Finishing Emma

I finally finished Emma and I have to say that in the end, despite my dubiousness and reluctance, she won me over, as she must have so many others.  Her serious, honest, and rather unflinching reflection and personal reform reached me as her so-called charity and charms could not.  And, I admit, like so many others, I have a decided soft-spot for Jane Austen’s leading men.  Mr. Darcy is, of course, my favorite, but Mr. George Knightley runs a very close second (particularly if I envision him as he was portrayed by Jeremy Northam, though I am eager to see Jonny Lee Miller’s version of Mr. Knightley as he cut quite a fine figure as Edmund Bertram in the film version of Mansfield Park).

He's just swoon-worthy as the
stern but affectionate (and oh-
so-correct) Mr. Knightley...

As I said in my earlier posts, I didn’t like Emma for the majority of the novel.  This doesn’t mean, however, that I disliked the novel as a whole; in fact, the language was beautiful and Austen did an accurate job creating a small, rural community with its quirks and its charming characters.  But I was overwhelmingly repelled by Emma herself, as Austen intended us to be.  When she created Emma, Austen created a character that no one but she herself would truly like.  I so disliked Emma as a character that I found it hard to invest myself entirely in the novel, unlike my experiences with previous novels.  In the last quarter of the novel, though, Emma reforms.  In a moment of childish insensitivity, she insults an old friend and, upon receiving harsh criticism from Mr. Knightley, examines her actions and attitudes and vows to change.  After she reforms Emma becomes a likeable character.  Her honest reflection forces her to admit her own shortcomings and petty actions and she begins to redeem herself.  

Up to this point in the novel, I found myself preferring the various film adaptations of the story because Emma was more likeable and the story flowed better; after her reform, though, the entire novel gets better than any film adaptation.  Emma finally moves beyond her petty jealousy of Jane Fairfax and the two form a friendship, a relationship upon which none of the adaptations elaborate.  Jane Fairfax on the whole becomes a much better developed character on the page than she does as a living, breathing human being on screen.  Furthermore, the reader gets a better explanation and justification of Frank Churchill’s actions than the films offer.  Frank was a character whom, like Emma, I found it hard to like; ultimately, though, he drops his artifice to reveal his true character.  By embracing his faults and seeking redemption from those he loves, Frank becomes a better man and a much more likeable character.  I appreciated this effort by Austen, and I found the climax and denouement much more gratifying than the previous three-quarters of the novel. 

I'd say I wonder what Emma would be
like were she to live in the present,
but I honestly think she would be
something very close to Clueless' Cher

While I appreciated the other characters and the caricatures of English society they represented, in the end I am most intrigued by Emma as a character.  Throughout most of the novel, Emma’s one redeeming quality is her loyalty to those she loves, particularly her ever-suffering father.  The unwavering attention to Mr. Woodhouse’s pains and worries would be a credit to any person, but particularly to the spoiled and self-centered Emma.  Emma is so devoted to her father’s care that she decides herself against marriage because it would take her away from her father’s house and would cause him daily distress.  

More than Emma’s loyalty to her father, though, I find her attitude towards her station in life fascinating.  Unlike the Bennett sisters of Pride & Prejudice, Emma does not need to marry to secure her station in life.  She flirts with the idea of falling in love with Frank Churchill, but it is more from a childish desire for romance and intrigue than a genuine desire for love and comfort in the future.  Emma did not feel the same pressures that Austen’s other female characters would have encountered.  This level of comfort, in fact, is what defines Emma is crucial aspects because it allows her to spend her days in relative ease and, because she did not paint or sing or play music particularly well, Emma constantly finds herself bored.  She tries to compensate for this by involving herself with charity work, visiting the less fortunate families in the neighborhood, but charity work can only distract one so far.  This boredom is what induces Emma to take an interest in Harriet Smith.  Austen refers to this boredom offhand, referring to Emma’s moods being dictated by inclement weather and her restlessness at being cooped up inside, clearly not intending for this to be a dominant facet of the story.  Emma would have been a much different character, though, had she been born in a different class or as part of a later generation.  Had she been born to a lower class, Emma’s time would have been consumed with housekeeping, or working to better herself so that she could become a governess.  Had she been born a few generations later, she could have become an educated Bluestocking or a suffragette or other reformer and doer of good deeds.  But as she was born into the gentry during the reign of King George III, she was doomed to a life of constantly visiting the same few families and bestowing her attentions on those she deems worthy.  

Letters to Home, Week Two

Day 5, Tuesday, September 27: 

Finished The Game today.  Am left with a strong desire to dress in a silken sari, drink chai tea, and eat red curry, butter chicken, and some garlic naan.  Also feeling the need to read Kipling’s Kim now.  Maybe after I finish my book project.

Fall colors are starting to appear in Eugene

Day 7, Thursday, September 29: 

My manager “introduced” me to “Into the Mystic.”  I got the distinct impression that he thought I’d never heard of Van Morrison.  It was so hilarious that I just let it slide while I giggled to myself.  Spent my last half hour listening to a Van Morrison play list that I made, pretending that instead of sitting at my desk in the office, that I was stretched out in our old living room on that horrid green carpet, the sun shining through the windows, and Van playing over the stereo.  The music made me feel almost as if I would open my eyes and see you come around the corner, mom with a cup of tea and Ralphie with some alternative (possibly rude) lyrics in mind.

Day 9, Saturday, October 1: 

I had so much hair that we had to put it into two ponytails
to cut it for donation

Met Martha for brunch this morning.  We went to a very Eugene café and had the most delightful Orange/Mango/Peach mimosas, I was rather tipsy after just one!  Then we went down the street to the salon for my hair cut.  We cut 10 ½ inches for donation, and after trimming and evening out the cut, my hair is just below chin length.  It swishes when I shake my head, and is short enough for a shampoo Mohawk, which I love.  It’s a pretty liberating cut, so far at least.

Day 10, Sunday, October 2: 

Watched the Hollywood version of Emma last night.  I was left with the following impressions: 

• Jeremy Northam was born to play characters like Mr. Knightly.  When I read Emma, I picture someone exactly like Northam, handsome but not devastatingly so (he’s not exactly Colin Firth/Mr. Darcy here), but elegant and a true gentleman with a stern look and a dashing air.  Didn’t love Gwenyth Paltrow as Emma, I felt that Romola Garai was a much better Emma, but Jeremy Northam was perfect.  Also, Toni Collette as Harriet Smith: Genius.
• I am right thus far with my impressions--Emma is much more likeable in the films than in the novel.  In the film, we aren’t really privy to her every thought and judgment, as we are in the novel, and this leaves her as a much nicer and likeable character.  Am hoping her personal growth in this last quarter of the novel leaves me with a better impression.
• As much as I love him, I absolutely detested Ewan McGregor as Frank Churchill, though I am unsure if this is because I so very much dislike Frank as a character or because McGregor’s wig was truly terrible. 

Letters to Home, Week One

A note of explanation: Although I have lived away from home since I was seventeen and a freshman in college, I have rarely gone more than a few days without talking to my parents.  Last week, for the first time since I was a child, they left for a vacation abroad.  And, for the first time since I was a child, I am having separation anxiety issues.  I have become so accustomed to passing on small tidbits of information and trivia or calling my mom to tell her the amusing anecdotes of my daily life that my parents were scarcely gone 24 hours and I was itching to dial their phone number.  To ease my need to share absolutely everything with my parents, I have decided to keep a running list of musings directed to my parents (and since they make up half of my current following, I think it will be okay).

