A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man by James Joyce (36 down 64 to go)

You are an artist, are you not, Mr. Dedalus?...The object of the artist is the creation of the beautiful. What the beautiful is is another question.

This was the first time I’ve read A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, and the second novel I've read by Joyce. This novel is in the modernist style, using free indirect speech, and set in late 19th, early 20th century Ireland. The story is exactly what the title asserts, the tale of an artist’s life and development or Künstlerroman.

 

My rating: 3 1/2 of 5 stars

 

I’ve been dreading this book, as I disliked my previous experience with Joyce, but my dread was for naught. I enjoyed A Portrait of the Artist. It isn’t a favorite, but it has some beautiful prose, and was much easier to read than Ulysses. If you’ve ever thought of tackling Ulysses, I’d recommend reading A Portrait of the Artist first.

 

The artist, is Stephen Dedalus whose destiny was to be elusive of social or religious orders. Dedalus is the alter ego of the author, who tells the tale in only five chapters. Chapter one begins with possibly Stephen’s earliest conscious thoughts, of rhymes probably told by his mother. It takes him through school days at a Jesuit school, where he is not very popular until he is wrongfully punished by one of the priests. He becomes a hero, when he complains to the rector and receives vindication.

 

In chapter two, Stephen is older (thank you Captain Obvious). Joyce seldom sets the precise date or Stephens’s age, so the reader is left to infer. Financial difficulties force a move to new home and school. By the end of the chapter, probably in his late teens, Stephen roams the streets of Dublin and encounters a prostitute resulting in his first sexual experience.

 

In chapter three Stephen revels for a bit in a hedonistic lifestyle, only occasionally burdened by his sin. But during a retreat at his school one of the priests gives a terrifying portrayal of hell, and Stephen in fear for his immortal soul, repents, and amends his ways.

 

In chapter four the reader sees his piety is sincere and he is for the most part at peace, though he still has doubts from time to time. He is recognized for his devotion, and one of the priests invites him to consider the priesthood. Stephen is at first thrilled and honored, but becomes less and less enamored with the austere lifestyle; he has an epiphany, and decides he is not meant to join the Holy Order. This too brings a sense of peace, and is one of Stephen’s first independent decisions: 

...independent of familial, national, and religious ties that have influenced him thus far.

 

The end he had been born to serve yet did not see had led him to escape by an unseen path and now it beckoned to him once more and a new adventure was about to be opened to him.

 

Chapter five was my favorite chapter. It begins with Stephen at home, the family still in financial straits, and concludes with Stephen at university. He is intellectually superior to at least one of his professors, and certainly to most of his fellow students. They love to engage in rhetoric and debate, self-satisfied with their own wit and wisdom. Much of the discourse is vain and pretentious, for example one states: 

 

And as you remark, if it is thus, I ask emphatically whence comes this thusness?

 

Most importantly, Stephen and one of his friends Cranly, break away and have a long discussion about Stephen’s revolt against religion. Cranly is a good friend. He doesn’t necessarily try to persuade Stephen one way or another, but asks him questions that force Stephen to understand himself and his own values.

 

Cranly tells Stephen that many religious people overcome doubts of faith. He then asks Stephen, 

 

Are your doubts on that point too strong?

 

Stephen answers: 

 

I do not wish to overcome them.

 

 

The final pages are Stephen’s diary entries. Stephen has decided to escape Ireland, for the continent, and pursue his passion as a poet and writer. The second to final entry: 

Welcome, O life, I go to encounter for the millionth time the reality of experience and to forge in the smithy of my soul the uncreated conscience of my race.

 

The final entry:

 

Old father, old artificer, stand me now and ever in good stead. 

This is probably an allusion to Daedalus from Greek mythology, the father of Icarus, and master craftsman (artificer), who fashioned wings for himself and Icarus to escape imprisonment. Joyce loves allusions to Greek mythology. The entirety of Ulysses after all parallels Homer’s epic poem, Odyssey. Ulysses is the Latinized version of the name of Odysseus.

 

I wish I had read A Portrait of the Artist before Ulysses. I think I would have appreciated Ulysses more, and I certainly would have understood Joyce better.

 

A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man is not strictly autobiographical, or even semi-autobiographical, but the main character, Stephen Dedalus is generally accepted to be Joyce’s fictional alter ego. I also think it is not truly a prequel to Ulysses. Stephen does appear in both novels, but he is not the central figure of Ulysses, whereas he is the only primary character in A Portrait of the Artist.

 

Finally, and probably the main reason I liked it better than Ulysses, A Portrait of the Artist is not written in stream of consciousness. It is narrated mostly in free indirect speech. They are similar, but I find the latter much easier to follow, and much more enjoyable. A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man is also considerably shorter.

