Author: Rohan Maitzen

Second Anniversary Musings

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My first post here went up on January 18, 2007.

A two-year anniversary seems as good a time as any for some reflections on my experience of blogging so far. I’ve written fairly often already about blogging and my interest in it as an extension of my academic work, my pedagogy, and my desire to find common ground between academic criticism and ‘common’ readers. So what else is there to talk about?

Well, for one thing, I have found that writing this blog has made me very aware of the things I can’t (or at least don’t) talk about here–this is a feeling enhanced by my recent reading of the anthology Dropped Threads (from the cover: “A beautifully woven tapestry of perspectives on the silences women still keep”). Now, I’ve never been a convert to the highly confessional version of blogging, not just because it seems at once solipsistic and exhibitionist, from the writing side, and voyeuristic, from the reading side. And even if I were inclined to blog about myself in a more personal way, because I use my own name rather than a pseudonym, self-disclosure risks impinging unfairly on others’ privacy. Of course, there are no external inhibitors here, only my own sense of propriety and reserve. But maybe because the format of a blog makes it feel like writing in a diary, the gap between the (usually) calm, reasonable tone of my postings and my currently rather vexed and complicated life can sometimes be disconcerting. Blogging for me is another version of my calm public face. I certainly prize and respect self-control, but as the wise narrator of Middlemarch observes, “behind the big mask and the speaking-trumpet, there must always be our poor little eyes peeping as usual and our timorous lips more or less under anxious control.” It’s tempting, sometimes, to launch an anonymous blog in an attempt to tap into the same reservoir of kind, thoughtful people I’ve discovered are “out there” ready to contribute generously to conversations about books, to see what answers they might have to some questions about life. But don’t worry: I’m never going to turn Novel Readings into naval gazing. I’ve been reading too much Carlyle recently to be tempted into that kind of self-indulgence!

Even as an expression of my public or professional personality, my blogging has seemed to me lately to have become a bit bland. Not that it ever was particularly edgy! And by some, I know, my approach has always been dismissed as ‘middle-brow’ at best (that’s not, by the way, an epithet I’m altogether averse to). Still, in person, even at work, I think I’m a bit more acerbic and prickly, or funny and irreverent, than I have been here, where of late “a common greyness silvers everything.” Also, I’ve become more inclined to avoid topics on which I feel snarky and know I might generate some controversy (however small in scale). In some ways it is responsible to think twice about statements which, thanks to the wonders of electronic memory, you can’t ever really take back. I also believe reciprocal courtesy and avoidance of cheap ad hominem slurs should be the standards for blogging as much as for any kind of intellectual exchange. Still, one of the initial attractions of blogging was the freedom it offered to express my opinions without layers of qualifications or justifications (or footnotes). Though of course with tenure I have, officially, all the leeway I could want to say what I think, I do try to get along with my colleagues, and I have a responsibility to my students to present a variety of perspectives and to teach a range of material that is variously congenial to my own critical commitments and temperament. Being polite and responsible like this can sometimes feel intellectually dampening, that’s all, and for a while, I felt relatively uninhibited here, and so took a few more risks than usual. I don’t want to seek controversy or be contrarian just for the sake of it, but I don’t want my commitments to remain wholly implicit here: I’d like to define myself more sharply as a critic and make Novel Readings stand out more distinctly as a source for a more particular kind of commentary. We’ll see how that goes.

On another topic, since I started putting time in as a blogger I have inevitably asked questions about the value of doing this instead of doing other things that lead more directly to professional credit or advancement. In the next year or so I’d like to discuss some of the things I’ve learned or considered more formally with first our departmental and then our faculty administration. I’ve already proposed to our departmental committee on professional development that we move towards a ‘portfolio’ approach to to evaluating academic publications. Given how strongly worded the MLA’s recommendations on scholarly publishing were, it is a bit shocking to me how little impact they appear to have had so far on ordinary practice–or even on thinking about ordinary practice. I’m not claiming anything in particular for Novel Readings here, except insofar as exploring the world of academic blogging and electronic publication has opened my eyes to the inadequacies of our entrenched assumptions about what ‘counts.’