Day 1: Friday, September 23:

So I am listening to Laurie R. King’s The Game and just hating that you are unavailable to talk with.  I am just loving this newest adventure!   I love that the men in these novels never seem to understand that Mary Russell-Holmes is no ordinary female.  When she whips out her throwing knife and tosses it across the room (to land perfectly in a foul painting) in order to prove her point to yet another doubting man, I was instantly transported from India to a small room in Palestine and the English Nesbit was traded for the enigmatic Mahmoud.  Mary Russell (and more likely Laurie King herself) is wicked and I love it.

I really have to admire King’s ability to craft such real, believable characters.  I have noted this before, primarily in Justice Hall--I loved the novel so much because I loved Mahmoud and Ali.  They were real characters to me, real people, and I shared in each of their emotions.  I love Russell best, though.  Partly because she’s so clever and determined, and she has compassion, razor sharp wit, and gumption.  She seems like the kind of person I would like.  The scene in the small Indian shop where Sunny buys Russell the pretty amber necklace was so touching, as Mary analyzes the situation and regrets the duplicity her profession so often requires.  These novels so often evoke a multitude of emotions--delight at the capers Russell gets into and the bickering conversations between Russell and Holmes, but also pain and sadness as the volatile world of the 1920s intrudes upon the fictional world of Sherlock Holmes.  I appreciate that.

Still working my way through Emma. As I read, I can’t help but compare the novel to the various movie versions we’ve watched.  In the movie versions, Emma is just so much more likeable.  I know that in large part this is because in the movies we are not privy to Emma’s thoughts, which, in the novel, reveal the depths of Emma’s self-absorption and silliness.  I think it is also due to the fact that the directors and screenwriters adapt the novel to make Emma more likeable so that audiences will warm to her quickly.  We as readers have more time to acquaint ourselves with our heroine.  

I’m also struck by how similar Emma and Mrs. Elton are.  This is not something that comes through in the movies, but is very apparent in the novel.  I’m amused that Mrs. Elton appears to be as meddlesome as Emma, though not as subtle or refined in her interfering.  And the fact that Emma detests Mrs. Elton for their shared traits is just delightful.  Delightful.

Tyler Fortier and band at a concert this last
spring; his new CD "Bang On Time"
will be amazing, trust me.

Day 2: Saturday, September 24:

Got Ralphie’s note in the mail with the article on T.S. Eliot.  Delighted to know that he remembered that pistachio flavored gelato is truly the best flavor.  I am comforted to know that in a world where such flavors as hazelnut and artificial chocolates are out there to tempt the unsuspecting eater, Ralphie knows which flavor to choose.

Day 3: Sunday, September 25:

Amazing weekend.  Friday was a Sherlock night, always enjoyable.  And Saturday we watched the Ducks play Arizona (and win, naturally) and then went to Cornucopia to watch my friend Tyler play.  It was great.  The band played a few songs off his new album and they sounded amazing; I can’t wait to hear the full album soon!  And near the end of the night, after everyone had enjoyed a couple of drinks, Tyler got whimsical and sang a few lines of the Spice Girls’ “Wannabe.”  When I started singing along, he turned the microphone towards me and my friends and I sang the chorus with the band.  Almost a dream-come-true moment, singing with the band.  Was glowing with delight the rest of the evening and most of today.  

A Hope For Tomorrow

When I was fifteen I had a crisis of faith.  I am not a highly religious person.  I do not follow any organized religion, and while I believe in a higher power, I am fuzzy on the details.  For as long as I can remember, though, I have maintained an almost religious faith in the republic forged by men like Thomas Jefferson, John Adams, and Benjamin Franklin.  I love my country and the ideals upon which is was founded.  I look with deep reverence to the Declaration of Independence and the Constitution.  My heart thrills at words like “We hold these truths to be self evident, that all men are created equal…” and I feel great surges of pride to be included in the phrase “We the people….”  I so revere the First Amendment that I have its 45 words seared into my memory and when I recite it, I can’t help but feel excitement build to a crescendo as I enumerate its freedoms.
In a country where the freedom of expression is permitted, promoted, and so highly regarded, though, dissent is also ever present, and at fifteen, I listened to those voices of dissent.  It was easy to feel disillusion then; despite the numerous accomplishments of his regime, Bill Clinton left the presidency with a tarnished record, and the disastrous 2000 election placed a man in office whom I could not trust, let alone admire.  My faith in American politics was shaken by current events; studying history did not help.  I was studying American history my junior year, and was busy uncovering America’s shameful past.  Those early weeks of American history revealed to me many of the horrors behind America’s colonial years--the abuses of Native Americans and the fact that this country was literally built with slave labor.  Even Thomas Jefferson, my Jefferson, the author of those beautiful words in the Declaration, was not above the shame of our past.  I was fifteen, on the cusp of sweet sixteen, and I was naïve, dramatic, and lost.
And then the world broke.  I stood in the bathroom one morning, getting ready for school, and listened as a shocked radio DJ informed listeners that a plane had just crashed into the World Trade Center.  The day that unfolded was a nightmare; each hour brought more news more terrible than before.  Even ten years later I can recall with painful clarity my grief and fear on that terrible day.  To borrow from Franklin Delano Roosevelt, September 11 was a date which will live in infamy, and I cannot describe the pain that even now remains strong.  I believe it is unnecessary to describe my feelings, though, because the pain and the grief and fear I felt were shared by all.
The stories that have emerged from that day are heartbreaking, but they reveal the true beauty that lies in mankind.  They are stories of profound loss, but also of true heroism and humanity.  I grieved--and still grieve--for the loss of so many that day, but I cannot help feel pride in the men and women who revealed themselves to be heroes that day.  To the rest of the country, the rescue workers and emergency responders who so valiantly worked to pull people from the towers became heroes of an almost epic proportion.  But there were other heroes that day; the men and women who took to the streets with cups of water and sandwiches, blankets and kind words for the shocked and shaken survivors were heroic, too, as were the countless others who rushed to provide supplies, to donate blood, to offer any form of comfort possible.  And one cannot forget the unimaginable bravery and self-sacrifice of the passengers of Flight 93.  We found and lost so many heroes that day.
In the aftermath of 9/11, I saw the world pull together, united by a shared sense of sorrow and empathy.  The attack was not an attack upon America, but a profound loss that shook the global community.  For a brief moment it felt as though the world was not divided by nationalities or other social constructions and differences; instead, the world was one giant community that pulled together and grieved collectively.  In the years since 2001, I have seen this occur at other moments of great loss--the 2004 tsunami that devastated Thailand, the earthquakes in Haiti and Japan--but for me, the aftermath of 9/11 holds the greatest significance.  I am forever changed by what I witnessed, deeply moved by mankind’s display of strength, compassion, and hope.
September 11 cured me of my crisis of faith.  Where the idols of Jefferson and Franklin once stood, I had a whole slew of American heroes.  I maintain a wariness towards politicians (both past and present) that I may never lose, but I look at that as a good thing; to blindly believe in a hero or idol is dangerous and leads to zealotry.  I still revel in American mythology, but I am careful to remember that it is, in fact, mythology.

