"Great Expectations" and "A Tale of Two Cities" by Charles Dickens

I've never liked Dickens. Well, that's only half-true, I suppose: I enjoyed reading Oliver Twist for O-level English (a lot more than I enjoyed Emma, anyway), and I have loved watching Scrooge - the 1951 movie version of A Christmas Carol, starring Alastair Sim - during many Christmases Past. So, I liked Dickens' stories; what I couldn't stomach was his writing, which generally struck me as pompous and prolix, and his characters, who too often seemed like caricatures and stereotypes designed to represent certain virtues or sins.

So I wasn't all that thrilled when Kathy suggested we read Great Expectations, but she assured me it was a wonderful story, and I trust her. And she was right - after a slightly slow beginning, I ended up LOVING Great Expectations! Technically, I didn't read it: Kathy did, for about ten minutes every evening as our baby son Finn drank down his bottle of warm milk and we cuddled together in our bed. Maybe you imagine that my critical faculties were softened by this sweet bedtime arrangement, but we did the same thing with A Tale of Two Cities, and I thought that was a steaming pile of crap.

So... why did I love the former and hate the latter? Where does the difference lie? I think, in Great Expectations, Dickens the Storyteller won out over Dickens the Rhetorician. Maybe he was just more inspired at the time? Maybe he had more belief in the story? I don't know, but it was, on the whole, very simply told, and the characters felt plausible, like real people rather than cartoonish representations. Sure, the female characters were either ludicrously virtuous (and boring) or ludicrously horrible, as they are in A Tale of Two Cities, but I believed in Pip and his reactions to his fate, and most of the time Dickens resisted the temptation to underline the moral lessons that can be learned from our hero's follies.

A Tale of Two Cities, on the other hand... First of all, I should say that I was really looking forward to this book, partly because I'd enjoyed Great Expectations so much, and partly because the French Revolution has always fascinated me. And I know it's possible to write a great novel based on that subject matter, because my favorite historical novel of all time - Hilary Mantel's A Place of Greater Safety - is set in Paris, during those infamous, bloody years.

So yes, I had great expectations of A Tale of Two Cities. And it began quite well, with plenty of mystery and action. But, on the whole, I found it a deeply frustrating read. Partly because the twist was so predictable, but mainly because the prose was so incredibly windy and bombastic. While Great Expectations seemed to be narrated in a quiet, deep voice in a candlelit room, A Tale of Two Cities was declaimed from a pulpit in the middle of a thunderstorm. And no, that is not how Kathy read it.

Basically, it's the difference between drama and melodrama. With A Tale of Two Cities, I thought the proportion of characters and narrative to rhetoric and moralizing was all wrong, like a cake that consisted of 90% frosting. And yeah, some people would love that, but it made me feel sick.

All the same, I haven't given up on Dickens. My expectations of the next book I read by him have been lowered a little bit, but maybe that's not such a bad thing.

"Lady Chatterley's Lover" by D.H. Lawrence

This is a strange novel. It is famous, of course, for the controversy and censorship surrounding its publication (it was first printed in 1928 but not freely available in England until 1960), for its themes of class and adultery, and for the use of certain four-letter words. But reading it purely as a novel, it strikes me, more than anything, as bizarre.

Actually, it makes me think of the Sex Pistols: a band inextricably linked with the whirlwind of controversy that blew around them. Listen to their music now, though, and it just sounds odd, for the most part: there are inspired moments, and John Lydon’s sneer is distinctive, but many of the songs are clichéd, old-fashioned, poorly played and produced, almost boring. You’re left wondering what all the fuss was about. But the fuss, of course, was not about the music per se, but about the band’s impact on their times.

Lady Chatterley’s Lover is a similar case in point: there are lines, paragraphs, scenes that are striking and well-written, but others that just seem contrived or ludicrous or dull or plain embarrassing, and throughout the story, the author’s voice intrudes, not only as an omniscient narrator thundering from the clouds but as a sort of ventriloquist, making his characters think and spout what are clearly his own opinions, not even trying to conceal the movements of his mouth. The overall effect is just a weird hodge-podge of good and bad, brilliant and banal.

This is the first D.H. Lawrence novel I’ve read, although I did also read a collection of short stories (The Woman Who Rode Away and Other Stories) and a collection of his letters. I remember particularly enjoying the latter, as the non-narrative form gave him free rein to joke and declaim and hypothesize about life and the world without any need to invent characters or fit it all into a story. I found myself liking and admiring him as a person and even a writer (and I also felt some affinity, as we both grew up in what he calls, in Lady Chatterley, ‘the smoky Midlands’ – or, more specifically, Nottinghamshire), and I agreed (and still agree) with many of the points he makes in this novel about the dehumanizing effects of industrialization, the need for tenderness, the balance between mind and body, and so on. I just didn’t enjoy being lectured to, somewhat haphazardly (or so it seemed), as I was reading a novel – particularly as I was genuinely interested in the story.

So… the story. Upper-class woman meets lower-class man and falls in love, in a nutshell. However, the contrast between Lady Chatterley and her lover was less obvious and striking than I expected: she is not aristocratic, but upper-middle-class (back when such distinctions actually meant something) and she was brought up with fairly liberal views about sex too, while Mellors, the gamekeeper – although with a working-class background – is an educated man who has been an officer in the British Army in India. I was also surprised that everything was made so easy: Lady Chatterley’s husband is wounded in the war and consequently impotent; he even gives his wife permission to go off and have sex with another man so she can bear a child, and she has a casual affair before meeting Mellors anyway. So, in many ways, the tension and conflict and drama that you expect from the basic set-up are not there. As a novel of adultery, it seemed less satisfying and persuasive than, say, Anna Karenina or Madame Bovary. It was almost as if Lawrence found the theme too simple and melodramatic, so he felt the need to undercut it, blur the black and white to grey, as well as using it as a sort of platform from which to air his opinions.

As for the sex… well, there were a couple of erotic passages. There were also some very repetitive and purple ones, some amusingly clumsy and realistic ones, and others that were kind of embarrassing. And I suppose that in itself is an achievement: for an author to make a (pretty open-minded) reader squirm almost a hundred years later merely by writing about genitalia and orgasms. 