Finally, blogging for this long starts to raise questions about the value of the archived material. I recently did some downloading and sorting of old posts, with an eye to drawing on them for some more formal writing projects. Doing so made me very aware of the sheer quantity of writing I have done here over the past two years (hundreds of pages worth, it turns out). The material varies widely in quality and depth, but I would like to do something to ensure that the more substantive posts are accessible in a useful way: one aspect of literary or academic blogging that has always bothered and puzzled me is that writing about books is not properly subject to quite the same time pressures as, say, writing about current events (or even, dare I say it, writing about pop culture). The blog format, though, persistently favours the new, always moving older posts down and then off the page as if somehow critical insights get dated like any other story. I’m going to work on setting up something like a ‘table of contents’ for the blog that will work better than the ‘labels’ function to direct visitors to what I think of as the “back-blog” of material here. There’s no reason in principle why despite the unbreakable convention of ‘latest first,’ a blog couldn’t work less like a newsfeed and more like a constantly expanding volume.

This Week in My Classes (January 16, 2009)

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I don’t have a lot to say about our first week on The Moonstone in Mystery and Detective Fiction that I didn’t say around this time last year. I notice that in last year’s post I didn’t say much about Miss Clack, though, who was the main subject of today’s meeting. I like Miss Clack for many reasons, including for her name (clickety-clack! it captures and trivializes her annoying persistence with Dickensian precision) and for how well she illustrates one of the novel’s major formal interests–the effect of character on both language and perception. Her narrative is extremely comic, but because it is funny at the expense of her religious attitudes (especially her missionary zeal), the humour inevitably has larger thematic implications. Her major charitable project, for instance, is the “Mothers’-Small-Clothes-Conversion-Society”: “the object of this excellent Charity is . . . to rescue unredeemed fathers’ trousers from the pawnbroker, and to prevent their resumption, on the part of the irreclaimable parent, by abridging them immediately to suit the proportions of the innocent son.” Actually, that’s not a bad idea: recidivism might just plummet with severe enough applications of pantsing among the “irreclaimable,” especially when, as here today, the temperature is a bracing -33 C in the wind. I also enjoy her as a case study in sublimation, as she attempts to translate her erotic interest in Godfrey Ablewhite into spiritual terms:

He beamed on us with his beautiful smile; he held out a hand to my aunt, and a hand to me. I was too deeply affected by his noble conduct to speak. I closed my eyes; I put his hand, in a kind of spiritual self-forgetfulness, to my lips. He murmured a soft remonstrance. Oh the ecstasy, the pure, unearthly ecstasy of that moment! I sat — I hardly know on what — quite lost in my own exalted feelings. When I opened my eyes again, it was like descending from heaven to earth. There was nobody but my aunt in the room. He had gone.

“Unearthly ecstasy.” Uh huh, sure.

In my Faith and Doubt seminar we are also looking at religion with an ironic and occasionally skeptical eye, but there it is important to be clear, with this week’s reading, that there’s religion, and then there’s religion: we’ve been working on bits of Carlyle, excerpts from Sartor Resartus and Past and Present, and God is everywhere acknowledged, though every imaginable doctrine seems to be dismissed as Sham, Cant, and Quackery. We worked to clarify the notion of “Natural Supernaturalism” today. I had recourse (legitimately, I hope) to a couple of passages from Aurora Leigh which have always seemed to me to pursue something very close to Carlyle’s idea of Nature as a system of “celestial Hieroglyphs,” even relying on the same metaphors he uses, and pressing us (as Carlyle does in Past and Present) to see consequences for our social responsibilities and behaviours resulting from what EBB calls that “double vision” by which the “temporal show” is “built up to eterne significance” (AL VII:807-8):