 

Excerpts:

 

Christmas vacation was very far away: but one time it would come because the earth moved round always. ~ school boy Stephen

 

When you kick out for yourself, Stephen…as I daresay you will one of these days…remember, whatever you do, to mix with gentlemen. When I was a young fellow I tell you I enjoyed myself. I mixed with fine decent fellows. Everyone of us could do something. One fellow had a good voice, another fellow was a good actor, another could sing a good comic song, another was a good oarsman or a good racket player, another could tell a good story and so on. We kept the ball rolling anyhow and enjoyed ourselves and saw a bit of life and we were none the worse of it either. But we were all gentlemen, Stephen…at least I hope we were…and bloody good honest Irishmen too. ~ advice from Stephen’s father

 

Disheartened, he raised his eyes towards the slow-drifting clouds, dappled and seaborne. They were voyaging across the deserts of the sky, a host of nomads on the march, voyaging high over Ireland, westward bound. The Europe they had come from lay out there beyond the Irish Sea, Europe of strange tongues and valleyed and woodbegirt and citadelled and of entrenched and marshalled races. He heard a confused music within him as of memories and names which he was almost conscious of but could not capture even for an instant; then the music seemed to recede, to recede, to recede, and from each receding trail of nebulous music there fell always one longdrawn calling note, piercing like a star the dusk of silence, Again! Again! Again! A voice from beyond the world was calling. ~ Stephen’s thoughts

 

She was alone and still, gazing out to sea; and when she felt his presence and the worship of his eyes her eyes turned to him in quiet sufferance of his gaze, without shame or wantonness. Long, long she suffered his gaze and then quietly withdrew her eyes from his and bent them towards the stream, gently stirring the water with her foot hither and thither. The first faint noise of gently moving water broke the silence, low and faint and whispering, faint as the bells of sleep; hither and thither, hither and thither; and a faint flame trembled on her cheek. ~ Stephen’s thoughts of a young girl he was watching by the seashore

 

There is an art in lighting a fire. We have the liberal arts and we have the useful arts. This is one of the useful arts. ~ One of Stephen’s teacher priests

 

…the true and the beautiful are akin. Truth is beheld by the intellect which is appeased by the most satisfying relations of the intelligible; beauty is beheld by the imagination which is appeased by the most satisfying relations of the sensible. ~ Stephen

 

Look at him!...Look at Ireland’s hope! ~ A university friend, referring to Stephen

 

I tried to love God…It seems now I failed. It is very difficult. I tried to unite my will with the will of God instant by instant. In that I did not always fail. I could perhaps do that still. ~ Stephen

 

Whatever else is unsure in this stinking dunghill of a world a mother’s love is not. ~ Cranly

 

References to other Great Novels:

 

Teen Stephen reads The Count of Monte Cristo

 

Stephen and school mates debate whether Victor Hugo is the greatest French writer.

 

Stephen mentions Dante Alighieri in a journal entry.

 

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Move the Stars (and let the bears be)

I collect quotations. One I particularly like by Gustave Flaubert: human speech is like a cracked tin kettle, on which we hammer out tunes to make bears dance, when we long to move the stars.

I love this quotation. It is lyrical and poignant. So, I added it to my collection a few years ago, not knowing who Gustave Flaubert was or the context, until I read Madame Bovary, and there it was. I was happy to find it in context, and it caused me to think about words.

Because I’m a logophile. And because something happened recently, in the world of words, that bothered me.

The Merriam-Webster English dictionary now lists the second definition of LITERALLY as: in effect :  VIRTUALLY

And civilization as we know it has LITERALLY come to an end.

Well not truly literally...but yes literally, because literally can now mean virtually. And my head is going to literally explode.

Ok, given the readership of my blog, you probably get it and probably feel much the same, and I should quit...but it just MAKES...ME...WANT...TO...SCREAM!

Literally!

Ah words! More precisely language. I believe the English language is evolving and devolving. While the evolution is good and natural, I lament the devolution. An increasing body of knowledge, new discovery, and new technology make new words necessary. We have more words today than 100 years ago, or even a generation ago. However, while the sheer number of words is undoubtedly greater, I believe many people have a poorer command of the English language than our predecessors.

New words are necessary and validated by common accepted use, such as selfie and hashtag. I get it.

But literally meaning virtually is incorrect and should not be accepted no matter how commonly it is misused.

People know hard drive, bling bling, and plasma screen, but if you say to the average high school graduate I have very eclectic taste in music or the conversation was rather esoteric or some words are now considered archaic you may very well get a wrinkled nose, stupefied expression. In my opinion we are moving towards Orwellian Newspeak, where our many redundant words such as: big, large, huge, giant, enormous, etc. and their antonyms: small, tiny, little, puny, etc. are replaced with a single word, plus prefix and suffix. One root word covers the entire gamut: big, bigger, biggest, unbig, unbigger, and unbiggest.