Two months after the attacks I traveled to Washington, D.C., and saw for myself the still smoking Pentagon and the makeshift memorial citizens had erected.  I had gone to D.C. with a group of strangers--students and teachers from around the country--and though we were friendly with one another, we were a group of individuals.  As I stood looking at the Pentagon, so overcome with emotion that I felt ready to collapse, I heard a companion start to sing “God Bless America.”  He drew our party together and we stood, arms around another to offer comfort, companionship, and strength and we sang and cried.  When we left the memorial, we were no longer individuals but a small community banded together by our shared experience.
That day, like 9/11, changed me.  I had never felt great emotion when I hear the national anthem or other patriotic songs, but, days later as I sat through a Veterans’ Day assembly, I was overcome as I listened to my school sing “The Star Spangled Banner.”  I couldn’t help but cry, unphased by the stares and whispers of my neighbors.  I still cry every time I hear a large group of people sing the national anthem.  I return to the 9/11 memorial and that beautiful moment of unity I felt as I stood with my companions.  I hope I never forget that feeling.
The September 11 attacks changed me in another way.  I am Hispanic-American, and growing up I took great pride in this.  I am proud of my heritage and I celebrate my ethnicity.  As a child, though, I took pains to always differentiate myself; I took pride in identifying myself as Bolivian-American or Hispanic-American.  In the aftermath of 9/11, though, many people like me of mixed backgrounds dropped their hyphens.  On September 11, 2001, I, like so many others, ceased to be Hispanic-American or Bolivian-American and became simply, proudly American.  For a moment, we were all united as one nation, no longer divided by our ethnic or racial backgrounds.  For too brief a time, we became the country Martin Luther King dreamed of.  This of course has faded, and America is again a country with hyphenated citizens.  As we prepare for tomorrow, though, I cannot help but hope that we can all remember that feeling of unity.  My hope is that tomorrow, we will not experience feelings of hate or revenge, but instead that we will celebrate the good in humanity that we saw emerge so clearly on 9/11.  This country was founded upon the ideal that all men and women are created equal, and I hope that tomorrow, we all remember that ideal.  I pray that we can all come together again as a single community, forgetting our cultural, ethnic, and religious differences.  I hope that tomorrow finds us as one nation, indivisible, with compassion and love for all.

August Novels

Growing up I watched my father juggle several books at a time.  He didn’t literally juggle, though that would have been impressive, but he would regularly shift through multiple books at one time.  As a child I questioned this--why move back and forth between books?  Wouldn’t it be easier (and preferable) to start and finish one book and then move on to the next?  I have always preferred to do things one at a time: I eat my foods one at a time, rarely mixing my foods (mixing horrifies me), I prefer to do move through a list of tasks, completing one before moving to the next, and I only read one book at a time.

There is a common belief that we turn into our parents and over the years I have watched with mixed amusement and chagrin as I slowly began to prefer my parents’ taste in music, their taste in film, and my opinions softened towards the family business.  Most recently, however, I have discovered that in addition to using any nearby odd scraps of paper or coaster as a makeshift bookmark (a trait of my father’s that I mocked for years), I also find myself juggling novels.

This is, in part, a consequence of my several years as a student.  During school it was often necessary that I simultaneously read two or three books, so it is natural that I became accustomed to the practice.  I am more inclined, however, to blame this (as is the wont of my generation) on my parents.  Juggling books is as much ingrained in my nature as my preference for tea, the French impressionists, and Van Morrison.  I suppose it’s only time before I wander the house in long underwear making up rude alternative lyrics to popular songs.

The books I am currently juggling are:

• Going Solo, by Roald Dahl
• Emma, by Jane Austen
• Justice Hall, by Laurie R. King

Going Solo is the companion to Roald Dahl’s stories of childhood, Boy.  My father gave me a copy of Boy for my eighth or ninth Christmas, and I loved it.  We read Roald Dahl’s stories throughout my childhood, and I took delight in reading the story behind this beloved author’s life and his inspiration for novels like Charlie and the Chocolate Factory.  I recently stepped into a local bookstore to purchase a copy of The BFG for a friend’s son and as I browsed titles, I found Going Solo.  I was so excited at the discovery that I think I even shrieked.  I started reading it almost immediately, delighting over each page.  I haven’t made it too far into the memoir yet, but thus far I have encountered Dahl’s amusement at Empire Builders, stodgy British expatriates and their adherence to English customs, and a crazy, streaking British major.  I anticipate more humor in the subsequent chapters.

*As a side note, one of the primary reasons I chose this particular list was the presence of Dahl’s The BFG.  To me, this signaled an open mind and a willingness to look beyond lofty tomes by classical authors in an effort to identify truly great novels, whatever their target audience.

My current pile of reading material, and requisite cup of tea

I started reading Emma immediately after finishing The Pursuit of Love.  I have not read Emma, but in my life I have encountered three or four film versions of the novel, including the very loose interpretation, Clueless.  I am quite familiar with the story of the meddlesome but well intentioned Emma Woodhouse and her journey towards maturity and happiness.  Thus far I have not encountered any aspects of the plot that are new or unknown to me, but I am surprised to discover that Ms. Woodhouse is much less likeable on paper.  In the various film versions, Emma has always appeared opinionated and interfering, but well meaning.  As a viewer I was always willing to forgive her these faults because she was young, because she felt genuine remorse when her meddling went awry, and because she appeared repentant and wiser in the end.  As a reader, though, I feel less willingness to forgive.  Admittedly, I have not finished the novel and Emma has not yet fully matured, so I should delay my judgment.  Nevertheless, I find it difficult to like Emma when she unabashedly destroyed the happiness of a simple farmer and then her friend Harriet, and after acknowledging the unfortunate consequences of her meddling, is unable to change her ways.  

Despite this, though, I am enjoying Emma.  Austen successfully created a small community of real and believable characters.  I am amused by the dynamics within this rural parish.  Mr. Woodhouse and Emma’s older sister are charmingly neurotic, with their passion for gruel and almost hypochondriac concern for health.  Their conversations frequently stray towards inane as they revert to citing their individual physicians and those physicians’ differing opinions on how to best promote wellbeing.  I am also quite interested in the ways in which the various characters treat Emma.  In many ways Emma is the queen bee in her little society.  The majority of characters treat her with respect and deference; her father and former governess indulge her while the neighbors are nearly awed by Emma’s presence.  The only character who treats Emma as a regular person is the upstanding, respectable and (in my mind at least) handsome Mr. Knightly, and thus far Emma has been quick to dismiss his opinions and warnings.

I’m about a third of the way through the novel, and a new plot twist is about to arrive, so I look with as much anticipation as the young Ms. Woodhouse to the formal arrival of the enigmatic Frank Churchill.

I like to read small passages to my plants to encourage
them to grow full and strong; they like it

The final novel that I’m working on is one in a popular series by Laurie R. King.  To be entirely honest, I am not reading Justice Hall, instead I am listening to it.  My daily commute requires me to be in the car for about an hour every day, and because my radio is spotty at best, I have turned to audio books on my iPod for entertainment.  I was first introduced to Laurie King’s Mary Russell as a college freshman.  I was taking a course dedicated to the evolution of mystery novels and the final book in the syllabus was The Beekeeper’s Apprentice, a charming story about young Mary Russell who, orphaned and relocated to rural England, encounters a retired Sherlock Holmes and becomes his informal apprentice.  King has ten novels in the Mary Russell series, and I am completely engrossed in the sixth novel, Justice Hall.  

Although the Mary Russell novels are mysteries, the stories often revolve more around characters and interactions than around the mystery Russell and Holmes work to solve.  In Justice Hall, and its companion novel O Jerusalem, the mystery is decidedly secondary to the character development and interactions.  In these two novels King crafts beautiful, dynamic characters with depth and feeling.  I frequently develop emotional attachments to literary characters, but I find myself particularly invested here.  I feel pain when the characters experience anguish, and have openly wept over their various trials and triumphs.