Earth’s crammed with heaven,
And every common bush afire with God. (VII: 821-22)

If a man could feel,
Not one day, in the artist’s ecstasy,
But every day, feast, fast, or working day,
The spiritual significance burn through
The hieroglyph of material shows,
Henceforward he would paint the globe with wings,
And reverence fish and fowl, the bull, the tree,
And even his very body as a man, —
Which now he counts so vile, that all the towns
Make offal of their daughters for its use …. (AL VII:857-66)

As I understand it, Carlyle’s objection is that we have (mis)taken the surface show for all, forgetting or denying the greater reality which, on his view, is simply ‘clothed’ in what we can see and measure (“We have quietly closed our eyes to the eternal Substance of things, and opened them only to the Shows and Shames of things”). We have become materialists, scientists, even (gasp) atheists. And the result is a world in which the only concept of Hell is “not succeeding…chiefly of not making money”–we are become believers only the the “gospel of Mammonism”: “We have profoundly forgotten everywhere that Cash payment is not the sole relation of human beings.” Soon after this part comes his well-known story of the “Irish Widow,” which I routinely circulate to my students when we discuss the fate of Jo in Bleak House.

As noted in my previous post, there’s a head-punching-needed quality to Carlyle’s prose (the editors of my edition of Sartor Resartus quote his one-time friend J. S. Mill writing to him cautiously to ask whether his points could not be “as well or better said in a more direct way? The same doubt has occasionally occurred to me respecting much of your phraseology”). But there are moments of sheer delight, too, and this time it was the seven-foot hat that did it for me, so here it is for you to enjoy as well. It’s hard not to feel, when reading it, that Carlyle is, in his own crazed way, a prophet for our time as well as his own. It is part of his general indictment of society for having “given up hope in the Everlasting, True, and placed its hope in the Temporary, half or wholly false.”

Consider, for example, that great Hat seven-feet high, which now perambulates London Streets. . . The Hatter in the Strand of London, instead of making better felt-hats than another, mounts a huge lath-and-plaster Hat, seven-feet high, upon wheels; sends a man to drive it through the streets, hoping to be saved thereby. He has not attempted to make better hats, as he was appointed by the Universe to do, and as with this ingenuity of his he could very probably have done; but his whole industry is turned to persuade us that he has made such! He too knows that the Quack has become God. Laugh not at him, O reader; or do not laugh only. He has ceased to be comic; he is fast becoming tragic. To me this all-deafening blast of Puffery, of poor Falsehood grown necessitous, of poor Heart-Atheism fallen now into Enchanted Workhouses, sounds too surely like a Doom’s-blast! . . .

We take it for granted, the most rigorous of us, that all men who have made anything are expected and entitled to make the loudest possible proclamation of it, and call on a discerning public to reward them for it. Every man his own trumpeter–that is, to a really alarming extent, the accepted rule. Make loudest possible proclamation of your Hat: true proclamation if that will do; if that will not do, then false proclamation–to such extent of falsity as will serve your purpose, as will not seem too false to be credible!

“Make loudest possible proclamation of your Hat”–here, indeed, is a motto for our times. Carlyle’s view, of course, is that “Nature requires no man to make proclamation of of his doings and hat-makings.” And a “finite quantity of Unveracity” may leave real life and Faithfulness sustainable, but beware when “your self-trumpeting Hatmaker” becomes emblematic of “all makers, and workers, and men”:

Not one false man but does uncountable mischief: how much, in a generation or two, will Twenty-seven millions, mostly false, manage to accumulate? The sum of it, visible in every street, market-place, senate-house, circulating library, cathedral, cotton-mill, and union-workhous, fills one not with a comic feeling!

