasia, and the family name remains Tremaine. We're also treated to a fair share of Mickey Mouse designs in the house.
Lily James does a nice enough job, though there were moments she reminded me a bit of Jessica Lange for some reason. Cate Blanchett as the stepmother wields her proficient screen power in the same way as Bette Davis of old, and I was pleasantly surprised to see Sir Derek Jacobi in the role of the king. Richard Madden, too, does a nice job with the little he's given. And Nonso Anozie has quite a presence as a captain in the king's guard; I look forward to seeing him in Pan.
My daughter and all the little girls filling the cinema were suitably impressed with the film; in particular the transformation scenes of pumpkins becoming carriages and, later, returning to pumpkin form. The power of big, beautiful dresses cannot be denied. But afterward my daughter declared, "But all that death and dying! I didn't like it!"
The upshot of the film, if one bothers to think about it much, must be that kindness will be rewarded (eventually) . . . Rather a sense of karma, or "what you put out into the universe comes back to you" or something. And that true royalty is something internal rather than external, not something you're born to but something you project. This gives hope to all the little girls who visit Disneyland and Disney World, for even as Ella in the movie says, "But I'm not a real princess!" she is told to enjoy it [the ball, which may as well be an allegory for the Disney amusement parks] while she can.
Today you may be a Disney princess, but tomorrow it may be back to the attic with you . . . Just keep faith and keep being kind, bear up under terrible odds, and some day it may pay off when a powerful man sees your worth. Or something.
7.21.2014
Books: Persuasion by Jane Austen (Chapters XIX–XXIV)
When two people share a mutual attraction but neither will move to do anything about it, it is agony. Somewhat juvenile, perhaps, but I am not altogether immune to the romance of the situation. I've felt it often enough myself in the past.
In truth, what with the Asperger's, I usually ignore people. So when someone intrudes on my consciousness, one of two things occurs: anger at the interruption, or a sort of paralysis, as if someone were walking across my very heart.
But that's neither here nor there, except to say that the last bit of Persuasion is spent with Anne and Captain Wentworth locked in mute struggle of attraction. Like so many teens could sympathize: Is he looking at me? He is! He was looking at me! But what kind of look was it? Attempting forever to extrapolate hope from the smallest expression, gesture, or word. And fearing always that the next look or word will shatter that fragile hope.
Anne had been worried that Wentworth was attached to Louisa, but hearing that Louisa has become engaged to Benwick, and then Wentworth's subsequent appearance in Bath, gives Anne hope that he may yet harbor feelings for her. Warm ones, that is, beyond the resentment he would have every right to feel after she gave him up some eight years before. (Turns out love is the stronger emotion, however.)
And Wentworth spends his time hardly daring to speak to Anne and falling prey to the general gossip that Anne will most likely marry Mr. Elliot. Again, it is all the schoolboy theatrics: Does she like me? She's nice to me! But maybe she's dating that guy . . .
Oh, for God's sake, somebody say or do something!
Finally Wentworth does write Anne a hasty note that delineates his true feelings for her. It is a fabulous missive of the kind every girl would love to receive. I've had poems and songs written for me, and my artist friend was once moved to create a book of love quotes for me, but this kind of letter is something else entirely. Possibly because men can be so reticent. Letters like Wentworth's are rare, and so it becomes something precious.
In any case, one can move to the logical conclusion without my saying anything: Anne and Wentworth end up together, none the worse and possibly somewhat the better for having waited the eight years.
The title refers to Anne having been persuaded by family and friends not to accept Wentworth all those years ago. And the book then shows how it is better to follow one's good sense and heart rather than be pressed on by people more interested in rank and appearances. It doesn't much say what one should do if one has no sense or heart . . . I would venture you should then take the good advice of someone who does possess these attributes. Assuming you can find a person of such description. They tend not to go out in public much, so you may have to knock on some doors.
As for the remainder of characters: Mrs. Smith imparts to Anne the truth about Mr. Elliot—Elliot's unkind words about Sir Walter and Elizabeth behind their backs, even as he ingratiates himself to them, and also Elliot's own mistreatment of Mrs. Smith as executor of her husband's will—thus validating Anne's own misgivings of his character. Once Anne and Wentworth become engaged, Mr. Elliot quits the field and takes Mrs. Clay with him, setting her up in London as his mistress. (The idea being that Elliot's goal was to make sure Sir Walter did not remarry and have any heirs, thus taking Mr. Elliot out of line for the baronetcy.) And so his black mark gets darker, and the reader is thus assured Anne and the others are better off without him.
And Mrs. Smith, once Anne is married, has Captain Wentworth to thank for helping to untangle all the threads of her late husband's will, thus restoring her to some level of fortune.
Lady Russell does finally accept Captain Wentworth as the key to dear Anne's happiness and eventually becomes like a mother to him, just as she is like a mother to Anne.
Sir Walter and Elizabeth evidently remain silly and stupid and no one thinks of them in any high regard, so that they are reduced to following in the train of Lady Dalrymple and Miss Carteret with no one to follow them.
It is mentioned that Anne is only sorry she could not provide Wentworth with better relatives, but the fact he takes her in spite of her family shows the depth of his love, I think. That and the whole waiting around for eight years. Though I can relate, having grown up in a very traditional way and with very definite ideas about what was and wasn't proper . . . And these ideas only supported my natural shyness . . . It is an odd thing to be reluctant and impatient at the same time, a very frustrating feeling. Which is probably why I enjoyed this book and sympathized so greatly with the two principle characters.
In truth, what with the Asperger's, I usually ignore people. So when someone intrudes on my consciousness, one of two things occurs: anger at the interruption, or a sort of paralysis, as if someone were walking across my very heart.
But that's neither here nor there, except to say that the last bit of Persuasion is spent with Anne and Captain Wentworth locked in mute struggle of attraction. Like so many teens could sympathize: Is he looking at me? He is! He was looking at me! But what kind of look was it? Attempting forever to extrapolate hope from the smallest expression, gesture, or word. And fearing always that the next look or word will shatter that fragile hope.
Anne had been worried that Wentworth was attached to Louisa, but hearing that Louisa has become engaged to Benwick, and then Wentworth's subsequent appearance in Bath, gives Anne hope that he may yet harbor feelings for her. Warm ones, that is, beyond the resentment he would have every right to feel after she gave him up some eight years before. (Turns out love is the stronger emotion, however.)
And Wentworth spends his time hardly daring to speak to Anne and falling prey to the general gossip that Anne will most likely marry Mr. Elliot. Again, it is all the schoolboy theatrics: Does she like me? She's nice to me! But maybe she's dating that guy . . .
Oh, for God's sake, somebody say or do something!
Finally Wentworth does write Anne a hasty note that delineates his true feelings for her. It is a fabulous missive of the kind every girl would love to receive. I've had poems and songs written for me, and my artist friend was once moved to create a book of love quotes for me, but this kind of letter is something else entirely. Possibly because men can be so reticent. Letters like Wentworth's are rare, and so it becomes something precious.
In any case, one can move to the logical conclusion without my saying anything: Anne and Wentworth end up together, none the worse and possibly somewhat the better for having waited the eight years.
The title refers to Anne having been persuaded by family and friends not to accept Wentworth all those years ago. And the book then shows how it is better to follow one's good sense and heart rather than be pressed on by people more interested in rank and appearances. It doesn't much say what one should do if one has no sense or heart . . . I would venture you should then take the good advice of someone who does possess these attributes. Assuming you can find a person of such description. They tend not to go out in public much, so you may have to knock on some doors.
As for the remainder of characters: Mrs. Smith imparts to Anne the truth about Mr. Elliot—Elliot's unkind words about Sir Walter and Elizabeth behind their backs, even as he ingratiates himself to them, and also Elliot's own mistreatment of Mrs. Smith as executor of her husband's will—thus validating Anne's own misgivings of his character. Once Anne and Wentworth become engaged, Mr. Elliot quits the field and takes Mrs. Clay with him, setting her up in London as his mistress. (The idea being that Elliot's goal was to make sure Sir Walter did not remarry and have any heirs, thus taking Mr. Elliot out of line for the baronetcy.) And so his black mark gets darker, and the reader is thus assured Anne and the others are better off without him.
And Mrs. Smith, once Anne is married, has Captain Wentworth to thank for helping to untangle all the threads of her late husband's will, thus restoring her to some level of fortune.
Lady Russell does finally accept Captain Wentworth as the key to dear Anne's happiness and eventually becomes like a mother to him, just as she is like a mother to Anne.
Sir Walter and Elizabeth evidently remain silly and stupid and no one thinks of them in any high regard, so that they are reduced to following in the train of Lady Dalrymple and Miss Carteret with no one to follow them.