In addition to writing wonderful characters, King beautifully interweaves history with her fiction.  Because of her subject, intense research was necessary from the outset.  To write a novel involving the world’s most beloved detective, King had to extensively study Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s stories.  King mastered Holmes’ mannerisms, his patterns of speech, and his very being.  I have read almost all the stories within the Sherlock Holmes canon, and I grew up watching various actors portray the enigmatic detective on screen, so I feel as though I know Holmes quite well, and King’s interpretation of Holmes is incredibly faithful to the original.  After creating the characters of Russell and Holmes, King pushed her research further to embed them in realistic scenarios.  King places her characters in the post-Great War era, accurately portraying the various hardships the “lost generation” endured in the years following the war.  Her descriptions of trench warfare and the veterans’ attitudes towards the Home Front are striking and accurate to my historian’s eye.  It is clear that she has put much research into making her stories as honest and real as possible, and I often feel as though I’m getting a miniature lesson in cultural history as I listen to her stories.

Justice Hall revolves around a young soldier’s death in the final months of the Great War.  As Russell and Holmes work to discover the truth, they are forced to relive the soldier’s time in the trenches.  The fighting in France and trench warfare in particular was so terrible, so brutally destructive that many fervently hoped that war would never again occur.  The young men at the front were forced to endure freezing cold nights of sleeplessness due to constant shelling or the endless attacks of fleas and lice; they stood for weeks on end in swampy water, unable to adequately dry their feet; and these young men (often mere boys who had lied about their ages to enlist) lived in constant fear of shelling, poisonous gasses, snipers, and receiving a command from a detached superior who, far from the frontlines himself, demanded that the company cross No Man’s Land in a fruitless mission that would only cost more lives.  War is hell, and King so perfectly describes this version of hell that it has frequently brought tears to my eyes.  Much of my time as a scholar was spent during the Great War era, so this novel is particularly poignant for me.  I appreciate her attention to detail and her obvious research more and more with each chapter.

The Pursuit of Love (and Something Greater)

Having just finished Nancy Mitford’s The Pursuit of Love, I must confess that, once again, I have been thoroughly charmed by the Brits.  To be more exact, I should say that I have been won over by a well written story with equal parts wit and wicked humor.  As with the last two novels I’ve read, the narration style, the characters, and the ever-present humor were all entirely, blissfully British to the very core.

Cool house I found in Portland that looked
vaguely Victorian so I included it...and it's my
blog, so I can!

The early chapters, which illustrate the more humorous aspects of childhood and growing up, are delightful. These chapters describe Linda Radlett and her colorful family, adventures at the family home, Alconleigh, and small stories of growing up in pastoral England.  I was particularly amused by the annual “child hunt,” a family tradition at Alconleigh where two or three children, selected by their father, set out across the family property, running wildly to create a trail for the hounds to follow.  Some time later their father would set out with his pack of well-trained, friendly hounds to track the children.  The “hunt” ended when the hounds caught up to the children and set about licking faces and receiving well-earned doggie treats.  The neighbors and friends thought this tradition barbaric (and indeed, it does sound…odd to say the least), but, I, like the Radlett children, thought it delightful and ingenious.
As the title suggests, the main story arc follows Linda as she searches for true love.  Besides describing “child hunts” and other similarly outrageous stories, the early chapters detail Linda’s obsession with love.  This obsession led her to marry the first man who charmed her; determined to find love, Linda convinced herself that she loved an utterly boring Tory named Tony.  Some time later, still a true believer in love, Linda left Tony to marry Christian the Communist.  Christian, too, proved a disappointment, and, alone at a train station in Paris, Linda finally met Fabrice.  She quickly became enthralled with Fabrice, experiencing real love and romance for the first time.  These are the chapters that ultimately won me over.  For the first time in the novel, Linda committed herself to something, throwing herself entirely into her new life with Fabrice.  She seemed to finally take interest in life and in love, giving the story greater weight and importance.  I invested myself in the story because Linda finally invested herself in her own story.
Although the story revolves around Linda and her quest to find happiness, I didn’t find her an entirely likeable character.  The narrator, her cousin Fanny grew up close to Linda, and the love Fanny felt for Linda makes Fanny a less-than-reliable narrator.  Where an objective observer would see a foolish, shallow, and self-centered (but certainly well-meaning) young woman, Fanny was more charitable, forgiving Linda her faults and shortcomings and, in general, portraying Linda in a favorable light.  Like Fanny, most characters in the novel instantly adored Linda, won over by her charm.  It took me most of the novel, though, to find myself truly invested in Linda’s story.  After Linda’s failed attempts at love, her absolute joy and happiness with Fabrice charmed me where her silliness and amiable nature couldn’t.  In spite of myself, I was so intrigued in Linda’s story that I was tempted to skip to the end to discover whether or not Linda found a happy ending.

This horse has absolutely no relation to any-
thing, but it's inherently beautiful (like the
novel) and I like pictures in my blog.  Deal.

As I said in my introduction, I have been charmed by the Brits.  This time it was Mitford’s quirky British humor that so appealed to me, as well as the fascinating clash of old attitudes and new, the Victorian versus Edwardian.  This was most notable in the various characters’ responses towards relationships.  On the one hand, most of the characters were appalled when Linda left her first husband, Tony; Linda’s parents stoutly refused to recognize Linda’s subsequent divorce and marriage to Christian.  No one looked harshly on Fanny’s mother, though, for repeatedly leaving her husbands for her next fling.  Though they called her “the Bolter,” the nickname was given with affection and everyone treated the Bolter with the same bemusement they would a mischievous child.  This coexistence of attitudes, this social hypocrisy, could have been present in America and American literature as well (and I’m sure that a perusal of twentieth century lit would reveal several instances), but the flair with which this story is presented is, to me at least, inherently, beautifully British.
I was also deeply touched by a small exchange between Linda, Fanny, and their uncle Davey.  The three, huddled together, discuss the Great War and the resumption of war in Europe.  Linda laments belonging to a “lost generation,” convinced that history would count the two wars as one, discounting entirely the inter-war years.  Davey contends that the era may not be entirely forgotten; instead, it will be portrayed as a “literary curiosity” as future generations become interested in the fashions and furniture of the 1920s and ‘30s.  The exchange is brief, taking up only a couple of paragraphs before slipping back into a lighter tone, but it’s striking nonetheless.  The discussion is notable in part because it is one of the few times that Linda adopts a serious tone.  More importantly, though, writing in 1944 or 1945, Nancy Mitford would not know how history or society would view the Lost Generation.  Nor did she know how the inter-war period would be portrayed, and yet she displays brief but keen insight.  Knowing how both the novel and the war resolve, this moment is memorable and touching.
I admitted in my last post that I can be rather pretentious at times.  I can now admit that, while I undertook this project in an effort to find some unknown element that my life is lacking, I have another motive.  I want to be one of those elevated figures who can wax on about the literary strengths and weaknesses of Dickens or Dostoyevsky, et al.  My heavy bookshelves would somehow enrich my life.  Thus far it has.  I have developed a better appreciation for the world of spy novels, having encountered two of its great foundations, and I have discovered several new points of interest for the historian and scholar in me.  More than that, though, I have found books that truly delight me.  I expected to like The Way We Live Now because I enjoyed the Masterpiece Theater production.  Being already acquainted with the characters and plot, I could focus on the various storylines and better appreciate Trollope’s themes and his critique of British society.  Novels like The Riddle of the Sands and The Pursuit of Love, however, were completely new to me.  Had I not undertaken this endeavor, I’m afraid I probably would have remained ignorant of their existence.  So while I look forward to reencountering old favorites like To Kill a Mockingbird or The BFG, and finally reading novels like Emma, I am also eager to discover more literary gems as I continue this project.