Indeed. I’m off now, to try to make a better Hat, in accordance with the Universe’s plans for me. O reader, go thou and do likewise! (OK, no more Carlyle for me…)

Wondrous Indeed is the Virtue of a True Book…

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Not like a dead city of stones, yearly crumbling, yearly needing repair; more like a tilled field, but then a spiritual field; like a spiritual tree, let me rather say, it stands from year to year, and from age to age . . . ; and yearly comes its new produce of leaves (Commentaries, Deductions, Philosophical, Political Systems; or were it only Sermons, Pamphlets, Journalistic Essays), every one of which is talismanic and thaumaturgic, for it can persuade men. O thou who art able to write a Book, which once in the two centuries or oftener there is a man gifted to do, envy not him whom they name City-builder, and inexpressibly pity him whom they name Conqueror or City-burner! Thou too art a conqueror and Victor, but of the true sort, namely over the Devil; thou too hast built what will outlast all marble and metal, and be a wonder-bringing City of the Mind, a Temple and Seminary and Prophetic Mount, whereto all kindreds of the Earth will pilgrim.

It always seems nearly futile to comment on Carlyle (this is a bit from the “Centre of Indifference” chapter of Sartor Resartus–technically, the words are those of the fictional Philosopher of Clothes, Diogenes Teuefelsdrockh, which, yes, translates as “God-born Devil s–t”). His prose is at once exhilirating and infuriating; the same can often be said about his ideas (I think it was William Morris who acknowledged his genius but said someone should always have been stationed beside him to punch his head every few minutes). Do you think he would consider much contemporary criticism ‘talismanic and thaumaturgic’?

Globe and Mail Book Section Goes Online

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The Toronto Globe and Mail, which fondly declares itself “Canada’s National Newspaper,” has, like many other newspapers, recently eliminated their stand-alone books section. I haven’t found the Globe‘s book section very stimulating for some time, so to me the loss is more symbolic than intellectual. (One of my theories about why the section is so often disappointing is that they ask too many authors–as opposed to, say, critics–to write their reviews.) Literary coverage will continue, but as part of the Focus section (odd, maybe, that it’s not the Review section?). At the same time, however, the paper has dramatically expanded its online books coverage. I haven’t had time to explore the site very thoroughly, but it seems to include many of the same features that the print version had as well as a range of interactive pieces, including a couple of blogs and an “Ask the Author” feature that looks like fun–P. D. James is scheduled for later this month, and she’s an author I’d like to ask a few questions myself. I see that their Blogroll so far is exclusively other Globe and Mail blogs. I wonder if they will get outside that box a bit and link to some of the wide range of other book blogs (affiliated with newspapers and not) in and out of Canada.

This Week in My Classes (January 6, 2009)

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That’s right, another term has begun. Blogging about teaching has become yet another reminder for me of how cyclical academic work is: to everything there is, indeed, a season. As my years in this job add up, I am increasingly self-conscious about the potential the work has for becoming repetitive (if it’s the second week of January, it must be The Moonstone…). At the same time, I am also increasingly appreciative of the on-again, off-again rhythm, the three-month bursts of intense concentration, barely-controlled chaos, and incessant demands and deadlines, followed by an interval of relative calm–still full of work, but without the same feeling that you are just grasping at the next thing in a never-ending chain. Sometimes, in between terms, you don’t even do much real work on evenings and weekends!

Here’s what’s up this term. Once again, by popular demand (and to help meet my ‘quota’ for what our higher-ups tactlessly call “bums-in-seats”), I’m teaching Mystery and Detective Fiction. Some of you will remember the convolutions I went through trying to revamp the reading list for this course. I undertook that re-thinking process a bit belatedly, as I had already ordered most of my books for this term; I am using a new anthology, the Longman Anthology of Mystery and Detective Fiction instead of the Oxford Book of Detective Stories, which means a different selection of short texts, and I have added Auster’s City of Glass. But otherwise the major landmarks of the course are the same as last winter’s version. Next year, however…. One text I’m sure I won’t change is, actually, The Moonstone. It’s just so much fun; I’m not sure I’ll ever be sorry to wake up on a Monday morning in January and realize it’s Gabriel Betteredge Day. We haven’t done much yet this term. Tomorrow’s “Big Intro Lecture” day. I just hope more of the students have actually bothered to get back in town.