It is mentioned that Anne is only sorry she could not provide Wentworth with better relatives, but the fact he takes her in spite of her family shows the depth of his love, I think. That and the whole waiting around for eight years. Though I can relate, having grown up in a very traditional way and with very definite ideas about what was and wasn't proper . . . And these ideas only supported my natural shyness . . . It is an odd thing to be reluctant and impatient at the same time, a very frustrating feeling. Which is probably why I enjoyed this book and sympathized so greatly with the two principle characters.
7.19.2014
Books: Persuasion by Jane Austen (Chapters XIII–XVIII)
So after all that fuss at Lyme over Louisa Musgrove's fall and head injury, Anne eventually returns to Kellynch to stay with Lady Russell until it is time to go on to Bath to meet up with her father and older sister. (You'll remember them as Sir Walter and Elizabeth.) And the somewhat awful widow Mrs. Clay continues to hang on to Elizabeth and, by extension, Sir Walter as well.
In Bath, Anne begins a formal acquaintance with that Mr. Elliot, her cousin and Sir Walter's heir, the one she twice passed so briefly in Lyme. Mr. Elliot, it seems, has attached himself to Sir Walter's household and has been forgiven for past slights which have been explained away as misunderstandings and foolish, youthful follies. Lady Russell has it in mind that once Mr. Elliot's formal mourning for his wife is over, he will make a play for Anne to be the next Lady Elliot. And while there is some comfort in the idea to Anne—of being what her mother once was, lady of Kellynch Hall, secure in her home and place—she cannot bring herself to entirely like or trust Mr. Elliot. It's almost as if his manners are too pretty. Anne finds the fact that everyone likes him a mark of dishonesty; that is to say, if everyone likes Mr. Elliot, it must mean he works to ingratiate himself to all, and is therefore not entirely sincere or honest about his true feelings about things (assuming he knows himself how he does feel). And Anne has seen Mr. Elliot speak ill of Mrs. Clay behind Mrs. Clay's back.
Also in Bath is a Mrs. Smith, now a impoverished widow but once a great friend of Anne's when Anne was away at school; they strike up a new friendship. And Lady Dalrymple, cousin of Sir Walter, whose favor Sir Walter and Elizabeth seek. Sir Walter is singularly focused on people's looks and rank; he goes on about how unattractive are so many of the people at Bath.
Then Admiral and Mrs. Croft—those who have been renting Kellynch Hall—also come to Bath because of the Admiral's gout. They bring with them letters from Mary to Anne that say Louisa is engaged to Captain Benwick! And when Anne meets with Admiral Croft one day, he talks to her about the engagement and how surprised he and Mrs. Croft were that Louisa and Frederick had not ended up engaged instead. But Anne is forced to admit (to herself, never aloud!) that she is oddly happy to hear that Frederick Wentworth is not attached . . .
In Bath, Anne begins a formal acquaintance with that Mr. Elliot, her cousin and Sir Walter's heir, the one she twice passed so briefly in Lyme. Mr. Elliot, it seems, has attached himself to Sir Walter's household and has been forgiven for past slights which have been explained away as misunderstandings and foolish, youthful follies. Lady Russell has it in mind that once Mr. Elliot's formal mourning for his wife is over, he will make a play for Anne to be the next Lady Elliot. And while there is some comfort in the idea to Anne—of being what her mother once was, lady of Kellynch Hall, secure in her home and place—she cannot bring herself to entirely like or trust Mr. Elliot. It's almost as if his manners are too pretty. Anne finds the fact that everyone likes him a mark of dishonesty; that is to say, if everyone likes Mr. Elliot, it must mean he works to ingratiate himself to all, and is therefore not entirely sincere or honest about his true feelings about things (assuming he knows himself how he does feel). And Anne has seen Mr. Elliot speak ill of Mrs. Clay behind Mrs. Clay's back.
Also in Bath is a Mrs. Smith, now a impoverished widow but once a great friend of Anne's when Anne was away at school; they strike up a new friendship. And Lady Dalrymple, cousin of Sir Walter, whose favor Sir Walter and Elizabeth seek. Sir Walter is singularly focused on people's looks and rank; he goes on about how unattractive are so many of the people at Bath.
Then Admiral and Mrs. Croft—those who have been renting Kellynch Hall—also come to Bath because of the Admiral's gout. They bring with them letters from Mary to Anne that say Louisa is engaged to Captain Benwick! And when Anne meets with Admiral Croft one day, he talks to her about the engagement and how surprised he and Mrs. Croft were that Louisa and Frederick had not ended up engaged instead. But Anne is forced to admit (to herself, never aloud!) that she is oddly happy to hear that Frederick Wentworth is not attached . . .
7.17.2014
Books: Persuasion by Jane Austen (Chapters VII–XII)
I must say, I find Anne a bit colorless as a heroine. Fanny in Mansfield Park is no less retiring, though I suppose Fanny at least had her cousin to speak openly to, when he happened to be around; Anne mostly keeps her own counsel and is hardly heard when she does try to say anything.
Except that's not exactly true. In this part of the book, a troupe of characters goes down to Lyme, and Anne finds herself attended to by a Captain Benwick. They discuss poetry, and Anne gives him the titles of some books she thinks he might enjoy.
Anne also proves valuable when Louisa Musgrove tosses herself down the stairs of the Cobb. Captain Wentworth is meant to catch her but he does not, and Louisa suffers a head injury that leaves her "insensible" (that is, unconscious). Indeed, at first everyone thinks she's dead, but no. Louisa is left to be looked after at Captain Harville's home (Harville being a friend of Captain Wentworth), while Wentworth, Anne, and Louisa's sister Henrietta travel back to Uppercross to tell Louisa's parents of her fall.
The one other interesting incident would be that they crossed paths with one Mr. Elliot, the heir to the baronetcy. Sir Walter had aimed to have Mr. Elliot marry Elizabeth, but Mr. Elliot . . . Let's say he did not pursue the connection. Though invited to visit, he never did, and he eventually married someone else. But now he is a widower. Meanwhile, Sir Walter and Elizabeth took it quite personally that Mr. Elliot did not fall in with their plans. And Anne never met the man at all, so though they crossed paths twice in this selection of chapters, she did not know him until after he'd gone. But it is said that Mr. Elliot looked quite admiringly at Anne; the fresh air at Lyme had done her some good, it seems.
Where does this leave Anne? Well, she is growing accustomed to the new circumstances between herself and Captain Wentworth; they are civil but not warm toward one another. And it has been expected that Wentworth might choose either Henrietta or Louisa as a future bride (though Henrietta is moderately attached to one Charles Hayter, a curate). But now we have Captain Benwick on the scene, who seems to enjoy Anne's company, and even Mr. Elliot admired Anne's looks, so . . . Might she have other suitors? Other options?
Louisa's headstrong determination and refusal to listen to others is what has put her in a bad place. This much seems to be the point of this part of the story. Yet it was Anne's lack of determination that kept her from happily marrying Wentworth some seven or eight years prior. I suppose a balance is needed, or at the least one is meant to pick one's battles. Not to force things, but instead to allow natural attachments to form and then nurture those. Rather like planting native plants and cultivating them instead of trying to force an unnatural transplant. When two people discover they have things in common beyond an initial liking of one's looks—that is the difference between an annual, short-lived attraction and a perennial affection that can last over many seasons.
Except that's not exactly true. In this part of the book, a troupe of characters goes down to Lyme, and Anne finds herself attended to by a Captain Benwick. They discuss poetry, and Anne gives him the titles of some books she thinks he might enjoy.
Anne also proves valuable when Louisa Musgrove tosses herself down the stairs of the Cobb. Captain Wentworth is meant to catch her but he does not, and Louisa suffers a head injury that leaves her "insensible" (that is, unconscious). Indeed, at first everyone thinks she's dead, but no. Louisa is left to be looked after at Captain Harville's home (Harville being a friend of Captain Wentworth), while Wentworth, Anne, and Louisa's sister Henrietta travel back to Uppercross to tell Louisa's parents of her fall.
The one other interesting incident would be that they crossed paths with one Mr. Elliot, the heir to the baronetcy. Sir Walter had aimed to have Mr. Elliot marry Elizabeth, but Mr. Elliot . . . Let's say he did not pursue the connection. Though invited to visit, he never did, and he eventually married someone else. But now he is a widower. Meanwhile, Sir Walter and Elizabeth took it quite personally that Mr. Elliot did not fall in with their plans. And Anne never met the man at all, so though they crossed paths twice in this selection of chapters, she did not know him until after he'd gone. But it is said that Mr. Elliot looked quite admiringly at Anne; the fresh air at Lyme had done her some good, it seems.
Where does this leave Anne? Well, she is growing accustomed to the new circumstances between herself and Captain Wentworth; they are civil but not warm toward one another. And it has been expected that Wentworth might choose either Henrietta or Louisa as a future bride (though Henrietta is moderately attached to one Charles Hayter, a curate). But now we have Captain Benwick on the scene, who seems to enjoy Anne's company, and even Mr. Elliot admired Anne's looks, so . . . Might she have other suitors? Other options?