The pragmatic within me thinks this is brilliant and efficient, but the poet finds it harsh and ugly. I don't believe efficiency in language ought to be our goal, but rather efficacy. I don't believe anyone is actually advocating Newspeak, but we have dumbed down the language. We default to the simplest word. Why bother with words like aroma, fragrance, odor, scent, when smell works in every instance. It works; just not as well. There are subtle differences and speech can be more evocative with a small word change. A young man may tell his date she smells nice, but he will probably get a better response if he says, that’s a beautiful fragrance you’re wearing. Isn’t it more descript to speak of a flower’s scent, a locker room’s odor, or dinner’s aroma, than merely their smell?

Consider an excerpt from the Declaration of Independence: Such has been the patient sufferance of these Colonies; and such is now the necessity which constrains them to alter their former Systems of Government. The history of the present King of Great Britain [George III] is a history of repeated injuries and usurpations, all having in direct object the establishment of an absolute Tyranny over these States. To prove this, let Facts be submitted to a candid world.

Today this would probably read: Therefore we must change our system of government. King George has repeatedly and intentionally abused us. Here is the proof.

Maybe I was born in the wrong century. I read Thomas Jefferson’s argument or Jane Austen’s dialogue and I lament the devolution of English. Language should evolve. New words are necessary, but must we sacrifice the elegance of language in order for our brains to accommodate more words?

Language is not only beautiful; it is powerful. So, while the poet appreciates its beauty, those who change the world understand its power. Language is an indispensable tool. If a person is satisfied with an inferior tool, that is their prerogative, but I happen to think it is a mistake. Communication is essential; it isn't a pastime. It is the principle means by which knowledge is conveyed. If we settle for efficient communication, or the fewest, simplest words, we limit our ability to receive and convey knowledge. We ought to strive for excellence not adequacy. I do not mean verbosity or grandiloquence, but precise, accurate, complete discourse.

As I said, I’m a logophile; I love words. Without words, how would Walt Whitman have lamented his fallen Captain? Without words, how could Poe make my hair stand on end, or Prof Tolkien create a world I can escape to. How would the founding fathers have defied a King? How would Martin Luther King Jr. share his dream with a languishing nation? Without words, how could Helen Keller, who never heard a word spoken in her life, tell us: When we do the best that we can, we never know what miracle is wrought in our life, or in the life of another.

How can we hope to move the stars?

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A bit of good news: The Oxford English Dictionary defines literally as: in a literal, exact, or actual sense; not figuratively, allegorically, etc. So we may be spared the apocalypse a bit longer.

So remember:
Oxford English Dictionay – Defenders of goodness and decency
Merriam-Webster – Commentary redacted in the interest of avoiding litigation

Final thoughts: Just expressing my passion for words. I don’t mean to preach, and if I did, I know I am preaching to the choir. My own vocabulary, spelling, structure, punctuation, diction, etc. is far from perfect. I simply aspire to excellence. Quotation: I am patient with stupidity but not with those who are proud of it. Edith Sitwell (1887 - 1964) Goodness, she said the same thing I did, but with so many fewer words, obviously an advocate of Newspeak.

Madame Bovary by Gustave Flaubert (35 down 65 to go)

(translation by Francis Steegmuller)

From that moment her existence was but one long tissue of lies, in which she enveloped her love as in veils to hide it.

This is the first time I’ve read Madame Bovary or Gustave Flaubert. The book is a Victorian-era, modernist novel, and third person narrative regarding the life of Emma Bovary, the wife of a provincial doctor in mid 19th century France.

My rating: 3 1/2 of 5 stars

 

Although I had never read Madame Bovary before, it would not be true to say I had no expectations. The novel is somewhat infamous, even scandalous as it is a story of a married woman who has several adulterous affairs. I was a bit apprehensive as I was of the opinion this novel was rather explicit. But no; Flaubert treated the subject with delicacy and discretion.

SPOILER ALERT: This review contains spoilers, as well as spoilers for two other novels: Anna Karenina and Jane Eyre.

The protagonist, Madame Bovary or Emma, is the wife of Charles Bovary, a physician of neither great ability nor ambition. Though he is married, Charles develops an infatuation for Emma, but does nothing indecent. Not much later, his wife dies, and after a respectable period of time, Charles begins to court Emma, the well-educated daughter of a country landowner. Emma longs for a more glamorous lifestyle, one she presumably thinks the Doctor has to offer.

After they are married Emma is quickly disillusioned as Charles is perfectly content with a humble practice, provincial life, and a pretty wife. Emma keeps up appearances, but grows to resent her husband. She reads novels ***gasp!*** which further incite her discontent. She dreams of masquerade balls, opera, theater, in short a more elegant and cosmopolitan life. She entertains fantasies about Leon Dupuis, a much younger man who shares her ideals of elegance and sophistication. Leon also adores Emma, but neither act on their feelings. Leon eventually moves away to pursue his education, and perhaps escape the torment of being close to the unattainable Emma.

