This Side of Paradise

 

"Oh, it isn't that I mind the glittering caste system...a bunch of hot cats on top, but gosh, Kery, I've got to be one of them" (45).

If there is a characterization that F. Scott Fitzgerald knew how to write very effectively, it is that of a high-functioning narcissist. Do with that what you will. The Beautiful and Damned, The Great Gatsby, and This Side of Paradise all center around young men and women who can put on a great show of charm and social adjustment, but ultimately are much too selfish to avoid disillusionment with the world's many inconveniences. 

Whether wealthy or poor, and often waffling between the two throughout the course of the novel, his characters feel owed satisfaction of their desires (wealth, status, love and relationships). In the end, every reader knows that the callous world will not bow to the demands of its citizens. At the very least, every dream requires prolonged work to attain. Those free dreams that are imparted upon entitled individuals are usually not what they really wanted anyway.

1. "You're a slave, a bound helpless slave to one thing in the world, your imagination" (136).

Consistent characterization. In This Side of Paradise, Amory is set up as a man built by his formative experiences. His overly doting, self-absorbed, and class-obsessed mother sets him on a path of preoccupation with "making something of himself." Of course, this goal is not entirely without merit, but the book delves into the many problems created by both his motivations and tactics for doing so. Amory wants to be important and viewed as successful by his peers, and thus he spends most of his time meditating internally rather than actually living or forming lasting relationships. Everything he does must be categorically worthwhile to get ahead in whatever environment he finds himself.

Unfortunately, that desire is not strong enough to actually propel him into any real pursuit of achievement. He is lazy almost to a fault, preferring to do nothing at all if whatever task he finds before himself does not seem extremely visible and offer immediate gratification. The result of it all is that he is never truly held accountable and ends up poor, single, without any true friends, and lacking in a skill set that would at least give him a livable income.

While this characterization is utterly insufferable and quite infuriating, but Amory does just enough randomly good or selfless acts in order to garner some sympathy with the reader. Multiple times throughout the novel, I found myself thinking that maybe he was finally on the road to change and had hit that point when a person realizes that they are the architect of their own demise. But no! Just Amory being Amory. He ends up destitute, the consequence of his own actions, which is satisfying in a sense as well.

2. "You will admit that if it was not life it was magnificent" (9).

An undertone of blandly humorous irony. A sense of realism, that the world is a certain way and isn't going to change, undergirds the whole novel. Smoking is bad for your lungs and will probably result in lung cancer, but gosh is it fulfilling in the moment when you want a cigarette with all of your friends. The way that Amory lives while he is young, and even after he goes to war, is all for the pleasure of today. He pretends to want more, but he never really does anything to climb the social or economic ladder. He has many capabilities and advantages, but they only do so much for him until his natural failings drag him down.

He is something of a philosopher, sitting back and talking with his friends and lovers about the meaning of life and how society's problems can be solved. The issue is not the soliloquizing itself, but rather the jaded naivete behind it all. That may sound like an oxymoron, but Amory embodies it. He is an idealist, unconsciously expecting a world that will just fall into the palm of his hand. Alternatively, he complains about the pointlessness of effort in the face of inevitable failure.

The absolute lack of self-awareness, while being entirely self-focused, is partly what makes many of the characters, including the protagonist, so interesting. It is a psychoanalysis of entitlement mixed with flighty apathy and occasional good intentions. The author seems to reach through the dialogue to wink at the reader and say, "Isn't this just the wildest take? Can you believe they really think this way? So tragic, you have to laugh."

3. "Given a decent start any girl can beat a man nowadays" (170).

Creative elements. This point could go either way for me--positive or negative. TSoP is famous (or infamous, depending on your position) for breaking into a play in the latter half, for a few chapters, and then returning to traditional novel form. I understand the purpose as being a nod to Amory's constant posturing, as though he is the star of a sitcom or reality television show. When he meets Rosalind, a name strikingly similar to that of Romeo's love obsession before he meets Juliet, he has found his performative match.