Louisa's headstrong determination and refusal to listen to others is what has put her in a bad place. This much seems to be the point of this part of the story. Yet it was Anne's lack of determination that kept her from happily marrying Wentworth some seven or eight years prior. I suppose a balance is needed, or at the least one is meant to pick one's battles. Not to force things, but instead to allow natural attachments to form and then nurture those. Rather like planting native plants and cultivating them instead of trying to force an unnatural transplant. When two people discover they have things in common beyond an initial liking of one's looks—that is the difference between an annual, short-lived attraction and a perennial affection that can last over many seasons.
7.16.2014
Books: Persuasion by Jane Austen (Chapters I–VI)
More from my stack of classics that I never got around to reading, and in particular the Jane Austen novels I have not yet read.
In this one, the persecuted party is Anne Elliot, middle daughter of a baronet. She is perpetually overlooked by her family, and her one "claim to fame" is that she nearly married one Captain Frederick Wentworth except her father refused to allow such a "low" connection.
Anne lives retiringly in her sister Elizabeth's shadow. Their younger sister Mary is married and lives in the area. And their dead mother's friend Lady Russell also lives close by; Anne is used to spending a fair amount of time in her company, and is something of a favorite of Lady Russell's, though that lady has done little enough to promote Anne to her own family. I gather Lady Russell has tried to get Elizabeth and Sir Walter to take notice of Anne to little avail. But Lady Russell also opposed the match with Captain Wentworth thinking the then 19-year-old Anne would find it a hard living being a military wife.
That was some seven or so years ago. Now Elizabeth and Sir Walter have removed to Bath and Anne is to join them at Christmas. For now Anne is splitting her time between Lady Russell's home and her sister Mary's.
Where is the conflict? Why, here: Sir Walter was forced to let their grand home and move to Bath because of his debts. He has let the estate to relatives of Captain Wentworth. And now, of course, that very man is expected to come visit his sister and brother-in-law. (Well, either Frederick or his brother Edward; it has not been made clear which.) So of course Anne is on tenterhooks in case it is Frederick.
That encapsulates the goings on thus far. I'm reading some old Book of the Month Club edition from 1996 that has illustrations by Hugh Thomson, too. Quite fun.
In this one, the persecuted party is Anne Elliot, middle daughter of a baronet. She is perpetually overlooked by her family, and her one "claim to fame" is that she nearly married one Captain Frederick Wentworth except her father refused to allow such a "low" connection.
Anne lives retiringly in her sister Elizabeth's shadow. Their younger sister Mary is married and lives in the area. And their dead mother's friend Lady Russell also lives close by; Anne is used to spending a fair amount of time in her company, and is something of a favorite of Lady Russell's, though that lady has done little enough to promote Anne to her own family. I gather Lady Russell has tried to get Elizabeth and Sir Walter to take notice of Anne to little avail. But Lady Russell also opposed the match with Captain Wentworth thinking the then 19-year-old Anne would find it a hard living being a military wife.
That was some seven or so years ago. Now Elizabeth and Sir Walter have removed to Bath and Anne is to join them at Christmas. For now Anne is splitting her time between Lady Russell's home and her sister Mary's.
Where is the conflict? Why, here: Sir Walter was forced to let their grand home and move to Bath because of his debts. He has let the estate to relatives of Captain Wentworth. And now, of course, that very man is expected to come visit his sister and brother-in-law. (Well, either Frederick or his brother Edward; it has not been made clear which.) So of course Anne is on tenterhooks in case it is Frederick.
That encapsulates the goings on thus far. I'm reading some old Book of the Month Club edition from 1996 that has illustrations by Hugh Thomson, too. Quite fun.
6.03.2014
Books: Mansfield Park by Jane Austen (Chapters 41–48)
Whoa, what?
And things were going so well . . .
Mr Crawford goes to Portsmouth to see Fanny. He notices that her health is suffering for lack of good food and fresh air, and he entreats her to let him take her home to Mansfield. But though Fanny is slowly thawing, she continues to have reservations about Crawford (probably at least in part biased by the knowledge that her beloved cousin Edmund loves Miss Crawford). And so despite wanting very much to return to Mansfield, Fanny declines Crawford's invitation.
Crawford leaves and Miss Crawford writes to Fanny. With every letter from Miss Crawford or Edmund, Fanny lives in exquisite pain of hearing her fears realized: that they are engaged. And yet there is never any such news. Painful enough, one supposes, to have to read Edmund's rhapsodic ramblings of Miss Crawford's sterling nature tarnished only by the influences of bad society. Ugh.
At this point it seems things must have a predetermined end. Fanny will eventually accept Crawford and Edmund and Miss Crawford will "hook up." Right? Because though Fanny is an excellent observer, surely many of her conclusions are colored by her own feelings, particularly those she has for Edmund?
But no! The plot twists! For one, Tom (eldest son of Sir Thomas) suffers an injury that may be life-threatening! Could it be that Edmund will inherit Mansfield? Will that remove the last of Miss Crawford's obstacles? (And if it did . . . Isn't that almost worse for Edmund? To be accepted only on the strength of a dead brother's legacy? Not wanted enough for himself—he is not enough for Miss Crawford, she must have the money and lifestyle too.) A letter from Miss Crawford to Fanny suggests that Miss Crawford's mind runs exactly on such lines, reaffirming Fanny's suspicions of Miss Crawford's singularly mercenary nature.
And then! That old flirtation between Mr Crawford and the now Mrs Rushworth springs forth anew! Indeed, they run away together! Such shame on the family . . . And now there is no question of Fanny marrying Crawford or Edmund marrying Miss Crawford. The connection must be severed. Fanny is upheld again.
Miss Crawford blames Fanny in part for the drama. If she'd simply agreed to marry Mr Crawford, none of this would have happened. But one must wonder how much worse it might have been if Fanny had married him, how much more miserable she might have been. Because who is to say that Mrs Rushworth and Mr Crawford wouldn't still have had an affair? And they'd have been thrown together so much at family gatherings that it would have been that much easier. Would Mr Crawford's love for Fanny—if it's to be believed he really did love her—been stronger than his vanity? Would Mrs Rushworth have succeeded in wooing him anyway? If only to soothe her own vanity and pride at having her inferior cousin chosen by the man she loved?
Woulda, coulda, shoulda.
But the game of What If? has no place in the real world of fiction.
Finally, Julia elopes with Tom's friend Yates. Though in the bigger scheme of things, this is hardly irreconcilable.
In the aftermath of family ruin, Fanny is fetched from Portsmouth back to Mansfield, and she brings along Susan as well. Paradoxically, Fanny's greatest happiness is nested in the deterioration of the Bertrams. She is treasured now in contrast to her cousins who have failed the family. She is safe now from any fear that Edmund might marry Miss Crawford. Nor is she frowned upon for having refused Mr Crawford; instead it appears as great good sense on her part. And so while she is sensible of the sad situation, she is quite satisfied with the outcomes. The pride of the Bertrams heralded their fall. Fanny's enduring humility lifts her up.
Tom survives, and not only that but becomes a much better person for having come through such personal peril. Julia and her husband are welcomed back into the fold of the family. Maria is sent abroad to live in disgrace under the care of Mrs Norris (of whom Mansfield is well rid). Edmund nurses his broken heart and hopes and eventually comes to see the kind of woman he's searched for all along has been right in front of him. He and Fanny are happily married and Susan takes Fanny's place as Lady Bertram's companion.
All's well and all that jazz.
And good things come to those who wait. Patience pays off. Good is rewarded in the end. &c. &c.
And things were going so well . . .
Mr Crawford goes to Portsmouth to see Fanny. He notices that her health is suffering for lack of good food and fresh air, and he entreats her to let him take her home to Mansfield. But though Fanny is slowly thawing, she continues to have reservations about Crawford (probably at least in part biased by the knowledge that her beloved cousin Edmund loves Miss Crawford). And so despite wanting very much to return to Mansfield, Fanny declines Crawford's invitation.
Crawford leaves and Miss Crawford writes to Fanny. With every letter from Miss Crawford or Edmund, Fanny lives in exquisite pain of hearing her fears realized: that they are engaged. And yet there is never any such news. Painful enough, one supposes, to have to read Edmund's rhapsodic ramblings of Miss Crawford's sterling nature tarnished only by the influences of bad society. Ugh.
At this point it seems things must have a predetermined end. Fanny will eventually accept Crawford and Edmund and Miss Crawford will "hook up." Right? Because though Fanny is an excellent observer, surely many of her conclusions are colored by her own feelings, particularly those she has for Edmund?
But no! The plot twists! For one, Tom (eldest son of Sir Thomas) suffers an injury that may be life-threatening! Could it be that Edmund will inherit Mansfield? Will that remove the last of Miss Crawford's obstacles? (And if it did . . . Isn't that almost worse for Edmund? To be accepted only on the strength of a dead brother's legacy? Not wanted enough for himself—he is not enough for Miss Crawford, she must have the money and lifestyle too.) A letter from Miss Crawford to Fanny suggests that Miss Crawford's mind runs exactly on such lines, reaffirming Fanny's suspicions of Miss Crawford's singularly mercenary nature.