But I think what embarrassed me most – far more than any graphic detail – was Mellors’ use of Derbyshire vernacular. Mellors is capable of speaking ‘normally’, yet for some reason (a reason that baffles most of the characters in the novel) he occasionally reverts to ‘broad Derby’. And it is in this voice that he makes most of the obscene pronouncements that made Lady Chatterley’s Lover so infamous. Some of those passages are almost unreadably bad, though not ‘bad’ in the moral sense that led to the book being outlawed for thirty years – just bad in the sense of being excruciatingly awful.

Anyway, I’m glad I finally read it, but even gladder that I’ve finally finished it and can now move on to something else.

Reading in Retrospect: "The Moonstone" by Wilkie Collins

Hear ye, hear ye! I am fighting my way out of this blogging slump that feels like it has lasted decades. Just thought I would officially announce that.

So, The Moonstone. I read it more than a year ago. Lucky for me and my literary amnesia, I jotted a few notes as I read. AND I was smart enough to keep those notes tucked in the front cover of the book where I would be sure to find them again, along with evidence of this copy's origins: it was sent to me by Trisha at eclectic/eccentric. Unfortunately I can't remember the circumstances (maybe she had a giveaway and I won it? Maybe she was being generous in getting rid of excess reading material?) but no matter the occasion, I'm always appreciative when I'm the recipient of a free book.

Especially when the free book doesn't suck! The Moonstone is a good solid read, even at the ripe old age of 144. There are many who would award it with the title of "First Detective Novel Written in English," and it ranked high on my Agatha Christie scale. It's got secretive servants, honorable heiresses, dying dowagers, discerning detectives, and genial gentlemen, all in search of a damned diamond--or so it seems. There are some who may be more concerned with hiding than with seeking, and all the fun is in discovering the truth of the matter.

So it was a good read. But wouldn't you love to hear my criticisms? (You knew I would have some, didn't you?) My main complaint is that the solution to the mystery seemed less clever than contrived, making it difficult for me to sufficiently suspend my disbelief. On a brighter note, at least the solution was a mystery to me. I couldn't guess what the answer might be until it was spelled out. Which would have been perfect, if the answer hadn't been a disappointment.

Shall I go on? Betteredge and Clack were really well-developed characters; the others, not so much. Even Clack was somewhat of a caricature--I don't think I would have found her believable, except that I know people just like her! People who would say (or at least think) things like this:

"The true Christian never yields . . . we go on with our work, irrespective of every human consideration which moves the world outside us. We are above reason; we are beyond ridicule; we see with nobody's eyes, we hear with nobody's ears, we feel with nobody's hearts, but our own . . . we are the only people who are always right."

Looks like my complaints list was brief, and not too harsh. And this is obviously not because I'm afraid Wilkie Collins will read my blog post and be offended by it. I may not be labeling this as a Must Read, and I may never re-read it, but I enjoyed the experience the first time around--probably even more than I enjoyed The Woman in White. As those two are generally considered Collins' two finest works, he and I may never meet again, but it was fun while it lasted.

"The Red and the Black" by Stendhal

So, Stendhal. A one-named personage bears the expectation that he's sufficiently famous to be recognized by that single name, yet I'd never heard of him before. (I promise I'm really not completely uneducated, even though I may give that impression with depressing regularity.) I figured he must fall somewhere between Jesus and Flea.

In case this is the first you've heard of Stendhal also, here's a little bit about him. Stendhal was a Frenchman whose real name was Marie-Henri Beyle. He was born in 1783, just a few years before the French Revolution began. He did most of his writing, including The Charterhouse of Parma, after the Napoleonic era but before he stroked out and died on a Paris street in 1842.

Stendhal's works were renowned for their psychological insight. In fact, though I didn't even notice this as I read but I recognized it when it was pointed out in the Afterword, Stendhal spent very little time describing his characters' outward appearances, instead focusing on their thoughts and motives. He reminded me of Henry James by seamlessly and believeably allowing me into his characters' minds.

I didn't automatically know what the colors in the title referred to, nor am I sure I would have figured it out from the text, but luckily the blurb on the back of the book spelled it out for me: "the red" is the military and "the black" is the clergy. Unfortunately the same blurb also revealed what I consider a major spoiler, as it referred to something that didn't occur until about 50 pages from the end of the book. (See how nice I am, that I'm not telling you what that spoiler is?) The spoiler was almost forgivable, as it was only mentioned in relation to Stendhal's inspiration for the story, but that part of the plot would have had a much greater impact on me if I hadn't been expecting it. Or . . . maybe not. The copy Elvis read didn't have that spoiler, and to him it seemed as if that part of the book came out of nowhere.

The Red and the Black is the story of cold-hearted, calculating young Julien Sorel and his ambitions. He is pulled in two directions. He idolizes Napoleon but feels he has to hide that admiration, probably because it was frowned upon in Restoration France as disloyal to the king; and, anyway, the time for military glory seems to have passed. He is drawn to the church as a career, even though it is nearly meaningless to him as anything beyond a source of money and social status. But his ambivalence is pretty well derailed when he discovers sex. The book is divided into two parts, each dealing with one of his two all-consuming affairs.

Although Stendhal does provide a clear window into his characters' minds, he leaves it to his readers to decide how we feel about them.  He once wrote that "a novel is like a bow; the violin casing that renders the sound is the reader." Stendhal relates the thoughts and emotions of  his characters, but he does little to influence the way the reader judges them. Indeed, Elvis and I had quite different feelings about Julien: I thought he was despicable, and Elvis thought he was just young and confused. Maybe we were both right.

"Great Expectations" by Charles Dickens

"Pause you who read this, and think for a moment of the long chain of iron or gold, of thorns or flowers, that would never have bound you, but for the formation of the first link on one memorable day."

This was a re-read for me, but it's been a sufficiently long time (which, with my sieve-like brain, could mean mere weeks, but in this case it's been at least ten years) so that I couldn't remember much about Great Expectations other than the vague notion that I really enjoyed reading it.