My other class is a new one for me, an upper-level seminar on “Victorian Literature of Faith and Doubt.” Back when we still offered a lot of full-year courses, I sometimes taught a Victorian literature survey, and it included a “crisis of faith” unit (along with the “Woman Question” unit that became the basis of another special topics seminar I have now offered several times). I thought I’d like to get back to some of the prose and poetry I don’t otherwise get to teach much, and religion is not only the quintessential 19th-century topic but also a topic of some personal interest to me; this new seminar is the result. I would not feel competent to offer a graduate level course on this material, but I’ve been brushing up on key texts and contexts and I think (I hope!) I’m going to be OK for my purposes this term. I’ve got my intro lecture on “varieties of 19th-century faith and doubt” ready to go. We haven’t done much but organizing so far, but one comment in yesterday’s class meeting did take me by surprise–maybe unreasonably, I don’t know. The students were signing up for seminar presentations and I remarked that they seemed to be avoiding Hopkins. “It’s because we’ve never heard of him,” one of them said. Never heard of Hopkins? Am I crazy to find this startling in a room full of 4th-year English Honours and Majors students? I’ve been trying to remember when I first came across Hopkins and what my first reading would have been. I’m thinking it was “God’s Grandeur” in my second-year Chaucer-t0-Yeats survey class, or maybe (since I was the kind of person who read around) I just encountered him while reading on my own. I always teach something by Hopkins when I’m doing a poetry class or a class with a poetry unit; I’m pretty sure that when I taught Close Reading (still my most challenging and rewarding pedagogical assignment) we did at least “God’s Grandeur” and “The Windhover” every year. It’s hard to think of poetry that better illustrates both the rewards and the limits of close reading! Dear readers, do you read–have you read–any Hopkins? How obscure is he these days?

To close, then, because I’m in a poetry frame of mind, here’s a study in contrasts from my ‘faith and doubt’ syllabus: my favourite section of In Memoriam (Tennyson, often belittled for his “pretty” language, shows he can be stark and restrained with the best of them) and a dose of Hopkins (ah! the ecstasy of that last moment). Go ahead: scan them both. You know you want to.

from In Memoriam A.H.H.

VII.

Dark house, by which once more I stand

Here in the long unlovely street,
Doors, where my heart was used to beat
So quickly, waiting for a hand,

A hand that can be clasp’d no more —
Behold me, for I cannot sleep,
And like a guilty thing I creep
At earliest morning to the door.

He is not here; but far away
The noise of life begins again,
And ghastly thro’ the drizzling rain
On the bald street breaks the blank day.

“God’s Grandeur“

The world is charged with the grandeur of God.

It will flame out, like shining from shook foil;
It gathers to a greatness, like the ooze of oil
Crushed. Why do men then now not reck his rod?
Generations have trod, have trod, have trod;
And all is seared with trade; bleared, smeared with toil;
And wears man’s smudge & shares man’s smell: the soil
Is bare now, nor can foot feel, being shod.

And for all this, nature is never spent;
There lives the dearest freshness deep down things;
And though the last lights off the black West went
Oh, morning, at the brown brink eastward, springs —
Because the Holy Ghost over the bent
World broods with warm breast & with ah! bright wings.

Happy New Year!

Rohan Maitzen2 Comments

It has been quiet here at Novel Readings due to the combination of the holidays and the pressure to get my winter term courses ready for (gulp) Monday morning. As part of my class preparation, I have been working again on Tennyson’s In Memoriam, that beautiful, melancholy sequence described best by lines from the poem itself: “Short swallow-flights of song, that dip / their wings in tears, and skim away.” By way of a New Year’s offering, here’s section 106:

Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky,
The flying cloud, the frosty light:
The year is dying in the night:
Ring out, wild bells, and let him die.