Emma quickly forgets Leon, when Rodolphe Boulanger, a wealthy gentleman, moves into the neighborhood. Upon first sight of Emma, and purely out of admiration for her beauty, he determines to seduce her, with every intention of casting her aside once he’s had his way. He succeeds on both counts. Emma is so distraught, she becomes ill, and makes a token turn to religion. Her new piety is quickly forsaken though when a more mature and confident Leon reenters her life. This time they make their feelings known to one another and Emma begins her second affair. Leon is only slightly less the cad than Rodolphe. He probably even believes he loves Emma. At one point the narrative says

He did not question her ideas; he accepted all her tastes; he was rather becoming her mistress than she his. 

Eventually, they both grow tired of one another and things come to an abrupt end.

This time Emma is not overcome by the loss, but by insurmountable debt resulting from her clandestine lifestyle that she cannot hope to hide or explain. She seeks assistance from all her acquaintances (note the word friends is not applied), including Rodolphe and Leon. She is denied at every turn and takes desperate measures.

As I read Madame Bovary, I kept thinking of two other women: Anna Karenina who was also an adulteress, and Jane Eyre, who was sorely tempted. I had more sympathy for Anna, as she put up resistance before succumbing, whereas Emma was all too easily seduced. There was a stark contrast on the day of their first infidelity. After Anna first gives in to her lover, she weeps bitterly, knowing she is ruined. On the day of Emma’s fall, she is ecstatic, giddy, even silly, whispering excitedly to herself, 

I have a lover…I have a lover! 

My heart broke for Anna, as I witnessed the painful surrender of her virtue. I had no such sympathy for Emma.

And both were indeed utterly ruined.

Then there was Jane Eyre. Who almost….almost had an excuse to commit adultery; I almost wanted her to. No one would have been hurt, her lover truly loved her, she truly loved him, it seemed her only chance of happiness, and I desperately wanted her to be happy. But Jane was not so weak, telling herself: 

Laws and principles are not for the times when there is no temptation: they are for such moments as this, when body and soul rise in mutiny against their rigor; stringent are they; inviolate they shall be. If at my individual convenience I might break them, what would be their worth? They have a worth, so I have always believed…

Jane was rewarded for her virtue, and happy after all.

Well, they’re only stories. It’s easy enough for the author to turn things out as he wishes.

And I am only a reader of stories. I like them to turn out…oh not necessarily happily ever after, but I do hope to see the characters held to account for their actions.

I’m not too keen on guessing an author’s intent, and I don’t believe I’m especially good at it. But I will say, I was relieved with Flaubert’s handling of the subject. As I said, I began Madame Bovary with a perception. I thought it was going to be a voyeuristic glimpse at the illicit affairs of a bold and capricious woman, that it would exalt her as self-emancipated. I was completely wrong. If anything, it was an indictment…a very just indictment. Emma was childish and selfish. I don’t believe she would ever be happy no matter her circumstances. She thought fate owed her something, and that fate had cheated her, giving her license to pursue her own passions with impunity. It was hard to feel sorry for her, though I hate to see anyone driven to despair.

There is a just description of Emma, on her deathbed, as a priest gives the sacrament: 

First upon the eyes, that had so coveted all worldly pomp; then upon the nostrils, that had been greedy of the warm breeze and amorous odours; then upon the mouth, that had uttered lies, that had curled with pride and cried out in lewdness, then upon the hands that had delighted in sensual touches, and finally upon the soles of the feet, so swift of yore, when she was running to satisfy her desires, and that would now walk no more.

Madame Bovary was of course written in French. Even in translation, the writing was superb. I’d like to read it in the original French but, mon Francais est tres insuffisante. There is a particularly fine line I like: 

…human speech is like a cracked tin kettle, on which we hammer out tunes to make bears dance, when we long to move the stars. 

I cannot help but think it would be exquisite in the original: 

...et que la parole humaine est comme un chaudron fêlé où nous battons des mélodies à faire danser les ours, quand on voudrait attendrir les étoiles. 

Of course, reciting of the alphabet is exquisite in Francais.

Strange Fact: This is the second novel in a row that I've read, and the fourth of the last seven, where someone has a leg amputated.

Excerpts:

Narrative describing Emma’s discontent:

The nearer things were, moreover, the more her thoughts turned away from them. All her immediate surroundings, the wearisome country, the middle-class imbeciles, the mediocrity of existence, seemed to her exceptional, a peculiar chance that had caught hold of her, while beyond stretched, as far as eye could see, and immense land of joys and passions. She confused in her desire the sensualities of luxury with the delights of the heart, elegance of manners with delicacy of sentiment.

Narrative describing Charles’ contentment:

The idea of having begotten a child delighted him. Now he wanted nothing. He knew human life from end to end, and he sat down to it with serenity.

Narrative describing Rodolphe’s view of Emma: 

Emma was like all his mistresses; and the charm of novelty, gradually falling away like a garment, laid bare the eternal monotony of passion.

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The Heart is a Lonely Hunter by Carson McCullers (34 down 66 to go)

...in his face there was still the look of peace that is seen most often in those who are very wise or very sorrowful.