I remembered that there was Pip, and there was Estella, and there was Miss Havisham who was a little bit gross and a lot crazy. And there were varying incarnations of unrequited love and impressive coldheartedness. I wasn't sure how many of my shadowy memories of the story came from the modernized 1998 movie and how much I actually remembered from the book.

As it turns out, I didn't remember much. The gist of the book was familiar (Pip, raised in a lowly blacksmith's home, admires the rich and snooty until, unexpectedly, he is given the opportunity to become rich and snooty himself, and he does a bang-up job of it). But so much of it took me by surprise. Which was really kind of nice, because it's much easier for mysterious and suspenseful plot twists to be mysterious and suspenseful if I'm not sure where they're going.

One thing I certainly didn't remember was how funny this book is! Not in the way that Anna Karenina occasionally made me laugh when I wasn't sure I should. No, Dickens's tone is surprisingly (and intentionally) quite droll. And Dickens managed to hit Pip's voice just perfectly. It was not at all pompous, prolix or pontifical, the way Dickens seems in my mind whenever I'm not reading him. Pip is hopeful and optimistic, and even when he was painfully ashamed of his roots (or, more importantly, of the loving people he left behind), I still didn't hate him.

Here's something interesting we discovered at book club: we didn't all interpret the ending in the same way. Even more interesting is a fact I unearthed today: did you know there are TWO DIFFERENT ENDINGS to Great Expectations? (Don't follow that link unless you've already read the book, or if you just happen to love spoilers.) It's like Choose Your Own Adventure! I need to ask Lydia if her book had the original ending, which would make our differing interpretations completely understandable. At any rate, I certainly prefer the ending in my copy of the book.

Another certainty: Great Expectations is SUCH a good story. It was definitely worthy of a re-read. AND I would read it again in the future. Dickens deserves to be named the Supreme Mugwump of Victorian Lit, even if I still love Henry James more.

I've got a couple of surplus tidbits for you. First, historical perspective: Great Expectations was initially published in serial form, with the first installment appearing in December 1860 and the final installment in August 1861. These dates bracket the start of America's Civil War, which officially began in April 1861.


Detail of Goya's The Old Ones: 
Miss Havisham?

Second, don't you think Miss Havisham could have been modeled after this grotesque old woman?

"Bel Ami" by Guy de Maupassant

Before we discuss Georges Duroy, I want to explain to you about Elvis. You've heard of him, right? Elvis and I have started an online book club, and this is the second book we've read.

I hope you're not too disappointed to hear that the Elvis you're probably thinking of is not the one I'm talking about. For starters, there's no question that my Elvis is still alive. Second, I don't think anyone has ever painted his portrait on a canvas of black velvet. Third, I have a feeling the other Elvis was too busy TCB to do much reading. But my Elvis loves to read (maybe even more than I do? Nah, not possible) and we'll be reading a book together every month until we get bored of each other. I'm not allowed to reveal his secret identity (I think he's embarrassed to be seen with me) but all you need to know is that he is The King.

Now on to Georges Duroy. I've been wanting to read something by Guy de Maupassant for years. I was first introduced to this author during my old book club when one of our members suggested, "We could even read something by Guy de Maupassant. IF YOU WANT." The way he said it made Maupassant's work sound unusual, risky, maybe even naughty. So of course my interest was piqued.

We never did get around to reading Maupassant in book club, but when I heard a new movie adaptation of his novel Bel Ami (first published in 1885) was being filmed, my decision was made. It may have been an odd choice to start with one of Maupassant's novels--and not even his greatest one, a distinction wikipedia states is claimed by Pierre et Jean--as the author is considered one of the "fathers of the modern short story." But I had to begin somewhere, and starting with a seductive Parisian social climber of the late nineteenth century seemed as good a place as any.

Bel Ami is the nickname of Georges Duroy, a handsome and ambitious young man of humble beginnings who finds his surest route to success is through the beds of a series of ever more prestigious mistresses. Without much effort, the nearly destitute ex-military officer of the book's opening scene rises to an impressive position of wealth, influence, and power by the book's denouement.

Elvis couldn't understand it, but I loved Georges Duroy. How could I appreciate such a despicable character? I don't quite understand it myself, beyond the fact that he must have seduced me while he was seducing the ladies in the book . . . plus, in my imagination he doesn't look anything like the portrait on the cover, but instead looks just like Robert Pattinson. (And now you know my dirty little secret.)

It was interesting to learn from the book's introduction that the title character was modeled after the author. Maupassant must have been successful with the ladies, not to mention quite the "cold, vain, selfish, single-minded" person (description courtesy of Elvis. I should have just gotten him to write this post). However, there couldn't have been much of a happy ending for Maupassant, with his world crumbling around his syphilitic ears. This is most evident in the depressing epitaph he wrote for himself: "I have coveted everything and taken pleasure in nothing." I have to say I would hope my life embodies the exact opposite of that sentiment. But perhaps I shouldn't be surprised at so cheerless an outlook from someone who tried to slit his own throat.

Bel Ami was very well-written and, though I can't quite explain this since the story wasn't especially suspenseful, it was a page-turner for me. Every time I came to the end of a chapter I just wanted to keep going. Duroy kind of made me think of Scarlett O'Hara; I just had to see what kind of shenanigans he would be up to next.

Elvis called this book "clear, light, and funny," and found all of the characters very realistic.I had to wonder, as I have occasionally in the past, if such a light and clearly-written book was considered fluff in its day (sort of like the nineteenth century's answer to James Patterson or Danielle Steele). However, I think the fact that people are still reading this book more than a century later--and finding they can still relate to it--places it well above fluff.