Ring out the old, ring in the new,
Ring, happy bells, across the snow:
The year is going, let him go;
Ring out the false, ring in the true.

Ring out the grief that saps the mind,
For those that here we see no more;
Ring out the feud of rich and poor,
Ring in redress to all mankind.

Ring out a slowly dying cause,
And ancient forms of party strife;
Ring in the nobler modes of life,
With sweeter manners, purer laws.

Ring out the want, the care, the sin,
The faithless coldness of the times;
Ring out, ring out my mournful rhymes,
But ring the fuller minstrel in.

Ring out false pride in place and blood,
The civic slander and the spite;
Ring in the love of truth and right,
Ring in the common love of good.

Ring out old shapes of foul disease;
Ring out the narrowing lust of gold;
Ring out the thousand wars of old,
Ring in the thousand years of peace.

Ring in the valiant man and free,
The larger heart, the kindlier hand;
Ring out the darkness of the land,
Ring in the Christ that is to be.

I haven’t taught much poetry at all lately; my ‘Victorian Faith and Doubt’ seminar is going to make up for that, not only with In Memoriam but also poems by Matthew Arnold, Emily Bronte, Gerard Manley Hopkins, Thomas Hardy, and Christina Rossetti–including, of course, “Goblin Market.” Novel Readings should include some forays into poetry reading in 2009, then. I’m looking forward to it.

Novel Readings 2008

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One of the best features of blogging is turning out to be the record it provides of my reading experiences. 2008 doesn’t seem to have been my most rewarding year of novel reading (being on sabbatical for part of last year accounted, in part, for the greater number and variety of books I went through in 2007), but there have certainly been highlights. Some of my most stimulating reading in 2008 was re-reading, and some was non-fiction. Here’s my look back at the highs and lows of my reading year.

Books I’m most glad I read, either for the intrinsic richness of the aesthetic, affective, or intellectual experience they offered, for the conversations they generated, or for the ideas and connections they offered for my teaching and research:

  1. Ann Patchett, Bel Canto. Without a doubt, this was my favourite new novel of the year: exquisite, finely tuned art about the beauty, value, and fragility of art.
  2. Olivia Manning, The Balkan Trilogy and The Levant Trilogy. Though the prose throughout these books is consistently, almost perversely, flat, I found the series consistently interesting, especially in its depiction of ordinary, flawed, but mostly likable people trying to organize meaningful lives for themselves amidst the constantly unfolding chaos and danger of war. The understated style comes to seem appropriate for characters who are never really dramatic, always on the periphery of the ‘real’ action and yet, of course, always the protagonists of their own stories.
  3. George Eliot, Adam Bede. I hadn’t read Adam Bede in a couple of years and have never paid it as much attention as my favourite George Eliot novels. When it emerged as the front-runner for our summer reading group at The Valve, I was uncertain how things would go, if relieved to be on somewhat familiar territory. In the end, I gained a greater appreciation of the uneven beauties and oddities of the novel. I also found it constantly stimulating seeing how other readers responded to it and learning from the range of approaches and expertise that inflected their readings. Of the many memorable passages, this is the one that I find has echoed in my mind since we wrapped things up:

    “It would be a poor result of all our anguish and our wrestling, if we won nothing but our old selves at the end of it–if we could return to the same blind loves, the same self-confident blame, the same light thoughts of human suffering, the same frivolous gossip over blighted human lives, the same feeble sense of that Unknown towards which we have sent forth irrepressible cries in our loneliness. Let us rather be thankful that our sorrow lives in us as an indestructible force, only changing its form, as forces do, and passing from pain into sympathy–the one poor word which includes all our best insight and our best love.”