This is the first time I’ve read The Heart is a Lonely Hunter, or Carson McCullers. The book is a modernist, existential, southern gothic novel. The third-person narrative is the story of John Singer, a deaf mute, living in Georgia in the late 1930s.

My rating: 4 of 5 stars

 

This was my first time reading this novel, so I had no idea of the plot. Little did I know…it doesn’t have one. (bit of an exaggeration, but not much) That may sound like criticism, but it isn’t. The novel is decidedly character driven. The characters are hopelessly flawed, completely believable and utterly empathizeable. (I know…it’s not a word, but it’s the non-word I need.) For it is the characters that make this story enjoyable.

The story begins with John Singer and his roommate and friend Spiros Antonapoulos who is also deaf and mute. They have separate jobs, walk to and from work together, and have no other friends. Antonapoulos says very little, that is signs very little, but Singer “talks” quite a bit when they are home together. The reader, and Singer, are not certain how much Antonapoulos discerns. The two get along quite well, until Antonapoulos is institutionalized after several run-ins with the law. He shows no emotion when boarding the bus and leaving Singer. I was actually glad for this development, as I felt Antonapoulos was not a very good friend. He was a glutton, rather simple, and offered very little to Singer.

This leaves Singer to cope alone, which he manages quite well. He begins more interaction with people of the town, four of whom develop a friendship with him. Their admiration grows to a near obsession. There is Mick Kelly, a thirteen-year-old tomboy of a poor family, Jake Blount a drifter and communist, Biff Brannon a recent widower and owner of the local café, and Dr. Copeland an African-American physician.

Each pour out their hearts to Singer. He is fairly adept at reading lips, and his peaceful demeanor and intent smile lead each to believe he understands and sympathizes. In fact, they all believe Singer to be profoundly wise and good, proving what it says in the old book:  "….even a fool, when he holdeth his peace is counted wise."

Singer is no fool mind you, but neither is he the enlightened sage his friends imagine him to be. Mick dreams of being a musician but senses she is trapped in her life with no hope for her dreams. Jack, the communist agitator disdainfully categorizes people as those who know, and those who don’t. Dr. Copeland longs to fight for what he calls the strong, true purpose, but mostly he just broods on the plight of his people. Brannon doesn’t speak much, but he seems to be seeking something. All four hold Singer in confidence and seem to find comfort and hope in his presence. Unfortunately, the realization that he is as lost and confused as themselves, does not come gradually. It comes in a single, violent moment.

Singer is described often with his hands in his pockets. I thought it odd that McCullers kept mentioning this, until I realized…he speaks with his hands. Once Antonapoulos left, there was no one for Singer to speak to – hence he kept his hands thrust into his pockets.

Actually quite brilliant. Why McCullers is a published author and I am not.

There is a touching scene when Singer travels to visit Antonapoulos, and chances upon three deaf mutes that he can communicate with. They immediately welcome him into their group and for the first time in the story, I was happy for Singer because he had someone to listen to him. But sadly, he grows taciturn and the moment passes.

I enjoyed this story, even for the lack of a plot. The characters were compelling, especially Singer. Like the four lonely hunters, I too believed Singer had something special to offer. And in a sense, he did; he listened. That alone is something. But McCullers allowed me to gradually realize what the hunters did not. Their hearts were deluded…they thought…they believed…they perceived…that Singer understood. That’s the chord this story touches: the need to feel that someone understands.

A word about the author: Carson McCullers is a woman. To the very literary, this is not news, but to me it was. I probably should have guessed based on the title…I don’t think a dude would have come up with the title, though it is perfect. So for the record…Evelyn Waugh is a man, Carson McCullers is a woman. Mick is at least partially based on McCullers who was a promising musician, accepted to the Julliard School of Music, but unable to attend for lack of tuition. 

Fortunately, she studied creative writing at Columbia…and that worked out pretty well.

Narrative regarding Singer: 

All kinds of people became acquainted with him. If the person who spoke to him was a stranger, Singer presented his card so that his silence would be understood. He came to be known through all the town. He walked with his shoulders very straight and kept his hands in his pockets. His gray eyes seemed to take in everything around him, and in his face there was still the look of peace that is seen most often in those who are very wise or very sorrowful.

Film Rendition: There is a 1968 film version with Alan Arkin as Singer, and Sondra Locke as Mick. It was well cast, and fairly faithful, but it didn't quite capture the feeling of the book.

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Wuthering Heights by Emily Brontë (33 down 67 to go)

This is the first time I’ve read Wuthering Heights or Emily Brontë. The book is a third-person narrative, Victorian era, romance. Set in England at the start of the 19th century, it covers three generations of the Linton and Earnshaw families.

My rating: 3 of 5 stars

 

As I said, this was my first time reading Wuthering Heights, which is my favorite way to begin a book: no expectations and no idea of the plot. Well started, and then…Wow! What a miserable book. I don’t mean it is bad literature, I mean it is a miserable, miserable story.