I do need to rant about the free Kindle version of this book. In case you haven't noticed, many of the free Kindle ebooks originally written in another language are inferior translations. I'm fairly certain that the free Kindle version of Bel Ami is abridged, although I didn't see anything on the amazon website that made this clear. Once I realized this, I sprung for the Penguin ebook edition, though even that had a surprising number of odd mistakes. Penguin has always stood for quality in my mind (though I was a bit disappointed in them recently . . . Elvis knows why) but evidently that doesn't extend to their ebooks. There were several instances where what should have been a "th" was replaced with the letter "m." Just mink how confusing mat was. But it wasn't significant enough to detract from my pleasure in reading the story.

After reading Bel Ami,  I am interested in checking out some of Maupassant's many short stories. I wonder why I don't hear much about him from my fellow book bloggers? Such an elegantly written and classic story should be read more often. Have you read anything by Guy de Maupassant?

"The Age of Innocence" by Edith Wharton

The Age of Innocence and I got off to a most inauspicious beginning. After several light and easy reads, I thought I was fully recovered from Anna Karenina and ready to tackle some more Real Literature (though I must admit I rejoiced when Wharton's book arrived and I saw it was not even 300 pages).

Well, I'll tell you, I have this odd disease that renders me incapable of leaving any part of a book unread, and my copy of this book has a 21-page introduction that is so very, very dull. I thought I would never get to the book itself.

At least the introduction was not completely horrible. I actually learned a few things from it. Without it I would never have known about Edith Wharton's involvement in the Great War, providing "help and support for civilians and soldiers alike," mainly in Paris. I likewise would have had no idea that the setting for The Age of Innocence (New York just after America's Civil War, though that conflict is never mentioned in the book that I recall) mirrored the era which Wharton lived through after World War I.

Once I got through the introduction, the story itself was like a breath of fresh air. I really enjoyed it. I'd never read anything by Edith Wharton before, but I found her writing very similar to that of Henry James, which I've always loved (well, except for The Ambassadors, although I can't remember why). Both writers deal with the Victorian era and delve into what lies beneath its superficial propriety.

I loved reading what might well be called the subtext of these characters' lives. One good example was an entire unspoken monologue from May Archer to her husband Newland. With a seemingly innocuous statement and a significant look, she conveyed a much deeper meaning which was grasped by Archer with perfect clarity. This tendency was recognized years later by their son Dallas, who said, "You never told each other anything. You just sat and watched each other, and guessed at what was going on underneath . . . I back your generation for knowing more about each other's private thoughts than we ever have time to find out about our own."

Several times the reader is privy to the thoughts that Archer might have spoken aloud had he not been such a product of his environment and its mores. I think my favorite was when May asked him to close the window so he didn't "catch his death," and he thinks, "But I've caught it already. I am dead--I've been dead for months and months." What was left unsaid spoke volumes. I wonder if May was as astute in deciphering Archer's thoughts as he was with hers? She certainly knew more than she ever let on.

The entire book was rife with Victorian repression, which particularly resonates with me as it reminds me of precisely what it was like growing up with parents like mine. (I'm not really kidding very much when I say that.) Almost every character is rigidly constrained by the approval of society, keeping up appearances even if it meant withering and dying inside. Right up until the very end! Which, interestingly enough, stirred in me such a strange sense of déjà vu. I know I haven't read the book before, but I'm almost certain that somewhere, somehow, I'd already read the last two or three pages.

We'll be discussing this book tonight at Book Club. Even more fun, I got a copy of the 1993 movie with Daniel Day-Lewis as Newland Archer and Michelle Pfeiffer as Ellen Olenska. I've never seen the movie before, but I could picture Olenska looking and acting just like Pfeiffer throughout the entire book. 

One final thought: I learned from this book that you should never slice cucumbers with a steel knife, but what I can't figure out is why. And, does this rule apply to stainless steel (which, in the form as we know it today, wasn't produced until the 20th century)?

"Anna Karenina" by Leo Tolstoy

Kathy 1, Tolstoy 0.

Today I am finally able to remove this albatross that has hung round my neck since early August.  Victory is mine! After a grueling double overtime, I WIN!! Suck it, Leo! What a weight is lifted from my shoulders. I deserve a gold star and a margarita. But, in Tolstoy's own words, "it's not the reward that's precious; it's the work itself."

I expected this book to be a kind of cross between Madame Bovary and Lady Chatterley's Lover. I also expected to need a notebook to keep track of the characters and their multiple names. Those Russians! Between the given names, diminutive forms, patronymics, and surnames, sometimes it seems like there are dozens more characters than there really are. It doesn't help that an incredible number of people in the Russian aristocracy somehow ended up with the title of Prince or Princess. But as it turned out, I did not find the names as troubling as I'd expected.

I read with interest and trepidation the story related in the foreword about the difficult birth of this novel. I feared the reading of it might be as much of a struggle as the writing of it. I was also afraid that by the time I got to the middle of the book I would already have forgotten what happened at the beginning, and by the time I got to the end I would just have to start over.

Happily, that does not seem to be the case. This doesn't look like an 800-page book, and it doesn't feel like an 800-page book, but it is an 800-page book. 807, to be exact. And though I am amazed by people who have read this book more than once (I'm talking about you, Rachel!) I have no plans to join their ranks. I will soon be mailing it off to a fellow paperbackswapper with relish.

I don't want to give you the idea that this was a horrible book. It's an excellent story, skillfully written, fully deserving of its place as an eternal classic, encompassing themes that will resonate with readers for as long as humans populate the earth. But it just took me freakin' forever to read and I am never going to do it again. Even with the help of LibriVox audio. Which, by the way, Tolstoy scolded me for. "Every acquisition that is disproportionate to the labor spent on it is dishonest."

I wonder why I was more accepting of marital infidelity in a book like Lady Chatterley's Lover, and scornful of it in this book? I was almost rooting for Lady Chatterley to cheat on her husband, but Vronsky and Anna whining about how it just couldn't be helped rubbed me the wrong way.  I wanted to smack them both. Vronsky's words were,"You know that I have come to be where you are . . . I can't help it." And Anna later echoed him by saying, "Can it be that they won't forgive me, won't understand how it all couldn't be helped?"