  • James Wood, How Fiction Works. Though my assessment of this much-hyped book from today’s most talked-about literary critic was not altogether positive, Wood is certainly an inspiration to anyone who would like to see the gap between academic and public criticism bridged without false populism.
  • Ronan McDonald, The Death of the Critic. Like How Fiction Works, The Death of the Critic stood out in my reading year more because of the conversations it generated than because of its intrinsic merits. I’m still thinking about the emphasis McDonald (and others) places on evaluation as the key to critical relevance, and I’m still inclined to think that people’s everyday reading practices have at least as much to do with ethics (broadly construed, as Booth does in The Company We Keep). Eventually I hope to make this case–and, further, the case for ethical criticism as a useful framework for public criticism–in a careful way.
  • The Reader. I’ve been so happy to discover this excellent publication from The Reader Organization. I first came across it through this article on Scott and have since read several back issues and both of the issues made available as PDFs for download. I’ve been promised that a two-year subscription is part of my Christmas haul this year, and I really look forward to keeping up with its stimulating blend of intelligent but accessible literary analysis, readers’ reports, and new fiction and poetry.
  • Vanity Fair and Bleak House. The enormous pleasure and challenge of teaching both of these books in the same class nearly compensates for an academic year in which I am not teaching Middlemarch even once (I’ll have to make up for that in 2009-10).
  • The Wire. OK, it’s not a novel…but it was certainly one of the most enthralling narrative experiences of my year, and in its social and thematic ambition and its attempt to convey the connections between multiple layers of a complex socio-economic world and a sprawling cast of characters, it has much in common with the 19th-century ‘condition of England’ novels.
  • Two recent additions I haven’t had time to write up properly: Kate Atkinson’s Case Histories and One Good Turn. I first read the former on the way home from a trip to Sydney. I’m not a happy flier and I was fairly well medicated, which must be why I didn’t appreciate it much at the time and wantonly gave it away on landing. After hearing a number of people speak very highly of both of Atkinson’s mysteries, I got One Good Turn from the library last week and enjoyed it so much that I picked up a new copy of Case Histories, which I just finished reading and found thoroughly impressive.

Books I could have done without (happily, a shorter list than last year’s):

  1. Inger Ash Wolfe, The Calling. There’s a good book–even a good series–to be had from the materials in this creepy thing. Maybe the sequel will abandon the cheap thrills in favour of intelligent plotting and character development.
  2. Paul Auster, City of Glass. Actually, I wasn’t sure which list to put this one one. I hated it and yet I thought it was very smart, and I’ll be teaching it in April. Wish me luck!

Books I’m most looking forward to reading in 2009:

  1. Vikram Seth, A Suitable Boy. Yes, this was on my books to read in 2008 list too. I don’t blame the novel at all for my failure to get through it; I was enjoying it, but other things intruded and my attention wandered.
  2. Leo Tolstoy, War and Peace. My Christmas wish list this year reflected a certain impatience with hot new books that rather disappointed; War and Peace is one of those Great Classics that I have read only once (years ago, trying to look smart) and have often thought I should read properly. Now I have it in a highly praised new translation and I’m excited to get started.
  3. John Galsworth, The Forsyte Saga. This is another from my wish list. I’ve never read it, but it looks like just the kind of thing I’ll enjoy.
  4. Evelyn Waugh, Brideshead Revisited. See above.
  5. Daphne Du Maurier, Rebecca. I read this many times in my youth, but it was part of our family library and since I moved away from home I’ve never owned my own copy. Now I do!
  6. Raymond Chandler, The Big Sleep. For someone who teaches a course on detective fiction, this one is probably my “Humiliation” winner. I’m tiring a bit of The Maltese Falcon, so I figure it’s time I tried the other obvious one.

Not directly related to reading novels but of much significance to Novel Readings in 2008 was the invitation I received to become a contributor to The Valve. It has been invigorating, if sometimes intimidating, to share my posts with a wider audience and to participate in the lively exchanges that go on among the diverse community of readers and thinkers that write and comment there.

I have no bold new plans for Novel Readings in 2009 except to keep it up. Thanks to everyone who came here to read or comment!