They swirl around each other for weeks, caught in the throes of intense romantic attraction. They play the parts just as everyone would "expect," and inevitably, Rosalind drops Amory for a much richer paramour. All of these aspects fit perfectly into the star-crossed lovers trope. Neither of them is selfless enough to sacrificially love another person, and ultimately Rosalind is right when she says that they would end up hating one another in marriage for just this reason.

All that to say, I understand the play, and I think it is a bold move. Do I respect it? Yes. Do I also think it's a bit melodramatic? Also, yes. But that's why we read Fitzgerald.

Strangely, as I read back through these points, it would almost seem that I didn't actually like this novel. In reality, I liked it a lot more than I thought I would, especially after reading The Beautiful and Damned and being disappointed. It's a bit long and bloated, and the characters are extremely irritating at several points, but it is also very realistic to people's true motivations and the natural consequences of life.

Breakfast at Tiffany's

 

"I'd rather have cancer than a dishonest heart" (66).

As a fan of Audrey Hepburn and her many on-screen iterations, the iconic adaptation of Truman Capote's novella, Breakfast at Tiffany's, is a not-so-unique favorite. The feel of the movie denotes a whimsical realism, leaving the viewer with a sense that something ethereal has touched down in a very normal corner of New York City. By chance, I landed upon a copy of the original during my last visit to one of the bookstores that I sacrificially assist in staying open.

Imagine my delight in reading a story that was so well captured in its movie version that I found myself reminded of each scene's delivery with renewed appreciation for the nuance found there. It would be hard to choose a favorite--movie or book--because they seem to be cut from the same cloth. I can also confidently give this story one of the highest honors that I have to impart: it was actually the perfect length! My opinion on many a book and movie, even those that I genuinely enjoy, is that at least some small portion of extra fluff could have been cut to elevate my enjoyment. I felt that this one had exactly what it needed to be both effective and delightful.

1. "They would never change because they'd been given their character too soon; which, like sudden riches, leads to a lack of proportion...a lopsided romantic" (46).

Iconic characters. From the narrator, who is never named, to the side characters like Sally Tomato and Doc Golightly, this story is populated by a stunning number of men and women who circle around Holly's eccentricities. The protagonist is a woman of humble means, coming from a backwater orphan adolescence and "Pygmalion-ed" by a Hollywood executive who imagines her a future star. She gives herself a new name, à la Marylin Monroe, and finds her place amidst the vast bustle of war-time New York City.

Capote's genius is in his ability to craft people who seem to really exist, as though they could be a friend of a friend. Simultaneously, they are rooted in very particular personality traits, motivations, or fears that eclipse all other aspects. Condensing characters in this way provides a look into the very specific human psychologies that interest us most in ourselves and others.

Holly is, as previously stated, the naive girl from the small, country life, beyond her own years (as well as her humble surroundings) both physically and intellectually. Unfortunately for her, such rapid and early maturation prevents her from developing any emotional regulation or practical long-term thinking. She is thrust into the sparkling world of high society and realizes that she can achieve almost transcendent independence through exploitation of her female form and the scrappy wit that gives her an ironic edge.

2. "It should take you about four seconds to walk from here to the door. I'll give you two" (50).

Iconic relationships. Holly attracts men who want to use her, fix her, love her, marry her, or a combination of all four. Mag Wildwood, one of her only female "friends," seems to embody a fifth desire: to be Holly. Money is, of course, not a small motivator either. Everyone's ulterior motives conclude in the creation of storm after storm. 

The quote at the beginning of this review reveals an innate desire on Holly's part to be honest, but not necessarily in the moral sense. She is not above leaving her family without explanation, changing her name, and living through the financial support of a revolving door of men until she finds an especially wealthy one to marry. The commitment that helps her sleep through the night is to a personal honesty, staying true to her own wants and needs without entering into any social contracts of which she cannot follow through. 