You are not mistaken, this is not my review of Under the Volcano. The two are quite different, though at points both so miserably sad, I could not resist beginning this review exactly as I did the last.

Some call Wuthering Heights a love story. Me, not so much. In my humble opinion, Heathcliff, the main character and antagonist, does not know the meaning of love. There are some love stories within the story, but for me, the main story is one of revenge.

As I read Wuthering Heights, I kept thinking of that other great revenge story, The Count of Monte Cristo. The hero, Edmond Dantès, like Heathcliff, plots a brilliant revenge. But you might have noticed I called Edmond a hero, and Heathcliff the antagonist. Two reasons: First, the injustice suffered by Edmond is unbelievably cruel, whereas the insult to Heathcliff is very slight. Second, Edmond executes revenge on guilty parties, whereas Heathcliff punishes the innocent in order to strike his foes. (I’ll read and review The Count of Monte Cristo, much later in my quest, though I’ve read it before. It is brilliant, and offers an entirely different lesson on revenge.)

I suspect some will complain that Heathcliff’s insult was not so slight. I maintain it was. If you truly look back when he first swore revenge it was over something quite trivial, and he already retaliated disproportionate to the insult. After that, he nourished and relished hatred. I don't believe revenge is ever a noble pursuit, but Heathcliff has nothing like Edmond Dantès excuse.

I’m avoiding description of other characters in Wuthering Heights, because they are a bit difficult to keep track of even when reading the novel in entirety. I would surely confuse things trying to discuss them here. With the exceptions of Heathcliff, and lesser villain Joseph, they are mixtures of wise and foolish, innocent and conniving, likeable and detestable, loving, lovable, pitiable. I found none of them admirable.

But Heathcliff. I give Brontë high marks for being unpredictable. In the beginning, I was expecting the poor Dickensian orphan, unjustly denied a place in the world, who would rise by purity and courage to achieve a just, but not cruel recompense. Goodness was I wrong. Heathcliff is one of the most loathsome characters I’ve encountered in literature. He was evil.

Which made the ending difficult for me to accept. I saw insufficient catalyst to affect the change. Oh, I get what was supposed to be happening. It just wasn’t believable to me. I also found Cathy’s change of heart toward Hareton a bit inexplicable. It was essential, I just didn’t feel there was much impetus to explain it, though it was much more believable than the change in Heathcliff.

The reclamation of Hareton is the redemption of the story. It is a marvelous commentary. Hareton, was nearly despicable, but the reader, like Cathy easily forgets he was a product of circumstance. Circumstance, in the person of Heathcliff, had robbed him of fortune, education, dignity, and love. When these were restored, even imperfectly, there was hope, and by reclaiming Hareton, Cathy is herself redeemed.

Still, I did not like Wuthering Heights half so much as Jane Eyre by Emily’s sister Charlotte.

Quotations:

Heathcliff to Catherine:

I forgive what you have done to me. I love my murderer…but yours! How can I? 

Nelly the chief narrator comparing Edgar Linton and Hindley Earnshaw:

I used to draw a comparison between him and Hindley Earnshaw, and perplex myself to explain satisfactorily why their conduct was so opposite in similar circumstances. They had both been fond husbands, and were both attached to their children; and I could not see how they shouldn’t both have taken the same road, for good or evil. But, I thought in my mind, Hindley, with apparently the stronger head, has shown himself sadly the worse and weaker man. When his ship struck, the captain abandoned his post; and the crew, instead of trying to save her, rushed into riot and confusion, leaving no hope for their luckless vessel. Linton on the contrary, displayed the true courage of a loyal and faithful soul; he trusted God; and God comforted him. One hoped, and the other despaired.

Film Rendition: I finally got around to watching a film rendition, nearly two months after reading, and it only reminded me, what an awful story this is. I watched the 1939 rendition with Laurence Oliver as Heathcliff. It was only half true to the book, and I didn't enjoy it, even though it had one of my favorite actors, David Niven as Edgar. I often say skip the movie, read the book. I'm inclined to say skip both in this case.

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Under the Volcano by Malcolm Lowry (32 down 68 to go)

Ah, a woman could not know the perils, the complications, yes the importance of a drunkard’s life!

 

This is the first time I’ve read Under the Volcano, or Malcolm Lowry. The book is a modernist novel, third-person narrative and stream of consciousness story of Geoffrey Firmin, the British consul in Mexico. With the exception of the first chapter, which is actually a prologue, the entire story takes place on the Day of the Dead, 1938.

 

My rating: 3 of 5 stars

As I said, this was my first time reading Under the Volcano, which is my favorite way to begin a book: no expectations and no idea of the plot. Well started, and then…Wow! What a miserable book. I don’t mean it is bad literature, I mean it is a miserable, miserable story. Les Misérables is less miserable than Under the Volcano.

 

Sorry, couldn’t resist. But it is.

 

The Consul, as the narrative usually refers to him, is a hopeless alcoholic. Hopeless!