And then! That old flirtation between Mr Crawford and the now Mrs Rushworth springs forth anew! Indeed, they run away together! Such shame on the family . . . And now there is no question of Fanny marrying Crawford or Edmund marrying Miss Crawford. The connection must be severed. Fanny is upheld again.
Miss Crawford blames Fanny in part for the drama. If she'd simply agreed to marry Mr Crawford, none of this would have happened. But one must wonder how much worse it might have been if Fanny had married him, how much more miserable she might have been. Because who is to say that Mrs Rushworth and Mr Crawford wouldn't still have had an affair? And they'd have been thrown together so much at family gatherings that it would have been that much easier. Would Mr Crawford's love for Fanny—if it's to be believed he really did love her—been stronger than his vanity? Would Mrs Rushworth have succeeded in wooing him anyway? If only to soothe her own vanity and pride at having her inferior cousin chosen by the man she loved?
Woulda, coulda, shoulda.
But the game of What If? has no place in the real world of fiction.
Finally, Julia elopes with Tom's friend Yates. Though in the bigger scheme of things, this is hardly irreconcilable.
In the aftermath of family ruin, Fanny is fetched from Portsmouth back to Mansfield, and she brings along Susan as well. Paradoxically, Fanny's greatest happiness is nested in the deterioration of the Bertrams. She is treasured now in contrast to her cousins who have failed the family. She is safe now from any fear that Edmund might marry Miss Crawford. Nor is she frowned upon for having refused Mr Crawford; instead it appears as great good sense on her part. And so while she is sensible of the sad situation, she is quite satisfied with the outcomes. The pride of the Bertrams heralded their fall. Fanny's enduring humility lifts her up.
Tom survives, and not only that but becomes a much better person for having come through such personal peril. Julia and her husband are welcomed back into the fold of the family. Maria is sent abroad to live in disgrace under the care of Mrs Norris (of whom Mansfield is well rid). Edmund nurses his broken heart and hopes and eventually comes to see the kind of woman he's searched for all along has been right in front of him. He and Fanny are happily married and Susan takes Fanny's place as Lady Bertram's companion.
All's well and all that jazz.
And good things come to those who wait. Patience pays off. Good is rewarded in the end. &c. &c.
6.01.2014
Books: Mansfield Park by Jane Austen (Chapters 33–40)
Mr Crawford will not take "no" for an answer, no matter how many different ways Fanny tries to say it. And she gets no help from Edmund who, while acknowledging he wouldn't want her to marry against her wishes, says he does wish she wished to marry Mr Crawford. Could there be anything worse than having the person you love say they wish you'd marry someone else? Well, there's the fact that Edmund is in love with someone else too. That's pretty heartbreaking for Fanny as well.
Fanny is rescued two-fold from all the pressures of Mansfield—that is, the hopes she'll come to her senses and accept Mr Crawford, and the hateful pressure of having to hear Edmund rhapsodize over Miss Crawford—by (a) Mr Crawford and his sister going to London, and (b) a visit from William. Together, Fanny and William plan to go to Portsmouth where William's sloop is docked and where the Price family lives. Fanny hasn't been "home" in some eight years or so.
As Bartok says: This can only end in tears.
For one thing, Fanny has been brought up so differently. And for another, she has been absent so long that there really is no place for her in the family. It might have been all right if William had been able to stay and ease her into the household, but upon their arrival in Portsmouth, William is informed his ship is almost ready to leave. He must go.
Fanny struggles to fit into the Price family but she is used to quiet and the place is noisy. She is used to order and the place is highly disorganized. She is used to propriety and in the Price home there is none; her father drinks and swears, people yell through the house, the children misbehave, and the servants can hardly be bothered to do their work.
In one person, however, Fanny finds some comfort: Her sister Susan. At first Susan appears too strident and temperamental, but Fanny comes to understand it is only because Susan struggles against the very things that upset Fanny and shows her frustration in ways Fanny never would. Susan does not scruple to speak out and tell her brothers, her little sister, the servants what they should and shouldn't do. To no avail. And so Fanny shows Susan how to sit quietly up in their shared room, away from the bustle, thus removing themselves from the very stimulants that strike them the wrong way.
Meantime, Fanny has word that Edmund has gone to London himself. Now Fanny lives in dread of the news that Edmund and Miss Crawford will officially be engaged . . .
Fanny is rescued two-fold from all the pressures of Mansfield—that is, the hopes she'll come to her senses and accept Mr Crawford, and the hateful pressure of having to hear Edmund rhapsodize over Miss Crawford—by (a) Mr Crawford and his sister going to London, and (b) a visit from William. Together, Fanny and William plan to go to Portsmouth where William's sloop is docked and where the Price family lives. Fanny hasn't been "home" in some eight years or so.
As Bartok says: This can only end in tears.
For one thing, Fanny has been brought up so differently. And for another, she has been absent so long that there really is no place for her in the family. It might have been all right if William had been able to stay and ease her into the household, but upon their arrival in Portsmouth, William is informed his ship is almost ready to leave. He must go.
Fanny struggles to fit into the Price family but she is used to quiet and the place is noisy. She is used to order and the place is highly disorganized. She is used to propriety and in the Price home there is none; her father drinks and swears, people yell through the house, the children misbehave, and the servants can hardly be bothered to do their work.
In one person, however, Fanny finds some comfort: Her sister Susan. At first Susan appears too strident and temperamental, but Fanny comes to understand it is only because Susan struggles against the very things that upset Fanny and shows her frustration in ways Fanny never would. Susan does not scruple to speak out and tell her brothers, her little sister, the servants what they should and shouldn't do. To no avail. And so Fanny shows Susan how to sit quietly up in their shared room, away from the bustle, thus removing themselves from the very stimulants that strike them the wrong way.
Meantime, Fanny has word that Edmund has gone to London himself. Now Fanny lives in dread of the news that Edmund and Miss Crawford will officially be engaged . . .
5.31.2014
Books: Mansfield Park by Jane Austen (Chapters 25–32)
And so Edmund and Miss Crawford can come to no agreement, though there is love on each side. Or whatever passed for love in Regency society. It's so strange, when you think about it. Interactions were limited by propriety, and I'm not saying it's a bad thing, but it's very little to go on when one is thinking about spending the rest of one's life with a person.
There is a ball at Mansfield, too, before William is scheduled to leave. And then Mr Crawford is kind enough to take William to London so that William won't have to go by post chaise or whatever. (To us it's the difference between taking a private car instead of having to ride a public coach.) It turns out Mr Crawford's big plan is to introduce William to his uncle, who is an admiral, and thus promote William's seafaring career. All, it would seem, so as to win Fanny over.
In fact, when Mr Crawford returns from London and is able to bring Fanny the great good news of William having been made a lieutenant, he wastes no time declaring himself and his intentions on the coattails of Fanny's joy and gratitude. But of course Fanny does not love Mr Crawford. She doesn't even trust him because she's seen the way he played with her cousins' affections. And she can hardly believe someone as low as she can have ignited any kind of passion or change in such a man as Mr Crawford appears to be.
When Fanny's uncle, Sir Thomas, hears Fanny's refusal of Crawford, he thinks her willful and ungrateful for such a chance as might never come her way again. And looking at it from Sir Thomas' POV, one could see it must appear really strange. Most girls would jump at such a chance, wouldn't they? But Sir Thomas is logical while Fanny ruled at least in majority by her heart—she has intellect, too, to be sure, but her mind tends to run along her heart lines. And she is not "most girls."
Meanwhile, Edmund has gone off to take orders and Miss Crawford has decided in his absence that she does love him, even if he is a clergyman. She only hopes he hasn't fallen in love with someone else while he's been away. Though, if a man's love is so easily removed and re-fixed based on whomever is nearest him, you probably don't want to marry that guy anyway.
There is a ball at Mansfield, too, before William is scheduled to leave. And then Mr Crawford is kind enough to take William to London so that William won't have to go by post chaise or whatever. (To us it's the difference between taking a private car instead of having to ride a public coach.) It turns out Mr Crawford's big plan is to introduce William to his uncle, who is an admiral, and thus promote William's seafaring career. All, it would seem, so as to win Fanny over.
In fact, when Mr Crawford returns from London and is able to bring Fanny the great good news of William having been made a lieutenant, he wastes no time declaring himself and his intentions on the coattails of Fanny's joy and gratitude. But of course Fanny does not love Mr Crawford. She doesn't even trust him because she's seen the way he played with her cousins' affections. And she can hardly believe someone as low as she can have ignited any kind of passion or change in such a man as Mr Crawford appears to be.