The main love story, if it can even be called that, is between Holly and the narrator whom she calls "Fred," after her soldier brother. Imagine Audrey Hepburn thrusting Cat out of her taxi and into the rain, leaving New York, and abandoning her life there as thoroughly as she left Doc and her teenage marriage. Can't quite see it? I guess the directors didn't think that ending would sell as well. But Capote isn't afraid of an unsatisfying conclusion, especially one that tells us so much more about true human nature.

3. "...it was a subject to ponder, how, from such wreckage, she evolved the eventual effect: pampered, calmly immaculate, as though she'd been attended by Cleopatra's maids" (42-43).

Je ne sais quoi. There is a certain undeniable quality to Breakfast at Tiffany's that combines the aimlessness of the post-World War I generation with the rapidly modernizing culture as it is thrust into yet another world war. Everything that draws us to mid-century narratives, with their traditional male and female characters functioning in new-found freedoms as society leaves behind many of the previous century's restrictions, is found in these pages. The golden age of Hollywood was just a few years in the future. This style of writing functions as an archetype for the striking stories that would soon become the romantic obsession of the world.

It is difficult to place one's finger on exactly the pulse that has made this story such an enduring classic. Perhaps it is just that: Capote, and subsequently those involved in the film adaptation of his work, managed to feel the essential heartbeat of the changing world and its many wonders and anxieties. They poured all of it into a few magnanimous characters and let them speak with their own brand of honesty.

Sense and Sensibility

 

"...if there had been any real impropriety in what I did, I should have been sensible of it at the time, for we always know when we are acting wrong, and with such a conviction I could have had no pleasure" (73).

Three topics of such contention that they should never be discussed, except in the most intimate of company: religion, politics, and a distaste for Jane Austen.

I am of the unpopular opinion that Jane Austen is an unfortunate addition to the British canon of classic literature. I have not yet met an Austen publication that I did not suffer through, and even though I have one or two still on my TBR list, at this point I am finishing them for the sake of being able to hate them in their entirety. There are two types of responses one can expect when declaring this take to the world. The first: a relieved whisper of agreement, with eyes darting to and fro, looking for a Jane Austen stan to come rushing in with a knife. The second response is the one with the knife.

For my part, I am interested to hear from one of those individuals who un-ironically re-reads Pride and Prejudice every year and isn't also being waterboarded for information. Please, for the love of literature, explain to me how a reader can overlook so many flaws and frustrating inconsistencies and still find something enjoyable! In lieu of anyone nearby to contradict and/or stab me, I will give my thoughts on a few flaws of Sense and Sensibility that I find frankly embarrassing.

1. "Edward was not only without affection for the person who was to be his wife; but that he had not even the chance of being tolerably happy in marriage" (149).

The characters are terrible. The sisterly relationship between Marianne and Elinor is probably the most redeeming quality of the novel. They are portrayed very accurately, often disagreeing, but loyal to a fault and supportive of one another. The whole point of the novel is that each sister has one half of what is necessary to be successful in life and specifically love (sense and sensibility), and they must learn from one another in order to find a truly compatible spouse. However, neither woman is really all that sensible. They are both driven by emotion (albeit Elinor in a more subtle way) and make excuses for their own suitors when they behave terribly.

Willoughby is very obviously the worst sort of player, manipulating women continually, and Elinor recognizes his truancy from the beginning. But her own love interest, Edward, is emotionally constipated, lacking in empathy, and selfish. He is consistently described as anti-social and hesitant to engage in meaningful conversations, and he has an emotional affair with Elinor while he is engaged to Lucy, which is dishonest to both of them as well as being cowardly. 

Lucy and her sister are both portrayed as often dumb and sometimes cruel, a combination which makes for some very eyebrow-raising choices. All of the friends that the Dashwoods make are either insufferable gossips or unerringly shallow, and even the mother portrays very few admirable qualities other than caring very greatly for her daughters. Every single character is shown in such an unflattering light that it is very nearly impossible to relate to or root for any one of them.

2. "But--it was not Colonel Brandon-neither his air-nor his height. Were it possible, she should say it must be Edward" (344)!