 

I thought Hemingway’s characters drank a lot. The Consul could drink them under the table. He is in fact, a high functioning drunk. People can’t always tell when he is drunk. Though he does have conversations with, his “familiars” or recurring hallucinatory apparitions, and at other times passes out face down in the street.

 

On this fateful day, he awakes with a hangover from drinking the night before and then drinks non-stop throughout the story. You may think I exaggerate, but I do not.

 

The Consul is separated and divorced from his wife, Yvonne, who has been away for some time, and he’s been miserable. She returns this day, and the reader is hopeful, as are Yvonne and the Consul. The Consul tells Yvonne that his half-brother Hugh is currently staying with him. Yvonne is clearly not overjoyed at this news. Later, a previous affair between Yvonne and Hugh is implied. As good hosts and family, the Consul and Yvonne make plans for the three of them, the festival is going on after all, much to do. But Yvonne and Hugh do more together, while The Consul watches and drinks or wanders off alone, usually ending up in a bar.

 

Yvonne and the Consul still have several private moments, often at odds, but they also reach a desperate declaration of mutual desire to get away and start life together anew. Yvonne has quaint dreams of a secluded farm life, or better yet, life on an island where she gardens and The Consul writes his book.

 

The trio stop at a friend’s house, Jacques Laruelle, for drinks and a bite, before proceeding to the festivities. Hugh and Yvonne leave without The Consul who remains behind for another drink. At this point, Jacques yells at The Consul, something the reader has been screaming all along: 

Have you gone mad? Am I to understand that your wife has come back to you, something I have seen you praying and howling for under the table…really under the table…And that you treat her indifferently as this, and still continue only to care where the next drink’s coming from?

 

It doesn’t do any good.

 

A past affair between Jacques and Yvonne is also hinted at.

 

Eventually the trio reunite at the festival, which of course includes drinking. At one stop, Hugh and The Consul debate politics, and The Consul begins to rant about nations meddling in other nations affairs, and then he transfers this to Hugh and Yvonne, meddling in his affairs. He is convinced they want to change him, want to stop him from drinking, (they’ve made a pretty lousy intervention thus far by the way). He rants and leaves in a huff. Yvonne and Hugh spend the remainder of the day searching for The Consul, who has made his way to another bar, where the story reaches its cataclysm.

 

The Mexican village where this all takes place is in the shadow of, or under the volcano, two volcanos actually: Popocatepetl and Iztaccihuatl

 

The story is filled with symbolism and allusions. I’m sure I missed most of them. There is a snake The Consul sees in his garden, the number 7 and 12 are recurring, in fact Lowry insisted on 12 chapters, one for each hour of the day spent under the volcano.

 

Like the novel, I was unfamiliar with the author. My copy has a brief biography of Lowry and it quickly became apparent that Under the Volcano is semi-autobiographical. Lowry is such a cliché of the tortured artist it is hardly believable. Privileged childhood, shunned Dad’s fortune, went to sea, took to drink, married, troubled marriage, moved to Mexico, divorced, remarried, moved to Canada, died young, probably alcohol related.

 

Miserable.

 

And it’s written mostly in stream of consciousness, which I dislike. If you add the fact, that the main consciousness is drunk throughout, it's even worse. So, it’s a miserable story, written in a style I dislike. I should have hated it. Somehow, I didn’t. I didn’t love it, didn’t even like it, I just didn’t hate it.

 

Excerpts:

 

I love you. ~ The Consul whispering to a bottle of whiskey.

 

You probably wouldn’t have expected a communist to have a dog named Harpo…or would you? ~ Hugh

 

The Consul describes some tourists as: "vandals in sandals" (I think this would be a superb name for a modern band)

 

Please let Yvonne have her dream…dream?...of a new life with me…please let me believe that all that is not an abominable self-deception. Please let me make her happy, deliver me from this dreadful tyranny of self. ~ The Consul in prayer

 

Allusions to other Classic Literature:

 

The narrative says: Darkness had fallen like The House of Usher 

 

The Consul’s thoughts: alas for the Knight of Sorry Aspect (reference to Don Quixote). There are further references to Don Quixote.

 

The Consul says he learned…the philosophical section of War and Peace by heart

 

Hugh responding to the question if he had profited by reading War and Peace: I profited by it to the extent of being able to distinguish it from Anna Karenina

 

Hugh has been reading The Sea Wolf and Valley of the Moon by Jack London

 

The narrative explains that Hugh had not yet read Melville, before he went to sea

 

Numerous books are named that The Consul sees in Jacques library, including All Quiet on the Western Front

 

The Consul in drunken thought to himself: "No one loves Scrooge and Scrooge loves no one."

 

The Consul makes reference to Robinson Crusoe

 

Film Rendition: 1984 starring Albert Finney and Jacqueline Bisset. A pretty faithful rendition, except a little added twist at the end. Skip the movie, read the book.

 

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Jane Eyre by Charlotte Brontë (31 down 69 to go)

"Dread remorse when you are tempted to err, Miss Eyre; remorse is the poison of life."