I'm not convinced that this book's title is especially fitting. I suppose Anna is one of the main characters of the book, but she isn't the only one--especially as she is barely mentioned in Book Eight, the final division. I don't think she's even the main-est main character. She is probably on equal footing with Levin in terms of significance in the story, but I don't think the book should have been solely named after him, either. For a while I was thinking a better title might be "Cheaters Never Prosper," but (besides how corny that would sound) there's far more to the book than infidelity, just as there's far more to the book than Anna.

It was interesting to consider what linked Anna and Vronsky with Levin and Kitty, other than their tenuous familial bond (Kitty's sister is married to Anna's brother). I came to see comparison as the purpose of their juxtaposition, showing a healthy marriage as a foil for a diseased relationship that sets out in ignominy and is deteriorating almost before it has begun.

I wasn't sure if I was allowed to laugh at this book--it's so serious--but when one character pleads, "Please manage that there may be no talk of my having shot myself on purpose," how can you not laugh when another character responds, "No one does say so. Only I hope you won't shoot yourself by accident anymore."

Speaking of laughing, is it just me, or did anyone else want Levin's brother to go on and die already? Hemingway could have made it happen in one sentence, but in Tolstoy's hands poor Nikolai dragged on interminably. I had to laugh when the book expressed my very thoughts on the matter: "They all knew that he would quite inevitably die soon, that he was half dead already. They all had only one wish, that he would die quickly." (In case you are currently gnashing your teeth, I promise that's not a spoiler; Nikolai is unwell from the moment he is introduced.)

And I couldn't help but snigger while listening to the audio version as the reader seemed to be saying that one of Kitty's sisters was Madame La Vulva. I was glad to have the print version to refer to so I could see that Kitty's sister was the much more politely-named Madame Lvova.

When I was halfway through the book, I felt these characters had been with me for so long, I would miss them after they'd gone (meaning, after I finished reading). But by the end they were like guests who had overstayed their welcome. I was ready to say goodbye, in some cases even good riddance, and send them on their way.

Two more orphan comments that don't seem to fit in anywhere else: First, thanks to Jane Doe, I noticed every time Vronsky's strong white teeth were mentioned. Too bad nobody kicked them in. Second, I CAN'T BELIEVE I was dealt a spoiler about Anna's fate--and all from a brief mention in a silly, fluffy magazine. That will teach me to read silly, fluffy magazines. Argh! It was akin to Rachel spitefully telling Joey, "Beth dies."

I hereby pronounce that I will be reading only skinny books until I recover.

Reading in Retrospect: "The Picture of Dorian Gray" by Oscar Wilde

Would you believe I still haven't finished reading The Sparrow? Lesa was right--the pace does pick up some once the main characters reach the new planet--but I suppose I have been distracted by visitors and pergolas and sunburns and last days of school, so I'm only about half way through that book.

Meanwhile, here is something new. Or, rather, something old made new. Several years ago, probably before I even knew what a blog was, I briefly kept track of the books I read by writing a little synopsis and making a note of my thoughts on each one. I got bored with this and quit after several months, which is one reason I'm surprised that I've been blogging for a year already and am still having fun. Anyway, I thought I would rescue those old files from languishing in obscurity, and incorporate them into my blog so they can languish slightly less obscurely. Now is a good time to start, since I probably won't be blogging much over the next two weeks. So, here is what I had to say about The Picture of Dorian Gray somewhere between five and ten years ago:

I thoroughly enjoyed this book. It was our First Saturday Book Club selection this month and we had one of our best discussions over it. It was certainly not a light, fast read, but it was fascinating. Dorian Gray is a beautiful young man in London during the 19th century. He is innocent, unspoiled and naive. He is friends with a painter named Basil Hallward, and Dorian has been sitting as a model for many of Basil’s paintings. Until now, Basil had always painted Dorian as a literary or mythical character, but his newest painting is slightly different, as it is an actual portrait of Dorian. This new painting has captured every detail of Dorian’s beauty, the existence of which Dorian seems not to have noticed before now; it is as if the painting makes him aware of his own beauty.

It is not only the painting, however. It is that in conjunction with the corrosive influence of Lord Henry “Harry” Wotton, a close friend of Basil’s whom Basil has reluctantly introduced to Dorian. Basil seems to know that Harry is a poor influence, and he actually asks Harry that he not "spoil" Dorian, at which Harry, of course, laughs. Harry respects nothing. I think his Aunt Agatha sums him up neatly when she says, “He never means anything he says.” I don’t think she realizes how she has hit the nail on the head, but with Harry, nothing is sacred or important. He has a lot to say, and loves to hear his own voice, but I believe his only aim in speaking is to see what will happen when he tosses his theories down on the table. He wants to see what kind of reaction he will get.

Another vice of Harry’s is that he is manipulative and is curious to determine what kind of influence he can exert on people. He sees the young and impressionable Dorian as a blank canvas. He convinces Dorian that to live fully you must strive to “always [search] for new sensations... a new Hedonism...” In a rash moment while admiring Basil’s just-finished portrait, Dorian wishes that he could always stay young, while the portrait grows old instead. In fact, he goes so far as to say, “I would give my soul for that...” (Catch the foreshadowing?) This is a turning point, the beginning, the first step in his corruption, as evidenced by his very next statement. He says to Basil, “...you like your art better than your friends...” which, though possibly an astute observation, is a very rude and hurtful comment, and heretofore uncharacteristic of Dorian.

Dorian first realizes his wish has come true a month later in relation to Sibyl Vane. Sibyl is a beautiful and very talented actress, and Dorian desires her from afar. After they meet and Sibyl falls in love with Dorian, her craft is destroyed. Having experienced real love, she can no longer put her heart and soul in to acting, and she becomes wooden and talentless. This causes Dorian to lose his infatuation with her. He cruelly leaves her, planning never to see her again, until later that evening when he notices his portrait has changed. There is cruelty in its expression. He suddenly remembers his rash wish and is stunned to realize it has come true. This scares Dorian into promising himself that the next morning he will go to Sibyl and “forgive” her and marry her. However, the next morning he finds out that she has killed herself in despair. Rather than strengthening his resolve to be “good”, this causes him to give up. Over the next 20 years, Dorian keeps his youthful good looks, but all the while his portrait looks worse and worse. Not only is the portrait ageing, but all the signs of Dorian’s vices show up in the painted face. He keeps the portrait hidden so no one will know his awful secrets.