The plot is unsatisfying. Despite having the aspect of sisterly relationship, which is the book's saving grace, it is essentially only about losing and gaining romantic relationships in all manner of 19th century frippery. I have stated many a time that romance is not my preferred genre, not least of which because it can often lack depth and enough interesting plot points to keep the story going in a meaningful way. If Jane Austen is the paragon of romance, then I have been proven correct. Sense and Sensibility is about love, deceit, and money. That is all. Just a bunch of people going to each other's houses and gossiping about each other until something happens outside their circle to create even more gossip.

A book like Jane Eyre, often grouped together with Austen novels, is an example of a plot that involves additional elements that provide a well-rounded story. Much detail and attention are given to Jane's childhood, maturity, and independence in a society that does not welcome female autonomy. She is a woman allowed to have flaws while still supporting the notion that women are humans with just as much depth and intelligence as men. Sense and Sensibility unfortunately seems to highlight and reinforce the idea that girls only think about marriage and what it can bring them rather than having other desires or pursuits.

3. "He had left the girl whose youth and innocence he had seduced, in a situation of the utmost distress, with no creditable home, no help, no friends, ignorant of his address" (203)!

No sense of real justice. My final problem with the novel is not necessarily that there is no obvious consequence for the poor choices of many of the characters (other than "feeling bad"), but that the author seems to have intended for the ending to be satisfying. I am very aware that in the real world, many people do not receive poetic judgement for their sins. Books do not need to have endings that tie up every lose thread and leave the villains in jail cells. However, I do believe that there needs to be some element within the text that convinces the reader that the author is aware of who the villains actually are.

Willougby is a truly heinous individual. His entire characterization is as a pretty boy who convinces girls that he is their soulmate so that he can manipulate them and then leave. He literally gets a fourteen-year-old girl pregnant and then abandons her!! And yet, he is given a very weak and borderline offensive "redemption arc" when he returns to explain himself and apologize to Elinor when Marianne is extremely ill. His only punishment is being doomed to a reportedly love-less marriage, but even that is softened by the book's ending. The young girl is simply never mentioned again.

I have already waxed poetic about Edward's failings, but he is painted as a boorish and unavailable man, in every sense of the word, for most of the novel. Then, out of the blue, he comes riding across the countryside free of all former obligations. For some reason, the reader is expected to celebrate that he now proposes to Elinor. Um, no? 

He was engaged to a girl for four years and then did the "gentlemanly" thing and agreed to marry her even after realizing that he did not want to be with her and was subsequently disowned by his entire family. Not to mention, all of the previous objections to a possible union with Elinor (money, family, antisocial behavior) are un-resolved. But I guess it's fine now, because his family realized that Elinor is really the lesser of two evils and all that other stuff doesn't matter as much as the author made it seem to in the beginning.

I have to stop here, or I will go on for another several paragraphs and the Jane Austen fans might smell blood in the water and come for me. All in all, I am not impressed with the caliber of Sense and Sensibility. Wherever high school and college students forced to read this novel are crying out in the night with despair, I hear you. You are not alone.

Murder on the Orient Express

 

"He awoke some hours later, awoke with a start. He knew what it was that had wakened him--a loud groan, almost a cry, somewhere close at hand" (40).

Detective novels were not much part of my reading list up until the last few years, as I have never been very adept at identifying a mysterious killer amongst droves of suspects. After reading copious amounts of Dorothy Sayers for my master's thesis, I decided to take on more literature from the genre. This novel, Murder on the Orient Express, is the most recent in a decently sized list of Agatha Christie novels that I have thrifted in all of their beloved, ragged glory. I have been tackling her most popular novels first, and this excerpt is the final one that has been made into a major motion picture of dubious quality (depending on who you ask).