Chime in on “The Chimes”

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(x-posted)

To be honest, “The Chimes” has left me a bit at a loss, and so I’m looking forward to hearing reactions from others. My biggest confusion was over Trotty himself: what did he do to deserve these terrible visions of deprivation and depravity, and what is he supposed to do about them? His sin appears to be his loss of faith in humanity:

‘Unnatural and cruel!’ Toby cried. ‘Unnatural and cruel! None but people who were bad at heart, born bad, who had no business on the earth, could do such deeds. It’s too true, all I’ve heard to-day; too just, too full of proof. We’re Bad!’

He has to learn to blame nurture, rather than nature:

‘I know that we must trust and hope, and neither doubt ourselves, nor doubt the good in one another.’

But because he’s really such a kindly fellow himself, and so powerless that his error can hardly do any damage, while his redemption can hardly do any good, he seems a far more artificial device for this re-education project than Scrooge does. The story’s didacticism, in other words, seemed to overpower its aesthetic conception and thus blunted its emotional effects: it was always already about me (and you), not about Trotty, and unpleasantly so, as the underlying assumption about me (and you) is that we will blame and despise desperate mothers who make their terrible way towards the river to take “the dreadful plunge.”* In short, I didn’t like it that much overall.

Still, it’s Dickens, and he can’t help being brilliant, at least fitfully. My favourite bit was definitely the opening of the third quarter–yes, the bit with the goblins:

He saw the tower, whither his charmed footsteps had brought him, swarming with dwarf phantoms, spirits, elfin creatures of the Bells. He saw them leaping, flying, dropping, pouring from the Bells without a pause. He saw them, round him on the ground; above him, in the air; clambering from him, by the ropes below; looking down upon him, from the massive iron–girded beams; peeping in upon him, through the chinks and loopholes in the walls; spreading away and away from him in enlarging circles, as the water ripples give way to a huge stone that suddenly comes plashing in among them. He saw them, of all aspects and all shapes. He saw them ugly, handsome, crippled, exquisitely formed. He saw them young, he saw them old, he saw them kind, he saw them cruel, he saw them merry, he saw them grim; he saw them dance, and heard them sing; he saw them tear their hair, and heard them howl. He saw the air thick with them. He saw them come and go, incessantly. He saw them riding downward, soaring upward, sailing off afar, perching near at hand, all restless and all violently active. Stone, and brick, and slate, and tile, became transparent to him as to them. He saw them IN the houses, busy at the sleepers’ beds. He saw them soothing people in their dreams; he saw them beating them with knotted whips; he saw them yelling in their ears; he saw them playing softest music on their pillows; he saw them cheering some with the songs of birds and the perfume of flowers; he saw them flashing awful faces on the troubled rest of others, from enchanted mirrors which they carried in their hands.

He saw these creatures, not only among sleeping men but waking also, active in pursuits irreconcilable with one another, and possessing or assuming natures the most opposite. He saw one buckling on innumerable wings to increase his speed; another loading himself with chains and weights, to retard his. He saw some putting the hands of clocks forward, some putting the hands of clocks backward, some endeavouring to stop the clock entirely. He saw them representing, here a marriage ceremony, there a funeral; in this chamber an election, in that a ball he saw, everywhere, restless and untiring motion.

OK, help me out: is “The Chimes” better than I think? What struck you most about it?

*A much better example of a ‘fallen woman’ story, just btw, is Elizabeth Gaskell’s “Lizzie Leigh.”

Napoleon was Defeated at Watergate…

Rohan MaitzenLeave a comment

…and George Osborne died during the civil war. Jane Austin eloped with a married man, Charle’s Dickins wrote Bleak Houses, and Maggie Tulliver doesn’t share the values of her aunts the Duncans. Night is a non-fiction novel, realism is when you decide to write realistically about reality, and unreliable narration is when you don’t believe what you are saying.

Yes, I’m grading exams.

Sigh.