There are several times Dorian narrowly misses “salvation”, and he even realizes it, but always seems to think it is too late. His first chance to turn away from vice was with Sibyl. She could have saved him from his fate if he had stayed true to her rather than treating her cruelly. With Sibyl, Dorian realizes Harry’s theories are “wrong” and “poisonous.” Dorian even says that “she would have done that for me,” meaning she would have kept him on a straight path. He also realizes that his friend Basil could have saved him, but by this time Dorian felt that “the future was inevitable.” It seems that Dorian is able to blame most of his shortcomings on other people, situations, or even books (he claims he was “poisoned by [the] book” loaned to him by Harry, which by the way those at Book Club thought might be Proust), but he never places the blame where it really belongs--on himself. [Note from today: years later, I still know nothing about Proust, but now I wonder if they said Faust and I misheard?]

Dorian even reaches a point where he says of the horrid painting, “What did it matter? No one could see it.” I think this is the point of the whole book: that it does matter, whether anyone can see it or not. But it seems that to Dorian the ravages of age are equal to, or worse than, the changes that are evidence of his sins.

Throughout the book, Lord Henry makes so many statements that sound profound, deep, or even just shocking (or some combination of these three “qualities”). But I certainly don’t believe everything he says, and I am surprised that his hearers often seem to. Whether this is evidence of Harry’s charm or of his listeners’ stupidity, I don’t know. But I see past the thin veil of intelligence covering his statements, and I see that the core is false. He couches his falsehoods in truth to lend validity to his philosophies, but he does not fool me. Whenever he expostulates, “facts [flee] before [him] like frightened forest things.” He speaks some truth (“we never get back our youth”) and then at a later dinner party he contradicts himself, saying, “To get back one’s youth, one has merely to repeat one’s follies.” Some other of his statements that make no sense or even seem to be the opposite of truth:

“Beauty is a form of genius . . . [Beauty] is not so superficial as Thought is . . . It is only shallow people who do not judge by appearances . . . There are no triumphs left for you [after you’ve lost your youthful beauty] . . . Fidelity in love is purely physiology and has nothing to do with our own will . . . Punctuality is the thief of time." This last one is a very selfish principle (although it seems Harry often has selfish principles), as being late is actually stealing time from those waiting for you.

And yet more: “When we are happy we are always good, but when we are good we are not always happy.” Goodness, to Harry, is equal to selfishness and doing exactly what you wish--which is, to me, an odd definition of goodness. “The only things that one can use in fiction are the things that one has ceased to use in fact . . . No civilized man ever regrets a pleasure," though I guess this depends on Harry’s definition of civilization. As does the following statement, written by Wilde but not spoken by any character: “Society, civilized society at least, is never very ready to believe anything to the detriment of those who are both rich and fascinating.” That does not seem to be true here in America. Though we may elevate the rich and fascinating to a level higher than they deserve, we are always more than willing to tear those “heroes” down from the pedestal we have put them on. I suppose this means we are not “civilized.” Which makes me wonder, did Oscar Wilde ascribe to Harry’s theories? If so, I think he was very misguided.

I wondered what Wilde referred to when he mentioned “that book of cowardice whose author apes the name of common sense.” I thought he must have been speaking of the Bible, but I wonder if I am narrow-minded in thinking this?

I found it odd that Dorian could be so weak-willed as to be easily influenced by Harry, and yet he seems to have exerted quite a strong influence over many young people he himself came into contact with.

And there you have it: my thoughts on a great book. I must add that if you have actually read this whole post, I am proud of you. You get a gold star.

"The Woman in White" by Wilkie Collins

Here's another one from the list of the 100 Best Loved Books. It was first published in 1860. The author was a contemporary and friend of Charles Dickens, and almost as wordy. (But not quite, because who is?)

I must admit that I was daunted by the 504 pages of this book. I mean, I've read longer books. It wasn't that I didn't think I could finish it, but that I was afraid I would spend too long reading each day and shirk my responsibilities like I did with the previous book, except 2.5 times as much. I decided to limit myself to 100 pages a day so that I might also manage to feed my kids with some regularity.

However, this quickly became more of a goal or a challenge than a limit. A hundred pages was easy the first day because I spent the morning in a doctor's waiting room (without any of the kids, I might add). But I only managed about 14 pages the second day! Then 37 the next. Then I managed to catch a bug that my older kids so graciously brought home to me from school. I contrived to stay in bed for the next two days, and made up for lost time between naps. I don't recommend this method, but it helped by giving me more time to read than I would have had otherwise.

Judging by the back of the book, which claimed that the author's aim was "the 'creepy' effect," I was expecting shivers. I am sad to report that the story is not especially chilling. (OK, this might be a spoiler, so close your eyes for a moment): Once again I was disappointed by the lack of a ghost; I was just sure the titular woman in white was a ghostly figure. (You can open your eyes again now).

That's not to say, however, that I didn't like the book. I thoroughly enjoyed it (even though I did not enjoy my circumstances these past two days). It is Very Victorian, and reminded me of other great books like Jane Eyre or Wuthering Heights. It was very well-written and left no plot holes that I could detect. I was afraid that I would be left without ever knowing the Secret that Sir Percival was so anxious to keep hidden, or that the amazing likeness between Anne Catherick and Laura Fairlie would remain brushed aside as a simple coincidence, but I should not have allowed myself to fret. Collins covered all ground sufficiently . . . some areas, it seemed to me, multiple times.

In fact, that may be my one complaint about the book (other than the fact that it wasn't very creepy, which wouldn't have even been a complaint if the back cover hadn't raised my expectations in that direction). Towards the end (especially during Count Fosco's superfluous narrative in which I didn't learn anything new) a satisfactory resolution could have been reached in a much smaller number of pages. I began to feel as if I was being beaten over the head with details that were already, for the most part, clear enough to me. But this was a small price to pay for an absorbing Victorian mystery.