I was not extremely pleased with its caliber, unfortunately. While Madame Mystery herself has long been lauded with having deciphered a winning formula for any mystery novel, this particular installment lacks some of the plot development and satisfying twists and turns of the others that I have read. There is an immense focus on the mechanics of the crime--everyone is gathered in an inescapable location (a train stranded in a snowbank), the murder occurs, and the remaining two-thirds of the novel are utilized to interview the suspects and go over the many details of everyone's origin stories. While there are some interesting aspects that make it a unique and memorable story, for me, the redeeming qualities do not outweigh the detractions.

1. "I know the dead man's real name. I know why he had to leave America" (71).

Plot twist. Agatha Christie often toys with the idea of true guilt, culpability, and poetic justice. In this novel, she presents a murder victim who had previously escaped justice at the hands of a technicality. He was the perpetrator in a kidnapping and murder case involving a young child, and several other individuals died or were killed as well in the aftermath. Everyone seems to hate him, and even Hercule Poirot refuses to help him when he entreats the detective for some type of protection against his own suspected demise. Of course, he turns up dead the following morning, and the mystery unfolds. This perspective is an interesting one, as there are a great many suspects, and no one seems to feel much of anything other than relief or resignation at hearing of his murder.

2. "'You suspect her,' said M. Bouc slowly. 'But why? She seems a very charming young lady--the last person in the world to be mixed up in a crime of this kind'" (151).

Everyone is suspicious. Leading into the second common tactic in Christie's novels, everyone is a suspect. It becomes rather rote after a few chapters, but Poirot gradually uncovers connections amongst each of the train's passengers to one another and also to the original kidnapping crime. Of course, these relationships are not a coincidence whatsoever, but they do muddy the waters quite a bit when it comes to being able to decipher who, in fact, is responsible for this brutal stabbing on the Orient Express.

3. "'I swear to you, M. Poirot--and my husband knows and will swear also--that much as I may have been tempted to do so, I never lifted a hand against that man" (215).

Feeling cheated by the ending and lack of plot. I like a mystery novel that is solvable. It bothers me when, at the big reveal of the guilty party, details are revealed about the crime that could have never been surmised by the reader. I feel that this book unfortunately falls into that category, and it felt a bit like cheating to arrive at the end and find out that there was essentially very little chance of figuring out the perpetrator along with the detective. Overall, I was underwhelmed, and slightly surprised that this novel is one of Agatha Christie's most popular and well-known.

While there are positive aspects in changing the status quo of the murder mystery genre, and Murder on the Orient Express certainly completes that task, it also lacks some of the critical thinking aspects that create fans in the first place. Sitting down and having "a good think," as Poirot himself puts it, will not necessarily result in the answer, and that feels like manipulation in order to achieve a shocking conclusion. Perhaps it is not the resolution that creates a problem for me, but rather the way that it is executed, with far too much exposition and not enough narrative.

Go Set a Watchman

 

"As sure as time, history is repeating itself, and as sure as man is man, history is the last place he'll look for his lessons" (197).

To Kill a Mockingbird is a classic that has stood the test of time and remained an integral part of many American classrooms. Over half a century after its publication, Harper Lee's only other novel was published, to the great surprise of the public and just a few months before her death. Fans, young and old, immediately patronized booksellers in order to purchase a copy of this un-anticipated second installment in what was never before classified as a series.

Then began the outrage. To Kill a Mockingbird was a light shining in the darkness of mid-century racial prejudice. It boldly declared the need for every person to take up their shotgun and rid themselves of the rabid dog of racism before it continued to infect the entire country. Go Set a Watchman, however, seemed more like a cautionary tale on meeting your heroes, unless you want to realize that they aren't always what they seem. It presented previously beloved characters as flawed and selfish, and lacked the sparkling anecdotes and crisp metaphors of its predecessor.

Go Set a Watchman was actually written before TKAM, and Harper Lee's agent sent it to several publishers before she decided to write a different story that pre-dated the events she had previously set to type. She clearly felt no inclination to have that original work published after years of literary silence, and yet her virgin work hit bookshelves in 2015 with (according to the note in the book) very little editing done to its original form. Is there something valuable to be learned from this novel? It has been continually controversial, but in the theme of TKAM before it, most things that make people upset usually do so for a good reason.