When Fanny's uncle, Sir Thomas, hears Fanny's refusal of Crawford, he thinks her willful and ungrateful for such a chance as might never come her way again. And looking at it from Sir Thomas' POV, one could see it must appear really strange. Most girls would jump at such a chance, wouldn't they? But Sir Thomas is logical while Fanny ruled at least in majority by her heart—she has intellect, too, to be sure, but her mind tends to run along her heart lines. And she is not "most girls."
Meanwhile, Edmund has gone off to take orders and Miss Crawford has decided in his absence that she does love him, even if he is a clergyman. She only hopes he hasn't fallen in love with someone else while he's been away. Though, if a man's love is so easily removed and re-fixed based on whomever is nearest him, you probably don't want to marry that guy anyway.
5.30.2014
Books: Mansfield Park by Jane Austen (Chapters 17–24)
We're now roughly halfway through the book (there are 48 chapters; I checked, not because I was bored and wanting to be done, only because I was curious and wondering whether 8-chapter increments would come out even).
The amateur theatricals had to be given up because Sir Thomas came home. The personal dramas continue.
Maria went ahead and married Rushworth out of a kind of spite when Mr Crawford decamped. Julia went with the Rushworths on their honeymoon. That sounds weird to modern-day readers, but based on what I've read from that era, it wasn't so uncommon. An older, well-situated sister might be able to give a younger sibling a hand up in society, help her find a suitable marriage. Not that Julia couldn't have done—the Bertrams are not low—but it must be nice for her to have a wider field to hunt. So to speak.
Tom has gone off, too, which leaves Fanny and Edmund at home. Fanny accidentally becomes a sort of friend to Miss Crawford, thus facilitating that young lady's and Edmund's connection. Poor Fanny! Caught between enjoying society (even in small scope) for the first time and having to watch Edmund and Miss Crawford work at one another! But I think Fanny would say it's better to know than not know. She'd rather see for herself and judge what their feelings might be than sit at home and wonder what Edmund and Miss Crawford might be saying to or doing with one another.
As for Edmund and Miss Crawford, well, as Edmund comes closer to taking orders (he means to be a clergyman), Miss Crawford becomes increasingly irritated with him. She does not want to marry a clergyman, but she does want to marry Edmund. It cannot be much of a love that can be dictated to by something like income and profession, can it?
And then Mr Crawford returns and decides to take a run at Fanny. Just for a lark. Because she's such a hard nut to crack and unlike her cousins seems indifferent if not averse to him entirely.
But! All Fanny's attention is soon taken up with the fact her beloved brother William, a midshipman, has returned to England and been given leave to visit at Mansfield. And her animation, her show of feeling, captivates Mr Crawford. Now he's sure he must win Fanny over, and he uses kindnesses toward William to do it.
And there's where things stand for the moment.
The amateur theatricals had to be given up because Sir Thomas came home. The personal dramas continue.
Maria went ahead and married Rushworth out of a kind of spite when Mr Crawford decamped. Julia went with the Rushworths on their honeymoon. That sounds weird to modern-day readers, but based on what I've read from that era, it wasn't so uncommon. An older, well-situated sister might be able to give a younger sibling a hand up in society, help her find a suitable marriage. Not that Julia couldn't have done—the Bertrams are not low—but it must be nice for her to have a wider field to hunt. So to speak.
Tom has gone off, too, which leaves Fanny and Edmund at home. Fanny accidentally becomes a sort of friend to Miss Crawford, thus facilitating that young lady's and Edmund's connection. Poor Fanny! Caught between enjoying society (even in small scope) for the first time and having to watch Edmund and Miss Crawford work at one another! But I think Fanny would say it's better to know than not know. She'd rather see for herself and judge what their feelings might be than sit at home and wonder what Edmund and Miss Crawford might be saying to or doing with one another.
As for Edmund and Miss Crawford, well, as Edmund comes closer to taking orders (he means to be a clergyman), Miss Crawford becomes increasingly irritated with him. She does not want to marry a clergyman, but she does want to marry Edmund. It cannot be much of a love that can be dictated to by something like income and profession, can it?
And then Mr Crawford returns and decides to take a run at Fanny. Just for a lark. Because she's such a hard nut to crack and unlike her cousins seems indifferent if not averse to him entirely.
But! All Fanny's attention is soon taken up with the fact her beloved brother William, a midshipman, has returned to England and been given leave to visit at Mansfield. And her animation, her show of feeling, captivates Mr Crawford. Now he's sure he must win Fanny over, and he uses kindnesses toward William to do it.
And there's where things stand for the moment.
5.28.2014
Books: Mansfield Park by Jane Austen (Chapters 9–16)
In which amateur theatrics are occluded by personal dramas.
I have to say, reading this bit felt very familiar, and now I'm wondering if I haven't read this book before after all, or at least part of it.
Anyway, Fanny continues to be a wallflower, the sympathetic and moral entré for readers to use as a spyglass into the doings of Mansfield Park, its inhabitants and environs. I can't like Edmund as much now due to suspect motives. Either he is being blatantly untruthful about his reasons for finally joining the play or he lacks self-awareness, and neither of those is appealing in a person's character. Though he is kind to Fanny . . . He is no kinder to her than he would be to anyone, I don't think? At first I was going to say he wouldn't go out of his way for her, but he has done . . . And yet, I think he would have done for anyone. Edmund acts on his convictions in that way. If Fanny were a family pet (and she is kind of like one), he'd do the same.
It is not surprising that Fanny is so fond of Edmund anyway. I had a cousin who was nice to me, too, and felt very attached to him throughout childhood. Idolized him, really. As an only child, my cousins were the closest I had to siblings, and this cousin was a definite favorite. Because like Fanny I was bookish and quiet and shy, and this cousin—though like Edmund he never went too far out of his way—was always really nice to me. Made sure when his parents bought him a teddy bear that I got one too. That kind of thing.
But, that said, I could almost prefer someone like Tom who, even if his character is not especially savory, he is never anyone other than he asserts himself to be. There is something to be said for honest dealings. Tom is, I suppose, all surface, which would make for bad company in the long term (that is, he'd be useless for intellectual conversation), but if you just want to go out and have fun and not have to think too hard, Tom is your man.
Then there are types like Mr Crawford who toys with the people around him (particularly the women), tiptoeing along the borders of propriety. Hmm. And his sister is the antithesis of Fanny.
In any case, it's a vivid mixture of personalities. I find, the more I read, I can't entirely like anyone. But that's life. We have friends, people we like, and yet there are always things we don't like, even about the people we like . . . If that makes any sense. I suppose good friends are the ones with the least to dislike and it goes out from there. It's all relative. If, for example, Fanny had her brother William with her, would Edmund pale in comparison? Fanny is only attached to Edmund because, relatively speaking, he is the kindest to her and the one nearest in temperament. If there had been anyone else kinder or quieter, she'd have gravitated in that direction. Ha! Maybe people are planets, pulling one another in and turning in orbits around one another.
I have to say, reading this bit felt very familiar, and now I'm wondering if I haven't read this book before after all, or at least part of it.
Anyway, Fanny continues to be a wallflower, the sympathetic and moral entré for readers to use as a spyglass into the doings of Mansfield Park, its inhabitants and environs. I can't like Edmund as much now due to suspect motives. Either he is being blatantly untruthful about his reasons for finally joining the play or he lacks self-awareness, and neither of those is appealing in a person's character. Though he is kind to Fanny . . . He is no kinder to her than he would be to anyone, I don't think? At first I was going to say he wouldn't go out of his way for her, but he has done . . . And yet, I think he would have done for anyone. Edmund acts on his convictions in that way. If Fanny were a family pet (and she is kind of like one), he'd do the same.
It is not surprising that Fanny is so fond of Edmund anyway. I had a cousin who was nice to me, too, and felt very attached to him throughout childhood. Idolized him, really. As an only child, my cousins were the closest I had to siblings, and this cousin was a definite favorite. Because like Fanny I was bookish and quiet and shy, and this cousin—though like Edmund he never went too far out of his way—was always really nice to me. Made sure when his parents bought him a teddy bear that I got one too. That kind of thing.
But, that said, I could almost prefer someone like Tom who, even if his character is not especially savory, he is never anyone other than he asserts himself to be. There is something to be said for honest dealings. Tom is, I suppose, all surface, which would make for bad company in the long term (that is, he'd be useless for intellectual conversation), but if you just want to go out and have fun and not have to think too hard, Tom is your man.
Then there are types like Mr Crawford who toys with the people around him (particularly the women), tiptoeing along the borders of propriety. Hmm. And his sister is the antithesis of Fanny.
In any case, it's a vivid mixture of personalities. I find, the more I read, I can't entirely like anyone. But that's life. We have friends, people we like, and yet there are always things we don't like, even about the people we like . . . If that makes any sense. I suppose good friends are the ones with the least to dislike and it goes out from there. It's all relative. If, for example, Fanny had her brother William with her, would Edmund pale in comparison? Fanny is only attached to Edmund because, relatively speaking, he is the kindest to her and the one nearest in temperament. If there had been anyone else kinder or quieter, she'd have gravitated in that direction. Ha! Maybe people are planets, pulling one another in and turning in orbits around one another.