Harry Potter and the Academic Snob

So I have a confession: I’m something of a snob.  I scorn popular literature.  I refuse to read best sellers like Water for Elephants or the latest novel by Tom Clancy.  I have nothing against Clancy or popular literature in general, they just don't jive with my inner snob.  I like to think that my bedroom bookshelves, now brimming with works by such esteemed authors like Dickins, Austen, and Faulkner, distinguish me as a reader with great taste and class.  Further, I like to pretend that I am not easily swayed by popular trends; that I am above reading a book because it tops The New York Times’ list of bestsellers or because it will soon be a movie starring Robert Pattinson.

Last week's Carrot Cake Muffins

This is, of course, mostly my own personal delusion.  Not only do I deign to read popular literature, but I just finished a novel whose front cover informs me that it spent some time at the top of the bestsellers lists.  Furthermore--I liked it.  I have thoroughly enjoyed each of the novels I’ve read for this project, delighting in the beautiful prose and intricate plots, but I must confess that I do derive some pleasure from being able to pick up a novel and speed through it with an ease that is not possible when reading Dickens or Faulkner.  And one of my greatest secrets is that I am a true, dyed in the wool, sincere fan of Harry Potter.  I’ve read all the books, seen all the movies, and when the film opens on July 15, I intend to be in line waiting for the midnight showing.  I try to muster a bit of dignity when I admit this fact by clinging to the fact that I liked Potter before he was famous.  As an avid reader in the eighth grade, I was recommended an obscure but charming novel called Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone.  Naturally I was delighted when, months later, the rest of the world discovered the irresistible charm of J.K. Rowling’s magical world of wizarding.  When, years later, the world was obsessed and anxiously awaiting the release of the next book, I returned to my snobbish tendencies to brag that I loved Potter before everyone else loved Potter.

Tonight's chocolate cake

As I return this week to my list of great novels (and, in particular, to The Pursuit of Love by Nancy Mitford) I am also eagerly awaiting the premier of the final Harry Potter film.  To prepare, my friends and I have been watching a Potter film a week, slowly counting down to the grand finale.  Each week we gather at my house, drinks in hand and a sampling of culinary delights in front of us, and we watch/critique the week’s film.  Each week the films get longer and darker and each week I get bolder with my baking.  I started with homemade pizza, then moved to fresh mojitos and homemade blueberry muffins, and last week I baked carrot cake muffins.  This week I served Ste. Chapelle’s Special Harvest Reisling (a wine for which I have quite a soft spot) and I made chocolate cake topped with granache.  I like to think that classy treats and good company make up for the fact that I dedicate a night each week to watching a badly adapted version of a much-loved novel.  I also like to (secretly) think that the good company and a keen sense of humor and wit will allow me to maintain my much-loved snobbery.  And if nothing else, at least I have cake and sarcasm to keep me warm as I work my way through The Pursuit of Love.

Fa D'Accordo

I needed an image to go with this post (because
an imageless post seemed so very wrong, and
because I LOVE this picture from a recent trip to
Portland AND because there are no decent
images of "fa d'accordo," I posted this.  Hey,
it's my blog, right?!

So it would appear that I have taken another hiatus from writing.  This time it is largely because I have also taken a mini break from my reading project.  I recently discovered that my absence from academia (and the world of history in particular) has renewed my interest in and my fondness for the study of history.  Much of this realization came to me as  I was helping a good friend study for an intense history exam.  As she explained various books and studies of women and gender in American history, I found myself more and more intrigued and I quickly compiled list of ten or so books that I wanted to read.  I have justified keeping this blog to myself because I like to think that I might have a unique (or at least interesting) perspective.  I believe that literature is greatly affected by history--authors like Trollope, disillusioned by the world around him, constructed a scathing social commentary, and as I noted in my last post, authors like Buchan and Childers were affected by the patriotic fervor that swept Britain in the years preceding the Great War.  Literature, too, can affect history (I’m thinking of novels like Harriet Beecher Stowe's Uncle Tom’s Cabin).  I see the two subjects as interconnected.  I wouldn’t say that the two are two sides of the same coin--as I have often said in an effort to explain the idea of my college major, political economy--but the idea is similar.  In Italy, the Italians say “fa d’accordo” to show agreement; they are of the same mind.   When they do this, they often bring their extended forefingers together, side by side.  I was told by an old political economy professor that, when paired with the phrase “fa d’accordo,” this gesture is meant to symbolize two legs in the same pair of pants.  When I think of history and literature, I often conjure up images of the two working together as a pair in a three-legged-race.  When I started this blog, I named it "cercando di" because I was searching for...something.  I'm still searching, but as I write, I realize that the essential harmony that I was seeking seems less elusive.  Like my scholastic interests, the elements in my life seem to be more fa d'accordo.
All of this is to say that I’m taking a break from great novels to read a work of history.  More specifically, I’m reading Damned Women: Sinners and Witches in Puritan New England by Elizabeth Reis.  This is a remarkable analysis of the Salem Witch Trials that I have been absolutely loving.  I won’t offer any analysis here (primarily because my analytical skills are not up to par after a year’s absence from academia, but also because my two years of grad school cured me of any desire to write another critical response), but I hope that this post explains my most recent absence from this blog.  My greater hope, though, is that in time I will be able to incorporate more history into my writing and my analysis of the books I read, whether they’re novels from my list or other studies of history that I sneak into my reading from time to time.

The Riddle of the Sands and The Thirty-Nine Steps: Pre-War Literature

In my absence from writing, I have:

The 2009 Sweet Cheeks Viognier and thefabulous Fontina
Cheese Plate we enjoyed while wine tasting

• Partied like an undergrad in San Francisco with my best friend and a whole crew of new best friends; 
• Spent entirely too much time curled up in old pajamas watching Grey’s Anatomy;
• Embraced the beauty of living in Eugene by spending an afternoon wine tasting at local wineries;
• Celebrated spring’s arrival with gelato on the patio and the first barbecue of the year (both of which were fantastic);
• Listened to Dan Brown’s latest book, The Lost Symbol (which made it something of a relief to return to my list of great novels);
• And I finished The Riddle of the Sands and The Thirty-Nine Steps, both of which I thoroughly enjoyed.

A view of San Francisco from my recent trip

Overall I loved The Riddle of the Sands for the reasons I outlined in my last post.  Throughout the novel the narrative style and the main characters remained charming, personable, and endearing.  For me it was the characters who drove the story, moving the plot forward and, ultimately, making this novel a great one.  Davies and Carruthers were so genuinely likable and determined in their quest that they made the story enjoyable, even when the action dragged a bit in places. 

As I noted in my last post, Childers had a background in sailing and service, which greatly affected his writing.  His descriptions of movements and actions on the sailboat were incredibly detailed.  He embraced the use of jargon, which lends the story an additional level of authenticity, but it also makes the story a bit more difficult to read for anyone who is not familiar with sailing.  The plot, too, lagged a bit in places for anyone who is not familiar with sailing.  A majority of the story takes place in the regions around the North Sea as Davies and Carruthers work to map and plot the progress of the tides and the depths of troughs and sandbars around the fjords and bays of the Frisian Islands.  During these sections there is not much action, but Carruthers describes their progress in a good-natured tone that makes the slow story more enjoyable and more readable.