Be forewarned that reading 100 pages of this book is about like reading 200 pages of any other. If you have any sort of life or responsibilities outside of reading, give yourself at least a week (maybe even two) to get through it.

"The Sound and the Fury" by William Faulkner

I came to this book with absolutely no preconceived notions. Of course I have heard of the title and author before, but I had no clue what the book might contain. In fact, the copy I have borrowed from the library for once doesn't match the cover you see here, because I couldn't find a photo of the plain red cover with gold lettering of the book I have in hand; with the copy I read, I didn't even have the benefit of a blurb on the back cover.

Before I even made it through the first of the four chapters I found this book a challenging read. I was really hoping this would be one of those books whose narrator changes with each chapter, because the first chapter is narrated by a mentally handicapped man named Benjy (or Maury? as it turns out, his family changed his name after they found out he was handicapped), and it's very garbled. It was difficult to be certain, but it appeared to be jumping between settings (in the cold before Christmas, in the spring after a funeral, the narrator's 33rd birthday, and possibly the narrator as a small child), and although many other characters are named, it was difficult to figure out who was who. (It didn't help that there are two Jasons, two Quentins, two Maurys until the aforementioned name change, and Caddy is short for Candace). I was up for the challenge, but I did hope the entire book wasn't written like the first chapter. It sure made me appreciate the organization and precision of the autistic narrator in The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time.

I got my wish about varying narrators, but the second chapter was hardly better than the first. It is narrated by Benjy's older brother Quentin, and while he doesn't jump around quite as much chronologically, it is all very stream-of-consciousness, complete with tangents and digressions and general confusion. It is evident that although Quentin is not handicapped like Benjy, he is disturbed in his own way. And, not that I have any experience with editing, but I guarantee it would have driven me absolutely bonkers to have tried to edit this book. I would have wanted to fix all of the missing punctuation.

The third chapter was easier to read and more plot-driven, narrated by the third Compson brother, Jason. What stood out to me the most in this chapter was the off-hand way in which it is revealed that Quentin had committed suicide. I had gotten the idea in the second chapter that Quentin was contemplating something of the sort, but that chapter ended with Quentin still alive, and his death was merely mentioned in passing in Jason's chapter.

The end of the book reminded me of a short story. Jason is chasing after Miss Quentin (his niece, not his brother) and the plot is fraught with tension. We gather from Dilsey that Benjy smells something he doesn't like, and I assumed this meant someone was going to die. Luster drives Benjy the wrong way around the monument and I thought he must have seen something terrible in Jason's car (like Caddy's or Miss Quentin's body? but that would have made too much sense). There seemed to me to be quite a build-up of anxiety but it turns out to be all for nothing. Nobody dies, Jason doesn't catch his niece or get his money back, and Benjy settles down when he goes the right way around the monument. I guess it fits right in with the quote from Macbeth (once again, Google is my friend): "Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing."

"Frankenstein, or The Modern Prometheus" by Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley

I tried to read this book when I was a little kid but it just didn't work out. I can't remember what the problem was--looking back, I thought I must have found it kind of boring--all I could remember was somebody stumbling over the snowy tundra towards a village, which now, having actually read it, I see was not quite right; and now I wonder if my problem wasn't the fact that this book contains a pretty advanced vocabulary which was probably difficult for me to contend with at that age. I mean, I even learned some new words from reading this book as an adult! The only example I can remember is "tyro" (which means novice) but I got the dictionary out several times while reading this book.

This book is nothing like the movie scenes everyone pictures. There is no hunchback, there is no lightning strike, there is no maniacal scream of "IT'S ALIVE!!!" In fact, the book dwells more on the formation of the monster's body than its coming alive (the length of perhaps a chapter as compared to one paragraph) but of course none of that is very cinematic in the book, so it's not surprising that the movie doesn't adhere very closely to the book in that respect. Another reason the lightning strike wouldn't have been mentioned in the book is because, as Victor Frankenstein explains, he doesn't want to give away the secret of reanimation and have someone else duplicate his horrible experiment. (Of course this is also a useful device to keep the author from having to think up a plausible method of reanimation). By the way, I think the only Frankenstein movie I've actually watched is Young Frankenstein (snort), but I have ordered the 1931 original (and the sequel!) on netflix.

Another big surprise to me was the fact that Frankenstein's monster turned out to be highly intelligent and quite eloquent! I always assumed that the monster couldn't do much more than lurch around with his arms out in front of him, moaning and groaning. I guess this is what he was like when he first came to life, but I never knew that Frankenstein bestowed intelligence and self-awareness on his monster as well as life. And speaking of when he first came to life, I found it interesting that the monster's description of being assailed by his senses sounds like what it must be like for a newborn baby--which is basically what he was, in all but form.

When Frankenstein's monster first opened his mouth to speak it required a huge shift in perspective for me in relation to my knowledge of this story. It was like the first time I got glasses, when I'd had no idea I needed them. Unfortunately at this point, when the monster tells his story, the momentum of the book slows quite a bit. I had been expecting more nail-biting, heart-pounding action throughout the book, especially based on the back cover which claimed the book "has never been equalled for its masterful manipulation of the elements of horror and suspense." (I must disagree and say that Edgar Allan Poe is far superior with both horror and suspense in multiple stories!) You get some tension in the first third and some in the last third but not so much in the middle. In fact, the monster's story almost reads more like a fairy tale, although in a sort of Through the Looking Glass way, like it's inside out or backwards. If you imagine the story from the point of view of the small family in the cottage (chores mysteriously completed for them à la "The Shoemaker and the Elves") you'll understand what I mean. Although it is rather creepy when you add the element that they are continually spied on without their knowledge.

I lost respect for Victor Frankenstein when he didn't come forward in defense of Justine and instead allowed the innocent girl to be executed for a crime he knew she didn't commit. Of course Frankenstein explained that this was because he was afraid his story would not be believed and he would be locked up in the looney bin, but I say an honorable man would have tried anyway. As it was, I really felt no pity for his despair and remorse.