5.26.2014
Books: Mansfield Park by Jane Austen (Chapters 1–8)
I went to Half Price Books the other day and picked up a couple of used copies of Mansfield Park and Northanger Abbey. You see, I've read Pride & Prejudice, and Emma, and Sense & Sensibility. And I've subsequently seen various film and/or television adaptations of these. But I have not read nor seen Mansfield Park, Northanger Abbey, or Persuasion. And while Persuasion was the one I was most interested in, HPB did not have a copy. Surprising! But I bought the other two.
I'm now eight chapters into Mansfield Park. I like it. But then I've liked everything by Jane Austen so far, so it's not surprising that I like this one too. I do feel sorry for Fanny. She's a bit of a ninny, but I think it's only the situation that makes her thus; I get the strong feeling she was quite capable in her life before being remanded to Mansfield, and it's only in the uprooting and transplanting that she's become stunted, a bit wilted. She's a sensitive thing, and I'm glad for Edmund who, though not quite as attentive as he could be, is more so than most.
I do not quite follow Fanny's health issues, the need to horseback ride and the difficulties with too much walking? I have to take Austen at her word there. Maybe it is because I walk quite a bit and suffer ill health when I don't walk . . . I can walk all day quite heartily, have been known to wear my companions out with walking. Jogging I can't suffer, but walking pleases me no end. And of course riding, too, when I get the chance. Though what I really enjoy is swimming. Don't get to do that nearly enough.
Anyway, all that aside, poor Fanny is so often neglected and overlooked and undervalued, I do feel bad for her. And Austen is so good at drawing characters. One knows exactly what type of person each of these characters is, all the little subtleties of personality show so clearly through Austen's prose. They've just made a party to Sotherton, and Fanny is of course delighted to be invited, but one wonders how she will do in company when so far she has always been left out? Don't ruin it for me, mind. I'm so enjoying reading it.
Fanny's fallback position seems to be to keep to herself, and she's often enough left to herself that this seems to be preferable on all fronts. But surely something must come along to prompt or motivate her? The whole book cannot be about Fanny sitting back and watching everything happening around her. Can it?
Or maybe I'm bringing too modern a sensibility to the story. Maybe Fanny watching all the goings-on is exactly what this book is. I guess I'll find out.
I'm now eight chapters into Mansfield Park. I like it. But then I've liked everything by Jane Austen so far, so it's not surprising that I like this one too. I do feel sorry for Fanny. She's a bit of a ninny, but I think it's only the situation that makes her thus; I get the strong feeling she was quite capable in her life before being remanded to Mansfield, and it's only in the uprooting and transplanting that she's become stunted, a bit wilted. She's a sensitive thing, and I'm glad for Edmund who, though not quite as attentive as he could be, is more so than most.
I do not quite follow Fanny's health issues, the need to horseback ride and the difficulties with too much walking? I have to take Austen at her word there. Maybe it is because I walk quite a bit and suffer ill health when I don't walk . . . I can walk all day quite heartily, have been known to wear my companions out with walking. Jogging I can't suffer, but walking pleases me no end. And of course riding, too, when I get the chance. Though what I really enjoy is swimming. Don't get to do that nearly enough.
Anyway, all that aside, poor Fanny is so often neglected and overlooked and undervalued, I do feel bad for her. And Austen is so good at drawing characters. One knows exactly what type of person each of these characters is, all the little subtleties of personality show so clearly through Austen's prose. They've just made a party to Sotherton, and Fanny is of course delighted to be invited, but one wonders how she will do in company when so far she has always been left out? Don't ruin it for me, mind. I'm so enjoying reading it.
Fanny's fallback position seems to be to keep to herself, and she's often enough left to herself that this seems to be preferable on all fronts. But surely something must come along to prompt or motivate her? The whole book cannot be about Fanny sitting back and watching everything happening around her. Can it?
Or maybe I'm bringing too modern a sensibility to the story. Maybe Fanny watching all the goings-on is exactly what this book is. I guess I'll find out.
4.22.2014
Books: Rebecca by Daphne du Maurier
They say there is a "moment" for bibliophiles and authors . . . Something—a book, usually—sparks something within them, and it is a moment they always remember, a kind of literary turning point, I suppose. What it accomplishes is a personal matter; some say, "That was when I knew I wanted to be a writer" and some say, "That was when my world view changed" or something of that ilk. For me, it's very difficult to articulate—and that's saying something given my job is to articulate. I'm not sure what exactly shifted, but something did.
I've been reading and writing since I was three. I taught myself out of sheer boredom. My parents are both avid readers themselves, and I'm an only child; there simply wasn't much to do besides read or write and draw. Well, and listen to the stereo. I did a lot of that, too.
And I loved to read, and I loved to write. I don't know that I thought I would be "a writer," but I was pretty sure I would always write, even just for my own amusement or to share stories with my friends.
But anyway, my sophomore year of high school I got very, very ill. This was right before the mid-term break. And I was home in bed, drifting in and out of drug-induced delirium. Seriously, I was pretty damn sick. (That's me; I'm healthy as a horse until I'm not, but when I'm sick, I'm really sick.)
I was determined to try and keep up with some of my schoolwork though. Exams were coming and I didn't want to have to make up a bunch of stuff. And for Lit class we had a reading list; we could choose books from it and then we'd take a test on whichever book we'd chosen to read. Rebecca was on that list.
I'd enjoyed a lot of Victoria Holt's gothic stuff, and reading the description of Rebecca, I thought it was much the same kind of thing. I'm not even sure where I got the copy of the book I ended up reading; it was a yellowed paperback with a pinkish cover. It might have come from the used bookstore my mother and I frequented, or maybe from the library—they had a section in the back corner filled with donated old paperbacks that were free for people to just take, no need to return them. A kind of lending library or swap or something. Many of my paperbacks came from there.
If you don't know the story of Rebecca, well, there are lots of sites that can summarize it for you. In short, it's a gothic novel about a woman who becomes Maxim de Winter's second wife and is haunted by his first wife, the titular Rebecca, who died tragically. It's a fantastic book in its own right, but read it while very ill and hopped up on goofballs, and it's amazing.
So while I can't say Rebecca made me want to become a writer or anything . . . It left a definite impression on me. Maybe because of my age at the time (I was 15), maybe because I was semi-delusional and living on crackers and Sprite (toast when I was feeling adventurous), maybe just the weird cycle of reading a bit, falling asleep, waking up and reading some more . . . The fog in my head matched the fog in the protagonist's mind, and in some strange way it was like living in the book.
I now own a really nice hardbound copy of Rebecca, but I do still wonder where that tattered old paperback ever got to. And I never did read it again, either. I've wanted to, but something in me refuses to taint my original experience. So when in a Gothic Lit class at uni we were required to read Rebecca, I did not. I simply worked to remember what I could of the story and that served.
It's a great book, though. For anyone who hasn't read it, I highly recommend it.
I've been reading and writing since I was three. I taught myself out of sheer boredom. My parents are both avid readers themselves, and I'm an only child; there simply wasn't much to do besides read or write and draw. Well, and listen to the stereo. I did a lot of that, too.
And I loved to read, and I loved to write. I don't know that I thought I would be "a writer," but I was pretty sure I would always write, even just for my own amusement or to share stories with my friends.
But anyway, my sophomore year of high school I got very, very ill. This was right before the mid-term break. And I was home in bed, drifting in and out of drug-induced delirium. Seriously, I was pretty damn sick. (That's me; I'm healthy as a horse until I'm not, but when I'm sick, I'm really sick.)
I was determined to try and keep up with some of my schoolwork though. Exams were coming and I didn't want to have to make up a bunch of stuff. And for Lit class we had a reading list; we could choose books from it and then we'd take a test on whichever book we'd chosen to read. Rebecca was on that list.
I'd enjoyed a lot of Victoria Holt's gothic stuff, and reading the description of Rebecca, I thought it was much the same kind of thing. I'm not even sure where I got the copy of the book I ended up reading; it was a yellowed paperback with a pinkish cover. It might have come from the used bookstore my mother and I frequented, or maybe from the library—they had a section in the back corner filled with donated old paperbacks that were free for people to just take, no need to return them. A kind of lending library or swap or something. Many of my paperbacks came from there.
If you don't know the story of Rebecca, well, there are lots of sites that can summarize it for you. In short, it's a gothic novel about a woman who becomes Maxim de Winter's second wife and is haunted by his first wife, the titular Rebecca, who died tragically. It's a fantastic book in its own right, but read it while very ill and hopped up on goofballs, and it's amazing.