In addition to granting the story authenticity, Childers’ background and his experience give the story purpose and give the characters their motivation.  In one important chapter, Chapter X: “His Chance,” Childers, through Davies, discusses the need for an extended navy; he also discusses at length the benefits of mobilizing the general population during a war.  Men like Davies--men who knew the ins and outs of every port and bay along the English coast--could be of use to the country by helping the Navy defend each vulnerable spot.  Childers seemed to believe that anyone, regardless of training or background, was capable of being a national hero, of saving his country like Carruthers and Davies did.  Childers also strongly believed in being prepared for the impending war with Germany.  By the time that he wrote The Riddle of the Sands, it was becoming apparent that Europe would soon become engulfed in a great war.  England had not been invaded since 1066, a fact which created a false sense of comfort and quelled fears of a foreign invasion.  Davies and Carruthers, who represent typical English men, puzzle throughout most of the novel over what their German counterparts  are planning and thus spend a majority of their time preparing for a British invasion of Germany; they never consider the possibility of a German invasion of England.  Childers wrote a fun spy adventure, but he also drafted a warning to the English government: “We Must Be Prepared.”  

Whereas The Riddle of the Sands is a spy novel written with a purpose, The Thirty-Nine Steps is an action-packed adventure written to entertain and amuse.  The novel tells the story of Richard Hannay, a Scottish mining engineer recently returned from the Matabele Wars in South Africa.  Hannay is initially bored with the London society until he is approached by a man named Scudder who claims to have faked his own death for matters of personal and national security.  This launches Hannay into a world of espionage and intrigue as he becomes single-handedly responsible for attempting to prevent the outbreak of an international war (a war that we would later call World War I).  Hannay is pursued by a ruthless group of people known as The Black Stone and he is forced to undergo several hardships as he works to alert the British government and save the world from war.  Unlike The Riddle of the Sands, the action in The Thirty-Nine Steps starts relatively early and literally keeps up until the final page.  Despite the focus on action, though, the hero Hannay is amiable and his good nature and strong moral sense make him an ideal hero; like Davies and Carruthers, Hannay is an instantly likeable character whose personality helps to drive the plot.

I chose to read these two novels back-to-back for a couple of reasons.  First, these two are acknowledged as being two of the first spy novels, laying the groundwork for later stories of espionage by writers like Ian Fleming, Robert Ludlum, and others.  Though I am not a spy novel aficionado, I can appreciate this fact.  The second reason I blame on the scholar in me.  Although the Great War was not my focus as a historian, the war and its cultural effects have fascinated me for years.  I am particularly interested in the shift in attitudes that occurred during the war.  I spent a semester in undergrad studying this shift as it is seen in the poetry of the era.  The shifts in attitude was remarkable: before the war young British men believed that they would easily win the war in a month or two and then would return victoriously.  This is reflected in most pre-war poetry with its optimism, bravado, and naiveté.  Once the war began, though, and young men experienced the horrors of modern warfare, the attitude shifted.  Men no longer believed in the phrase “Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori,” instead they are bitter and jaded, irrevocably changed by their experiences.  The literature that came after the Great War is darker, deeper than what preceded the war.

The Riddle of the Sands and The Thirty-Nine Steps are prime examples of British mentality before the Great War.  Richard Hannay, Davies and Carruthers are ordinary men, former English school boys and products of the best English public schools.  All three characters find themselves embroiled in dangerous affairs of state and thus transform themselves into spies to save their country from war.  Each character is driven by a staunch patriotism and the belief that he can save the country from sure destruction.  This belief--both bold and naïve--is the same attitude that was so characteristic among young men in the years leading up to the war.  I find this pre-war innocence fascinating, and, after spending so much of my scholastic career focusing on the works of disillusioned writers like the so-called Lost Generation, returning to that innocence is interesting and a tad refreshing.  For me, this blend of history, culture, and literature made both novels fascinating and rewarding.

Musings on a Snow Day

The view from my window as
 I attempted to drive to work

We have a snow day today, an occurrence which, though frequent in my hometown of Blackfoot, Idaho, is more rare here in Eugene.  The snow started sometime around midnight and has continued to softly but continuously dust the trees, hills, and houses with white powder.  The world outside is quiet, unusually hushed by the presence of snow.  I confess that I hate snow--I hate the cold, I hate how it leaves the once-green world brown in its aftermath, and I hate how dangerous it makes the roads.  But from my spot, curled up on the couch with coffee in hand and the curtains pulled back so I can see the snowglobe vista outside, I enchanted with the winter wonderland outside.

I am also grateful for the snow day because it means that as I continue reading The Riddle of the Sands, I can keep my laptop open and ready for notes, rather than scribbling my ideas on napkins and old receipts that I shove into pockets or the black hole that is my purse.  It also means that I can read for long lengths of time, rather than sneaking in five or six pages on my work breaks and during lunch.

As I have confessed that I dislike snow, I must now add a second confession: I love everything British.  I love English accents, I love their at-once old fashioned and yet modern system of governance (the maintenance of a monarchy alongside their Parliament), I love their teas, I love the way they add a “u” to words like color and favorite.*  I am fascinated by British culture and British history--I could go on for days on the importance of the British monarchy and its influence on America and American law, or on the truly intriguing evolution of culture and attitude that transformed inhabitants of England from being “English” to being “British.”  In short, I am an anglophile. 

Webster's Dictionary
Noah Webster was the revolutionary
patriot who sought to distinguish
American English from proper
English

*Along with several other subtle distinctions, the “u” was intentionally dropped from particular words like color and favorite not long after we ceased to be British-America, as a way to distinguish the British from the American.  I find this historical tidbit fascinating.  As a child, though, I spent a year in Ireland and to this day I struggle to remember if it’s favorite or favourite, realize or realise.

This is, in large part, why I am so thoroughly loving The Riddle of the Sands--because it is so delightfully British.  In my last post I tried to qualify this assessment, but I find it difficult.  Both Davies and Carruthers have habits and mannerisms that set them apart as particularly British (as opposed to American or even ambiguously European).  Their speech is peppered with stereotypically English phrases like “I say” and “old chap,” but more than that, it’s their attitude that marks them as British.  The story’s plot is driven by their outrage that Herr Dollmann, an Englishman, would betray king and country to become a spy for Germany.  Davies’ feelings are understandable, particularly once one takes into account the time period (this was published in 1903) and the increasingly tense political climate throughout Europe.  While Davies and Carruthers seem to correctly sense that war is inevitable, they bear no ill will towards Germany, and, in fact, Davies holds some level of admiration for the German Emperor Wilhelm II.  Nor do they direct any outrage towards Germany for hiring spies and for secretly amassing naval power; instead, their anger is directed solely at Dollmann for turning his back on England and spying for another country.    Both men are infuriated at the thought of an Englishman betraying his own country.  Their duty, as Englishmen, is to expose Dollmann and prepare Britain for war.  Above all, this constant awareness of themselves as Englishmen (and their similar villainization of Dollmann the Traitor) is what makes Davies and Carruthers so decidedly British.  

I find this inherent British-ness charming.  Davies and Carruthers are rallied by a love of “King and Country.”  Disregarding their own safety, these two men are compelled to brave the harsh seas to unmask Dollmann; they are transformed by  patriotism from two yachting enthusiasts into bona fide spies, and I find myself swept up in their patriotic fervor.  As much as I adore this American republic with its three branches of government and its delightful system of checks and balances, we lack such a stirring cry as “For King and Country.”  “For Congress and Country” just doesn’t have the same ring.

I also find the British nature of this novel rather ironic.  Though born in England, Erskine Childers is best known for his involvement with the nascent Irish Republican Army, a body which was inherently and unmistakably anti-British.  This involvement with the Irish Free State movement, of course, came later in Childers’ life, and over a lifetime a person’s political views are likely to change.  All the same, though, it’s ironic that the same man who published this charmingly British novel was later executed for being too radically Irish. 