About halfway through the book I started to think about how interesting it would be if the creator-monster relationship was revealed to be a Jekyll-Hyde thing and it was actually a split personality within Victor Frankenstein rather than two separate beings. I was pretty sure that wasn't the case (and it wasn't), but that would have made for a pretty good story. I like it when a book is a little less straightforward and has a few unforeseen twists and turns.

One more interesting thing I never knew: Victor Frankenstein created his monster in Ingolstadt, Germany. My sister used to live near there! I wonder why this never came up as one of Ingolstadt's claims to fame.

"The Catcher in the Rye" by J.D. Salinger

As well-known and celebrated as this book is, it's hard to believe this was the first time I'd picked it up. How did I never read it before? It's one of those books I was just sure I must have read at some point in my life, but I was wrong.

It is an excellent novel, and the protagonist, Holden Caulfield, is written with brilliant characterization. Throughout the book he speaks with a pitiable bravado that seems to be set aside only in his interactions with his younger sister Phoebe. His tone alternates between biting sarcasm and bleak depression. Hud, who read the book just before I did, saw Caulfield as a "little punk who needed a boot up his [rear]", but I disagree. I will admit that he was probably viewed that way by many of the people who were acquainted with him, but he was not the insensitive and self-involved screw-up that his words and actions may have implied.

I wish I knew where I've heard the phrase "a gentleman and a scholar." (This is what Caulfield calls crumby Ackley not long before he decided to get out of Pencey). I'm sure I've heard that phrase before, and I'm sure that wherever I heard it, the inspiration was this book. However, it is interesting to note that Salinger probably got the phrase from the poem by Robert Burns entitled "The Twa Dogs," which contained this line: "His locke'd, letter'd, braw brass-collar, Show'd him the gentleman an'scholar." (No, I'm not enough of a smarty-pants to just know this off the top of my head. I googled it.) The reason I find this so interesting is that the title of this novel comes from another Robert Burns poem called "Comin' Through the Rye."

Side note: There is a movie entitled Chapter 27 (which I have not seen yet) about Mark David Chapman, murderer of John Lennon, who called himself Holden Caulfield and strongly identified with this book. This novel has 26 chapters, so that explains the name of the movie. I also vaguely remember rumors (as does Hud) that a number of other serial killers or famous murderers owned this book, though it would be interesting to note whether a larger proportion of the population of homicidal maniacs owns this book as compared to the proportion of normal people who own it, this being a common and well-known book. It's not as if Caulfield is a killer himself, although he does feel quite alienated from almost everyone, as I expect a homicidal maniac might.

The copy I read was borrowed from our local library (yay, library! You finally had a specific book I was looking for!) but I'm thinking I need to buy my own copy. It's definitely a classic and I will want to read it again sometime.

"Catch-22" by Joseph Heller

I thought I had read Catch-22 my junior year of high school in crazy Mrs. Van Patten's class, but when it came up as a selection of the month in the Most Awesome First Saturday Book Club sometime during its heyday between March 2001 and June 2006, I decided we must not have actually read the book in high school. I wonder if the teacher just explained the concept of a catch-22 to us and read a few excerpts from the book? Because I remembered a few passages in the book as clear as day, but the rest of it seemed completely new to me, and I don't think I can chalk that up to my regular "literary amnesia." Not only that, but when I come across the adult language and situations in the book (mostly centering around naked whores) I have a feeling I would never have read this book in high school, if only because all of the teachers knew my parents would never allow it.

Just a few months ago a friend mentioned she was re-reading this book, and then recently my husband picked it up and forced himself to slog through it. So when I found myself with nothing to read (which was not exactly true; I had 3 or 4 half-read issues of National Geographic to catch up on, and a stack of books my mom gave me for Christmas which are all sadly and characteristically books that hold no interest for me) and saw this book was still out (since of course my husband never puts anything away), I picked it up. By the time I was about 1/4 of the way through it, I was sorely tempted to call my aforementioned friend on the phone, say "T. S. Eliot", and hang up. I was dying to know if she would figure out who had called and return the favor, but I never did try it.

This book was just as I remember from reading it for Book Club. It varies from humorous (one of my favorite parts being the chocolate covered cotton idea) to Too Ridiculous To Even Be Funny, with a little tragedy mixed in (the one that stuck with me most was Kid Sampson being sliced in half by a propellor).

"The Aeneid" by Virgil

I'm sure you all know the story. Aeneas, a hero of Troy, escapes its sacking by the Greeks and sets sail with a group of noble refugees, guided by his mother Venus. The first half of the book covers their travels that eventually take them to Italy; the second half vividly describes the gory battle scenes that take place as the new arrivals skirmish with the previous inhabitants of the land. This is another book I thought I had read in high school, but now I'm not so sure. I am also not sure how this epic fits with the story of the twins Romulus and Remus who are also credited with founding Rome. They were briefly mentioned in this book but it was unclear as to whether they came before Aeneas, who merely later added his seed to the lineage, or if the twins were on the scene in years following Aeneas, or if they are separate and mutually exclusive myths. Either way, I thought it was appropriate that I began to read this book on my way to Rome.

As poetry, this story seemed exceedingly prolix. I would think that a message just as forceful and exalted could have been presented in a poem more the length of "The Rime of the Ancient Mariner" (a long poem, to be sure, but nowhere near a 331-page epic).

When I first picked the book up, I inwardly scoffed at the glossary at the back (containing mainly the names of people and places), but as I read I found myself referring to that index multiple times. Without the glossary I would have had a bit of trouble remembering the difference between the Danaans (the Greeks) and the Dardans (the Trojans)--definitely an important distinction, but a difficult one to remember due to the similarity of their names. However, at other times, as during battle scenes, unless a key character was being discussed, I found it didn't matter much who they were talking about.

It is notable that, although I wouldn't necessarily recommend this book to others as an enjoyable read, the last few pages were downright suspenseful for me! Aeneas and his enemy Turnus were locked in single combat, and until the very last lines, I wasn't quite sure who would win!