So while I can't say Rebecca made me want to become a writer or anything . . . It left a definite impression on me. Maybe because of my age at the time (I was 15), maybe because I was semi-delusional and living on crackers and Sprite (toast when I was feeling adventurous), maybe just the weird cycle of reading a bit, falling asleep, waking up and reading some more . . . The fog in my head matched the fog in the protagonist's mind, and in some strange way it was like living in the book.
I now own a really nice hardbound copy of Rebecca, but I do still wonder where that tattered old paperback ever got to. And I never did read it again, either. I've wanted to, but something in me refuses to taint my original experience. So when in a Gothic Lit class at uni we were required to read Rebecca, I did not. I simply worked to remember what I could of the story and that served.
It's a great book, though. For anyone who hasn't read it, I highly recommend it.
3.05.2014
Books: Correspondence: An Adventure in Letters by N. John Hall
I've written a couple times about how I struggled a bit with this book. It had been well reviewed and came highly recommended, and I'll grant that it was unique and cute. The major barrier, for me, was the character Larry, who I found a tad obnoxious.
Let me first explain the book. It is epistolary in nature, which I guess is meant to be clever in a way since it is a bunch of letters about a bunch of letters. This Larry character writes to Christie's in London regarding some old letters from Victorian authors that he found in his great-great-grandfather's belongings. A man at Christie's named Stephen responds and the two strike up a—aha!—correspondence that discusses these letters from Dickens, Trollope, Thackeray, and the like.
Larry writes the bulk of the letters. Or maybe he writes just as many but his are much longer. And while Hall definitely gives Larry a distinct voice, I can't say I much liked him. He wasn't unkind or anything—he was, in fact almost too personable—but I found him grating. While Stephen urged Larry to please send the letters to Christie's for review, Larry insisted on making personal transcriptions and so on and so forth . . . And then he decided he needed to read some of these Victorian novels . . . And take a class on them . . . So that he was e-mailing Stephen all about the books and the class, and everything sort of got bogged down because Stephen really had little to say in return. I think if Stephen had better held up his end of this "conversation," the book might have been more interesting and it would have cut Larry's overpowering of the narrative.
I had thought when I started reading that at some point we'd get to the Victorian letters, but aside from some transcriptions Larry sends to Stephen via e-mail, we never see/read them. In retrospect, I suppose it would be a bit much to write faux letters from all these famous authors. But it meant I really was stuck with Larry throughout the book when I had expected at some point to be free of him.
And then the ending felt oddly rushed. Though it was satisfactory.
I didn't much like the typeface the book was set in, either. It's a lovely typeface, really, just not ideal for so much text. But that's just personal preference. (And then again, I did work in publishing, do have a degree in publishing, and did take book design. So it's also an informed opinion.) The size of the typeface made it seem like they were working to make the book long enough. That is, the print was set pretty large. It was kind of strange.
But I don't mean to harp or nitpick. I really don't. If anything, I can say I haven't read anything quite like Correspondence, at least not recently. Epistolary novels are not that common any more. And they are kind of fun. At least I can say this book was a different kind of experience from the norm.
Let me first explain the book. It is epistolary in nature, which I guess is meant to be clever in a way since it is a bunch of letters about a bunch of letters. This Larry character writes to Christie's in London regarding some old letters from Victorian authors that he found in his great-great-grandfather's belongings. A man at Christie's named Stephen responds and the two strike up a—aha!—correspondence that discusses these letters from Dickens, Trollope, Thackeray, and the like.
Larry writes the bulk of the letters. Or maybe he writes just as many but his are much longer. And while Hall definitely gives Larry a distinct voice, I can't say I much liked him. He wasn't unkind or anything—he was, in fact almost too personable—but I found him grating. While Stephen urged Larry to please send the letters to Christie's for review, Larry insisted on making personal transcriptions and so on and so forth . . . And then he decided he needed to read some of these Victorian novels . . . And take a class on them . . . So that he was e-mailing Stephen all about the books and the class, and everything sort of got bogged down because Stephen really had little to say in return. I think if Stephen had better held up his end of this "conversation," the book might have been more interesting and it would have cut Larry's overpowering of the narrative.
I had thought when I started reading that at some point we'd get to the Victorian letters, but aside from some transcriptions Larry sends to Stephen via e-mail, we never see/read them. In retrospect, I suppose it would be a bit much to write faux letters from all these famous authors. But it meant I really was stuck with Larry throughout the book when I had expected at some point to be free of him.
And then the ending felt oddly rushed. Though it was satisfactory.
I didn't much like the typeface the book was set in, either. It's a lovely typeface, really, just not ideal for so much text. But that's just personal preference. (And then again, I did work in publishing, do have a degree in publishing, and did take book design. So it's also an informed opinion.) The size of the typeface made it seem like they were working to make the book long enough. That is, the print was set pretty large. It was kind of strange.
But I don't mean to harp or nitpick. I really don't. If anything, I can say I haven't read anything quite like Correspondence, at least not recently. Epistolary novels are not that common any more. And they are kind of fun. At least I can say this book was a different kind of experience from the norm.
12.07.2013
Music: Classical
I don't know much about classical music. I can name some of the famous composers: Bach, Beethoven, Mozart, Wagner, Handel, Mahler . . . I know I'm missing a lot of them. Like, a lot. But that's because I've always mostly avoided classical music.
Why?
Because when I listen to it—I mean, really sit down and listen—I dislike the effect it has on me. It moves me more than I like. "Pomp and Circumstance" reduces me to tears every time. No idea why. And that's not even the really old classical stuff, but still. Classical (or maybe orchestral) music weirds me out.
This isn't true of, say, movie soundtrack music. I have many John Williams and Bruce Broughton CDs and all that and I don't sob when I hear any of it.
When I was in high school they arranged for the Honors students to visit the Meyerson Symphony Center, which was still pretty new at the time. It was exciting because we all got dressed up (I'll never forget, I wore black velvet) and went to listen. And I love music. I love the pictures it paints in my mind. But classical music does something to my insides that not just any kind of music seems able to do. And that night I sat and listened and then found myself having to focus on all the old people sitting around us—one of them was trying to surreptitiously unwrap peppermints or toffees or something—to keep from falling apart in front of all my classmates.
People may think I have a hard heart, but I don't. I have a very guarded one.
Anyway, today I have been listening to some Mozart and some Beethoven, and I have not been crying because I've been tuning a lot of it out as I write. But I've at least discovered I prefer Beethoven to Mozart. I like them both, I guess, but I like Beethoven more. That seems like a good thing to know about oneself, and it's a step, albeit a tiny one, in dipping myself into classical music. A kind of therapy, maybe. You know, where small amounts of exposure to something helps cure you of the phobia or whatever? Like that.
What shall I try next, I wonder?
Why?
Because when I listen to it—I mean, really sit down and listen—I dislike the effect it has on me. It moves me more than I like. "Pomp and Circumstance" reduces me to tears every time. No idea why. And that's not even the really old classical stuff, but still. Classical (or maybe orchestral) music weirds me out.
This isn't true of, say, movie soundtrack music. I have many John Williams and Bruce Broughton CDs and all that and I don't sob when I hear any of it.
When I was in high school they arranged for the Honors students to visit the Meyerson Symphony Center, which was still pretty new at the time. It was exciting because we all got dressed up (I'll never forget, I wore black velvet) and went to listen. And I love music. I love the pictures it paints in my mind. But classical music does something to my insides that not just any kind of music seems able to do. And that night I sat and listened and then found myself having to focus on all the old people sitting around us—one of them was trying to surreptitiously unwrap peppermints or toffees or something—to keep from falling apart in front of all my classmates.
People may think I have a hard heart, but I don't. I have a very guarded one.
Anyway, today I have been listening to some Mozart and some Beethoven, and I have not been crying because I've been tuning a lot of it out as I write. But I've at least discovered I prefer Beethoven to Mozart. I like them both, I guess, but I like Beethoven more. That seems like a good thing to know about oneself, and it's a step, albeit a tiny one, in dipping myself into classical music. A kind of therapy, maybe. You know, where small amounts of exposure to something helps cure you of the phobia or whatever? Like that.
What shall I try next, I wonder?
9.08.2013
Books: Howards End (Part V)
I finally finished!
And it wasn't that the book was a slog or anything; I've just been very busy. (I've got Richard Marx's "I Get No Sleep" stuck in my head these days . . .)
Howards End has a plot in it somewhere—there's a story, if you can read through all the embedded ideals and philosophies, and get past the thick descriptions of England itself. Forster does a lovely job with all these things, of course, but when you get down to the actual story, it's very thin. It doesn't have to be; Forster could have expanded it. But that doesn't seem to have been his aim.
What do we learn from Forster in Howards End? That who owns a house has less to do with the deed and more to do with attachment, I suppose. Emotional connection. Some people are attached to things, to property, because they are materialistic, and it makes them feel good about themselves to own houses and cars and whatever else. Somehow this makes them feel secure. It gives them a definite place in the social hierarchy and becomes how they define themselves. But the emotional connection in these instances is one supported by fear—fear of not having, of going without. These people are like squirrels storing up nuts against a cold winter.