*****

The sun is shining now, so I must turn away from my musings to move to a spot where I may read in the sun and enjoy both this momentary break in snow showers and my thoroughly wonderful book.

The Riddle of the Sands

Erskine Childers, The Riddle of the Sands (London: Penguin Books, 1952).

I am about 90 pages into The Riddle of the Sands and, thus far, I love it.  Childers writes with a easy, laid back tone.  His descriptions and characterizations are so well developed that, from page one, I’ve become engulfed, completely drawn in and enthralled by the story.

The consummate English
gentlemen (though a bit more
 formal than I picture our heroes

The story is narrated by Carruthers, a young Englishman who, bored by a dull season in London, accepts an invitation from an old friend to go yachting in the Baltic Sea.  Though I admit that I have limited knowledge of British gentlemen from the late nineteenth/early twentieth century, Carruthers fits all my notions.  He is an affable character--smart, pleasantly sardonic, and he is refreshingly honest, particularly when addressing his own thoughts and emotions.  Carruthers instantly likeable; he is easygoing and observes things with a keen and perceptive eye.  His observations are phrased with such frank honesty and overt irony that one cannot help but like him; on the first page he dryly compares his solitude in London to a sort of martyrdom and goes on to (correctly) observe that to feel oneself a martyr is a pleasurable thing.  Carruthers, though a bit immature at times, is capable of recognizing his own weaknesses and makes no move to hide them.

The other main character is Carruthers’ old school friend Davies.  Where Carruthers is likeable for his witty and keen observations, Davies is thoroughly loveable for his idiosyncrasies and his perpetual good mood.  Davies refuses to be affected by Carruthers’ initial bad moods, and quickly charms both Carruther and reader with his jovial nature and his delightful penchant for throwing items overboard.  Like Carruthers, Davies is quintessentially British with his “I says” and “old chaps” and his dogged determination to observe as many gentile practices as possible (like always washing up before dinner).  Davies and Carruthers both maintain such a genuine geniality that they seem as perfectly British as Austen’s Charles Bingley or Oscar Wilde’s Earnest Worthing that it is almost jarring to remember that they’re on a boat.  One can as easily picture these two characters in a smoky club, savoring their brandy and cigars, as picture them cramped and (I think) somewhat uncomfortable on their miniature yacht. 

A map of the Baltic Sea Region,
the area Carruthers and Davies
set out to explore

Childers’ descriptions of his characters, though, pales in comparison with the passages in which he (as Carruthers) describes the various aspects of their adventure.  Childers’ prose is so vivid and so beautifully phrased that one can easily picture the aquamarine waters, one can feel the soft rich sands of the ocean floor and can revel in the beauty of the summer sun beaming over a calm ocean.  His passages are rich in detail and are punctuated with beautiful turns of phrase. I can completely relate when he writes of the “unique exultation” that follows a day of hard work, “when, glowing all over, deliciously tired and pleasantly sore, you eat what seems ambrosia, be it only tinned beef; and drink nectar, be it only distilled from terrestrial hops or coffee berries, and inhale as culminating luxury balmy fumes which even the happy Homeric gods knew naught of.” (Childers, 54).  Not only can I relate, but I relive those glorious moments.  Childers’ passages flow easily, effortlessly, and I have found myself just breezing through the novel.

The one drawback is Childers’ attention to nautical terms and activities.  This is an inevitable aspect when a novel is set on any type of seafaring craft, and is a particular danger when the author has spent any significant time as a sailor.  Childers, with his background in sailing, devotes some attention to various activities on deck--jibing and folding sails, etc.  It appears, though, that Childers was aware that not all of his readers would possess a knowledge of sailing, and so when Davies discusses (or carries out) these activities, they are met by Carruthers with a sense of bewilderment; at one amusing point Carruthers even dismisses all Davies’ nautical jargon.  While the reader may not appreciate all the technicalities that Childers includes, therefore, she can definitely appreciate the author’s awareness and his sense of humor.

At page 90, I have now just entered the real heart of the story: Davies has revealed to Carruthers that he believes the Germans are developing naval strength and that the safety of the British Empire depends on these two gentlemen discovering (and later relating) as much as they can.  I have enjoyed the exposition and rising action, and I am excited for the real action to begin.

More soon.

The Riddle of the Sands, by Erskine Childers

After much deliberation, a prolonged perusal of dust jacket summaries, and a snap judgment of cover art (yes, I do judge my books by their covers, but I am willing to admit when I judge too hastily), I have picked my next book.  According to The Times, as quoted on the front cover, The Riddle of the Sands by Erskine Childers is “The first and best of spy stories.”  The back cover promises a story of youth and adventure, espionage, and the fate of the British Empire.  In many ways it sounds strikingly similar to an arguably more well known spy novel, The Thirty-Nine Steps by John Buchan.  This is of particular interest to me because I studied the early modern mystery and thriller in British literature and I also studied the impact the Great War had on modern literature.  The Thirty-Nine Steps fell into both genres of study, so I have read The Thirty-Nine Steps a couple of times--as a casual reader and as a scholar.   I am, therefore, quite interested to see how Erskine’s spy novel compares to Buchan’s.

Childers had experience with sailing,
and I expect that his experiences
helped to shape the novel

I confess to holding a second reason for being drawn to this novel.  According to my internet searches, Erskine Childers was an Irish nationalist who was executed during the Irish Civil War.  Although I spent the last two years of my life formally studying Constitutional history and Supreme Court decisions, American history is not my only passion.  I have also spent several years casually studying Irish history, studying the Irish Nationalist movement in particular.  Childers’ politics, his connection to other Irish Republicans like Michael Collins and Eamon de Valera, and his role in this fascinating period of Irish history appeals to me.  Although this novel was written before Childers was an ardent supporter of Irish Home Rule, my curiosity is piqued, so now I will leave the relatively tranquil world of Trollope’s Victorian England for the excitement and fast pace of a pre-World War I spy thriller.

The Way We Live Now

   Published in 1875, The Way We Live Now is considered by many to be Anthony Trollope’s greatest novel.  Its scathing satire reveals the author’s deep disillusionment with British society in the late Victorian era.  The majority of his characters are shallow, vapid, and easily manipulated by shrewd operators.  Trollope’s more clever characters, though in the minority, dominate the characters around them, and indeed dominate the story itself with their colorful schemes, their wicked triumphs, and their infamous failures.  The Way We Live Now is a satire, astutely observing the clash of the old and new in British society and poking fun at both sides throughout the story.  The novel itself is good, with delightfully and surprisingly modern plot twists, but its Trollope’s characters that drive this story and ultimately distinguish it as a great novel.

The Way We Live NowWritten by Anthony Trollope
Pages: 766
Ranked: 26 of 100

   The novel itself tells many stories--love stories, stories of ambition and greed, and, most interestingly, the story of several families striving to better their status in London society.  The Grendalls and the Longestaffes, two such families, are intent upon keeping up appearances; despite their great financial strains, both families maintain houses in the country and in town simply because it befits their status in society.  The young men persist in hunting and riding, as well as recklessly drinking and gambling at their clubs.  Despite their lack of funds, none of the major characters are engaged in any sort of profitable trade--one or two maintain a seat in Parliament and many sit on the board of directors for a fictional Mexican-American railroad, but no one in the novel actually works.  Among this level of society, to maintain an actual trade was considered un-gentlemanlike; furthermore, engaging in any type of work was to essentially lower one’s status.  Many families instead sought to attach themselves to families with greater wealth.  It is this situation that the great financier Augustus Melmotte, Trollope’s most colorful character, worked to exploit for his own gain.  