"Repentance is said to be its cure, sir."

This was the first time I’ve read Jane Eyre or Charlotte Brontë. The novel is a Victorian era, romance/mystery. It is the third-person narrative of Jane Eyre, in late 18th, early 19th century England.

My rating: 4 ½ of 5 stars

 

The only way I could have enjoyed Jane Eyre more is if I did not know secret behind the eerie mystery at Thornfield Hall, spoiled by a film version I watched some years ago.

The novel opens during Jane’s orphaned childhood. She is taken in by a loving Uncle, but he soon dies and you know the rest of that story…evil aunt, evil cousins, etc. Evil is a strong word, and I use it only for affect. They were pretty horrible though. Jane is not at this point, quite the angel she will become, but she has a keen sense of justice and the reader suffers for her. I was relieved when she was sent off to a “charitable” boarding school for girls, though with trepidation, as Jane’s aunt, defames her to the schoolmaster.

In spite of this, life is still more pleasant at school, though not without hardship and privation. The schoolmaster is cruel and miserly, but fortunately seldom present. The kindly superintendent does the best she can for the girls, and Jane befriends a sweet girl, Helen Burns, who is older and sickly, and you might guess how that ends.

But Jane Eyre is anything but predictable from this point on. Helen is positively angelic, and she leaves an indelible mark on Jane, who grows to be a gracious, gifted young woman. She teaches at the school for a while, but longs to know more of the world, and takes a position as governess to Adele, the young ward of the wealthy lord of Thornfield Hall.

Jane is well paid, well treated, and very well liked, by her student and the other servants at Thornfield. She begins to truly blossom and settles into a contented, well ordered routine. But there is an eerie mystery at Thornfield that manifests itself infrequently. I would have found this maddeningly intriguing, except for the movie. I would dearly have liked to read it without knowing.

The master of Thornfield, Mr. Rochester, is not home for Jane’s first few months. When he returns, well there is of course the love story. The hopeless love story. So hopeless, by the difference in their stations and other impediments that neither Jane nor Mr. Rochester seem to know they are in love. But of course, the reader knows. And the reader is hopeful, because after all, silly British traditions of class and keeping to one’s station are…well…silly, and the reader is certain they will be overcome.

But, in context it wasn’t so silly, and it was probably a very big obstacle. Still, Brontë clearly approves of the match, so I think even in her time, she must have intended the readers to hope.

Hope bears fruit, glorious beautiful fruit, and then it is dashed, utterly, unalterably, hopelessly dashed.

What next? No spoilers.

I loved this book. There is a continuous contest between self-indulgence and moral piety, between situation ethics and immutable righteousness, between hypocrisy and sincerity. Brontë does a masterful job, indeed an uncanny job of making these dilemmas genuine. It is perhaps easy for you, dear reader, to read the words and think the choices clear. But reading Jane Eyre, and feeling her conflict, and longing for her happiness, there were times when I wanted to tell her: just be happy Jane, you deserve it. Jane was not so weak, though she did peer longingly over the brink on more than one occasion.

And finally….THE MOST GLORIOUS final line of any of the novels I have read thus far, or that I shall read.

Amen; even so come, Lord Jesus!

Other Quotations:

This was very pleasant; there is no happiness like that of being loved by your fellow-creatures, and feeling that your presence is an addition to their comfort. ~ Jane

Mr. Rochester to Jane:

Is it better to drive a fellow-creature to despair than to transgress a mere human law, no man being injured by the breach?  

Jane’s thoughts in preparing her response: 

Laws and principles are not for the times when there is no temptation: they are for such moments as this, when body and soul rise in mutiny against their rigor; stringent are they; inviolate they shall be. If at my individual convenience I might break them, what would be their worth? They have a worth, so I have always believed… 

 

The soul, fortunately, has an interpreter, often an unconscious, but still a truthful interpreter, in the eye. ~ Jane

To live amidst general regard, though it be but the regard of working people, is like sitting in sunshine, calm and sweet; serene inward feelings bud and bloom under the ray. ~ Jane

Glorious discovery to a lonely wretch! This was wealth indeed! Wealth to the heart! ~ Jane discovering she had living relatives

References to other classic novels: As a child Jane begins to read Gulliver’s Travels.

Trivia: Did you know there is a prequel to Jane Eyre? The Wide Sargasso Sea by Jean Rhys

Movie Rendition: 2011 version with Mia Wasikowska as Jane, and Michael Fassbender as Mr. Rochester was very good. I thought Wasikowska was perfect as Jane. The rest of the casting was very good, as were the film locations. The movie was pretty faithful, but I was disappointed on two points. First, the mysterious presence at Thornfield Hall was inadequately portrayed. Secondly the ending was too abrupt. There was marvelous dialogue at the end of the novel, which was omitted in the film. In fact, make it three points. The brilliance of Jane Eyre is the dialogue, and too much was omitted in this film version. Skip the movie, read the book.

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