Then there are people who form attachments to things for other, more ephemeral reasons. A place "speaks" to them. And this emotional connection develops out of love and understanding. There is a commune, an unspoken dialogue between the person and the place (or the tree, or whatever other thing the person has become attached to). Yes, even if it is a house or country to which you have no family connection, you may fall in love with it as with another person and know you are meant to be together.
There are other themes in the book, ones I've written about in previous posts. The practical people in the world being at odds with the idealists. And yet one cannot do without the other, not really. If the world were all idealists, we'd have a great many thoughts but difficulty putting them to any practice. And if it were all practical types, we'd never make any progress because we'd all be devoted to just doing what we've always done, the way we've always done it. The best sorts of people are able to do both to some extent, I guess. Or the best couples are the ones who balance one another out. But one cannot go through life unchanged, either. Margaret's marriage necessarily changes the way she sees and does things, at least a bit. And Helen is also changed, affected by Margaret's marriage and also by her own pregnancy, which forces her to be more practical than she had been.
As for Howards End itself, I'm glad to be able to say they do eventually go there, and so finally a swath of the book takes place in the titular location. But still, it's mostly an ideal in the form of a place. So are all the locations in the book, I think. And maybe that's true in the world. Maybe places—houses—are ideals made flesh. I'm pretty sure I've seen or read things about the "rhetoric of architecture" or whatever. Houses might be the skins of families and the people who live in them the organs functioning within. Or something like that.
I did enjoy the book, though I'll choose something lighter for my next read. Because while I don't mind being made to think—I like that, actually—Forster laid it all on rather thickly. Reading Howards End was a bit like eating something heavy and dense. So now I'll go in search of something sweet and fluffy . . .
And it wasn't that the book was a slog or anything; I've just been very busy. (I've got Richard Marx's "I Get No Sleep" stuck in my head these days . . .)
Howards End has a plot in it somewhere—there's a story, if you can read through all the embedded ideals and philosophies, and get past the thick descriptions of England itself. Forster does a lovely job with all these things, of course, but when you get down to the actual story, it's very thin. It doesn't have to be; Forster could have expanded it. But that doesn't seem to have been his aim.
What do we learn from Forster in Howards End? That who owns a house has less to do with the deed and more to do with attachment, I suppose. Emotional connection. Some people are attached to things, to property, because they are materialistic, and it makes them feel good about themselves to own houses and cars and whatever else. Somehow this makes them feel secure. It gives them a definite place in the social hierarchy and becomes how they define themselves. But the emotional connection in these instances is one supported by fear—fear of not having, of going without. These people are like squirrels storing up nuts against a cold winter.
Then there are people who form attachments to things for other, more ephemeral reasons. A place "speaks" to them. And this emotional connection develops out of love and understanding. There is a commune, an unspoken dialogue between the person and the place (or the tree, or whatever other thing the person has become attached to). Yes, even if it is a house or country to which you have no family connection, you may fall in love with it as with another person and know you are meant to be together.
There are other themes in the book, ones I've written about in previous posts. The practical people in the world being at odds with the idealists. And yet one cannot do without the other, not really. If the world were all idealists, we'd have a great many thoughts but difficulty putting them to any practice. And if it were all practical types, we'd never make any progress because we'd all be devoted to just doing what we've always done, the way we've always done it. The best sorts of people are able to do both to some extent, I guess. Or the best couples are the ones who balance one another out. But one cannot go through life unchanged, either. Margaret's marriage necessarily changes the way she sees and does things, at least a bit. And Helen is also changed, affected by Margaret's marriage and also by her own pregnancy, which forces her to be more practical than she had been.
As for Howards End itself, I'm glad to be able to say they do eventually go there, and so finally a swath of the book takes place in the titular location. But still, it's mostly an ideal in the form of a place. So are all the locations in the book, I think. And maybe that's true in the world. Maybe places—houses—are ideals made flesh. I'm pretty sure I've seen or read things about the "rhetoric of architecture" or whatever. Houses might be the skins of families and the people who live in them the organs functioning within. Or something like that.
I did enjoy the book, though I'll choose something lighter for my next read. Because while I don't mind being made to think—I like that, actually—Forster laid it all on rather thickly. Reading Howards End was a bit like eating something heavy and dense. So now I'll go in search of something sweet and fluffy . . .
9.06.2013
Books: Howards End (Part IV)
I am very nearly finished with this book now, having just entered Chapter 33. Margaret is now married to Henry Wilcox, though the security and stability she was seeking in the match is somewhat elusive.
Let's look at it this way: Margaret agreed to marry Henry at a time in which she was also looking for a permanent residence because the house she and her siblings had lived in was to be demolished. In marrying Henry, Margaret had the expectation of a permanent home (or maybe more than one) as part of the deal. However, Henry refuses to live at Howards End, and he sells the other house Margaret likes (Oniton), and they end up in a house in London that neither of them seems to see as a "forever" kind of residence, so . . .
Anyway, it gets mentioned in passing that they decide to build a house. Is that a metaphor for marriage? Building something new rather than inhabiting something old?
Well, then the metaphor surely extends to the fact that Margaret's old furniture ends up in storage at Howards End. Here is the young bride already forfeiting what is hers in favor of what is Henry's, and supposedly what will become "theirs" at some point.
And Margaret must necessarily change as well. If Helen is idealism and Henry is practicality, Margaret, who started more on the side of Helen, now shuttles between the two, working to find a balance that will serve not only her needs but the needs of those around her. She now filters her high ideals through Henry's practical, rational sieve. In some ways this is obvious manipulation—Margaret has not changed the way she thinks so much as the way she behaves because she instinctively knows how to "handle" Henry. And this is not a mean thing; she actively works to preserve what she sees as Henry's fragile personality. For all his bombast, he has definite chinks in his armor.
Helen, of course, sees Margaret's marriage to Henry as a defection. And to add to that, poor Mr. Bast is dragged into things when he loses his job after having followed advice from Helen and Margaret—advice they received from Henry and duly passed on, thinking they were doing Mr. Bast some good. Helen is determined that Henry should make things right because he is directly (in her view) responsible for Mr. Bast's situation. Alas, Mrs. Bast comes along for this encounter and it is discovered that she was, some ten years before, Henry's mistress.
It might all be very soap operatic except somehow Forster prevents that from happening. He is too busy talking about England and ideals to suds up the story much. While Margaret and Helen are drawn with much detail, the other characters are such a sketch that it is difficult to get inside them. Margaret and Helen might as well live in a world of ghosts, the way they walk dreamily through things happening around them.
And as for the titular location, well, as I've said I've just started Chapter 33, and Margaret is just now returning to check on her things that have been stored there. So I guess we'll see . . .
Let's look at it this way: Margaret agreed to marry Henry at a time in which she was also looking for a permanent residence because the house she and her siblings had lived in was to be demolished. In marrying Henry, Margaret had the expectation of a permanent home (or maybe more than one) as part of the deal. However, Henry refuses to live at Howards End, and he sells the other house Margaret likes (Oniton), and they end up in a house in London that neither of them seems to see as a "forever" kind of residence, so . . .
Anyway, it gets mentioned in passing that they decide to build a house. Is that a metaphor for marriage? Building something new rather than inhabiting something old?
Well, then the metaphor surely extends to the fact that Margaret's old furniture ends up in storage at Howards End. Here is the young bride already forfeiting what is hers in favor of what is Henry's, and supposedly what will become "theirs" at some point.
And Margaret must necessarily change as well. If Helen is idealism and Henry is practicality, Margaret, who started more on the side of Helen, now shuttles between the two, working to find a balance that will serve not only her needs but the needs of those around her. She now filters her high ideals through Henry's practical, rational sieve. In some ways this is obvious manipulation—Margaret has not changed the way she thinks so much as the way she behaves because she instinctively knows how to "handle" Henry. And this is not a mean thing; she actively works to preserve what she sees as Henry's fragile personality. For all his bombast, he has definite chinks in his armor.
Helen, of course, sees Margaret's marriage to Henry as a defection. And to add to that, poor Mr. Bast is dragged into things when he loses his job after having followed advice from Helen and Margaret—advice they received from Henry and duly passed on, thinking they were doing Mr. Bast some good. Helen is determined that Henry should make things right because he is directly (in her view) responsible for Mr. Bast's situation. Alas, Mrs. Bast comes along for this encounter and it is discovered that she was, some ten years before, Henry's mistress.
It might all be very soap operatic except somehow Forster prevents that from happening. He is too busy talking about England and ideals to suds up the story much. While Margaret and Helen are drawn with much detail, the other characters are such a sketch that it is difficult to get inside them. Margaret and Helen might as well live in a world of ghosts, the way they walk dreamily through things happening around them.
And as for the titular location, well, as I've said I've just started Chapter 33, and Margaret is just now returning to check on her things that have been stored there. So I guess we'll see . . .
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