   Arriving from Paris with millions in “new money,” Melmotte sought to elevate his own status within London society by attaching his family to the old aristocratic families like the Grendalls and the Longestaffes.  To accomplish this, Melmotte virtually auctions his daughter off, selling her not to the bidder with the most money, but to the bachelor with the highest rank.  Initially, Melmotte is forced to work hard to win over society; he hosts grand parties, inviting the crème de la crème of London society, but he is so coarse and uncouth that he is not permitted to converse with his guests.  In time, however, rumors of his vast wealth combine with several families’ need for money and Melmotte becomes the most celebrated figure in London.  Despite personally loathing the man and the general class of “new money,” the novel’s aristocrats are forced to ingratiate themselves to Melmotte, becoming toadies in his retinue.  Melmotte employs many of these gentlemen as his secretaries, lording over them as he enjoys his new status.  He meets foreign royalty, entertains the Chinese Emperor, and wins a seat in Parliament.  Melmotte rises to such great heights that it becomes inevitable that he, like the fabled Icarus, is destroyed by his own need to ascend higher and higher.

   The storyline surrounding Melmotte is fascinating and entertaining.  Melmotte is an intriguing figure, at once both ignorant and clever.  His lack of understanding of British society makes him coarse and unappealing, but his insight into human nature allows him to easily manipulate those around him.  Trollope describes Melmotte and his schemes with an ironic tone, frequently hinting at his own disillusionment in a society that allowed men like Melmotte to rise to grandeur.  It’s often hard to tell whom Trollope despised more: men like Melmotte, or the men and women whom Melmotte so easily defrauds.  Most remarkable, however, is the timelessness of this storyline.  Though it is set in Victorian England, Melmotte and his contemporaries could easily find their counterparts in today’s world, a world which saw Bernie Madoff rise and fall in similar fashion.  Furthermore, Melmotte is a great character because though he is a caricature, he is a believable one; the reader can easily picture him in a modern New York or Washington office, deftly entrapping modern elites in elaborate investment schemes.  

The scholar in my couldn't resist underlining
or marking my favorite lines and passages

   While Melmotte’s story arc is the most interesting for its timelessness, the historian in me is compelled by the situation of women in Trollope’s novel.  Like many women of the era, Marie Melmotte is betrothed by her father to a British aristocrat for whom she has no feelings or attachment.  Throughout the novel, Marie is pursued by several young men who dislike her person but are greatly attracted to her fortune.  Marie’s engagement to a Lord Nidderdale resembles more of a financial transaction than an actual courtship, a practice that was fairly common in history.  Similarly, another character, Georgiana Longestaffe, engages herself to a man more than twice her age solely because he was financially well off.  Despite being repulsed by the man’s religion and appearance, Georgiana is driven by a fear of spinsterhood and poverty to accept an offer from a man whom she dislikes.  In several instances throughout the novel, Trollope’s female characters sacrifice personal happiness to suit certain monetary needs.  In many ways, this makes the women of The Way We Live Now the most sympathetic characters--the young men blithely ignore their responsibilities in favor of gambling and gaiety, thus compelling the women to step in and remedy the situation through a profitable marriage.  Excepting Melmotte, the women are also the most interesting and artful characters of the novel.  Trollope’s female characters demonstrate greater personal growth and strength than do their male counterparts.  One or two men redeem themselves, but overwhelmingly it is the women who dominate the pages with their strong personalities, their difficult situations, and, ultimately, their graceful handling of their affairs.

   The Way We Live Now is a great novel because, through satire, Trollope portrays society in a harsh, but honest light.  While many of his characters are caricatures of all that Trollope despised in British society, his characterizations are real and believable.  The reader can easily understand and follow each character’s motivations because, in large part, they all relate back to basic aspects of human nature--greed, desire, desperation, etc.  But most importantly, Trollope’s characters are human--while Melmotte is a swindler and a bully, we also see his desperation, his fear, and his insecurity.  We despise Melmotte, but we also come to feel for him, to pity him.  The ability to create such a dynamic character, and set him in such among other similarly believable figures, makes The Way We Live Now a wonderful and enjoyable read.

a brief departure

I am taking a break from reading today to bake a cake.  I love to bake, I love it almost as much as I love reading.  When I read, I am able to magically transport to wherever and whenever I am reading; I can close my eyes and am suddenly in Victorian England or Colonial America or, yes, even Hogwarts.  I love to curl up in my armchair, blanket on lap and a steaming cup of tea on hand, and I will happily lose myself in a book for hours.  In a way, I love baking for the same reason.  When I bake, I enter a world where I am master and the kitchen is my domain.  I control everything from the amount of sugar and almond extract to the exact consistency to which I will whip my eggs.  And baking, like reading, involves a world of magic.  I melt chocolate, add eggs and flour and somewhere in the oven it turns into a warm, fluffy cake that brings a smile to the face.  This of course is the main reason why I love baking, though.  I love the power baking has to please people, to charm them, to make them feel comfortable and welcome in my home.  A good book has the power to inspire and to motivate, but a good meal can calm and restore; both can bring joy, but in very different ways.  So today I am briefly departing from one love in favor of another.  I have my recipe picked out--a Devil’s Food Cake, I have the best of Wait Wait…Don’t Tell Me playing in the background, and I am ready to bake!

Swirls of chocolate and flour, mmmm....

The recipe itself (which can be found at http://nyti.ms/ebvXM0) is pretty easy: sift together dry ingredients and set aside; beat the butter and start slowly adding all the other good things like sugars and melted chocolate.  I found the recipe through a New York Times twitter account that I follow, nytimesdining.  Part of one woman’s apprenticeship with a fabulous baker, the recipe has been simplified and is presented in an easy, conversational manner.  As I read instructions, I felt like I could close my eyes and hear my mom directing me how to make this cake, which was comforting and much more preferable than the annoyingly vague directions many recipes include.  I did have one minor mishap, though.  To save time and pans, I attempted to melt my chocolate in the microwave instead of melting it in the double boiler.  I was distracted, however, by the delightfully sharp wit of my favorite Wait Wait… guest, Roy Blount Jr., and let the chocolate cook in the microwave for too long and didn’t realize it was burning until a rather unpleasant smell met my nose.  At that point I decided it might be best to do as I have always done and melt my chocolate in the double boiler.  It’s messier, but ultimately easier (and makes you sound cooler, at least I think so).  Other than that, though, I was able to sift, mix, and whip up a beautiful batter that I transferred into two tins and placed them in the oven for baking.

A picture of the finished product

As the cake baked, my tiny kitchen was filled with the smell of chocolate and it was amazing!  When I pulled them out of the oven, the cakes were beautiful--they were spongy to touch and just rounded on the tops.  I let the cakes cool for about five minutes and then removed them from their tins.  This is always a tense moment for me and I worry in the moments immediately before and after I flip the pans--will my cake slide out gently? Or will it break and remain halfway in the tin?  Miraculously, though, they plopped right out.  Then I cut the top off of one of the cakes so that the layers would stack nicely.  As I gently slid my serrated knife across the top of the cake, puffs of chocolate steam greeted me warmly.  I stacked the layers and then proceeded to apply way too much frosting (because it looked pretty) and then I took the portion of the cake that I had just removed and crumbled it over the freshly iced cake.  The result was a beautiful (albeit slightly amateurishly iced) cake that I can proudly present as my contribution to the game day festivities tomorrow.  Hopefully it tastes as good as it smells!