1. "Every man's island, Jean Louise, every man's watchman, is his conscience. There is no such thing as a collective conscious" (265-66).

Identity and independence. The whole concept of Go Set a Watchman, and perhaps the reason why so many readers found it disappointing, is the development of independent thought and personal responsibility. To Kill a Mockingbird very intentionally sets up a dichotomy between right and wrong, metaphorical black and white, the prejudice of racism versus undebatable stances such as equal rights, honesty, common human decency...etc. These are all very obvious binaries that demonstrate a clear moral high ground.

Go Set a Watchman presents more complex political and moral issues that entail grappling with significantly more gray areas. For example, is it wrong to allow someone to engage in free speech when what they are saying is incorrect or offensive to you? Is it better to speak up loudly for change and burn all bridges with the community, or should one approach change more slowly, in order to maintain those communal ties? 

Atticus has made choices in the process towards change that Scout abhors, even though they both seem to agree on the same final outcome. She rails against him, angry and hurt, clearly taking the situation very personally because Atticus was a perfect hero in her eyes. It shocks her that he would do anything that she disagrees with. The end of the book does not offer any answers or display a clear path forward, but rather chooses to focus on the benefit to Scout in realizing that her father is human and that they will not always agree.

The whole point, starkly different from TKAM, does not seem to be an establishment of clear good and evil. The questions we are left with are: how can we use critical thinking skills rather than believe whatever we hear from the people that we trust? How can we disagree in a healthy way and produce intelligent discourse for change that doesn't result in name-calling and personal attacks? Can we all agree that the issues before us are complex, there may not be one perfect way forward, but we all want the same result and can thus work in tandem?

2. "What does a bigot do when he meets someone who challenges his opinions? He doesn't give. He stays rigid. Doesn't even try to listen, just lashes out" (267).

Political discourse. The second point branches from the first. Having a political conversation in our current climate is nearly impossible, especially amongst individuals from different sides of the aisle. Why is that the case? Well, this lesson is one that Scout learns when she finds herself disappointed in her father's actions. To begin, she keeps her findings a secret and doesn't ask any questions in order to dispel possible misunderstanding. When her anger has become so pent up that she can no longer withstand it, she blows up with deep emotion and is incapable of hearing any explanations.

While not everyone may agree with Atticus' proposals on how best to achieve certain ideals, it is clear to see that his calm and collected manner are a huge contrast to Scout's deeply personal and combative dialogue. He leaves her with the statement that he loves her no matter what, and she leaves essentially disowning him as her parent. Many results can come from engaging in open and vulnerable conversation: convincing, compromise, understanding, and grace. 

Screaming "I'm right; you're wrong" arguments only end in one way, with hypocrisy and broken relationships. One cannot expect others to listen when they themselves are only interested in talking. Herein lies perhaps one aspect of GSAW controversy, in that it doesn't conclude with clear ideals. Instead, it displays multiple sides and leaves them open ended, choosing to make a comment about the nature of political conversations rather than enter into the conversation itself.

3. "I need a watchman to lead me around and declare what he seeth every hour on the hour. I need a watchman to tell me this is what a man says but this is what he means" (181-82).

Messy motivations. While there are a great many aspects of this book that I find thought-provoking and valuable, it is very clearly a draft that needed a lot more editing and feedback to reach the level of TKAM. There were several moments when I had no idea why characters were behaving in certain ways, and their motivations remained unclear even after I had read on. Calpurnia, who is supposedly a pseudo-mother to Scout and Jem, mysteriously casts Scout out of her inner circle of friendship even though she has done nothing wrong. This example is one of many that filled me with questions that were never really answered, and I think the ambiguity detracts from the storyline.

Unfortunately, very few of the characters seem to have changed for good. Scout transitions from being a beloved and opinionated childhood ruffian to a selfish woman in her twenties, leaving her beau clinging to hope that she will one day commit to him and abandoning her family for New York. As I mentioned, Calpurnia is holding some unknown grudge against the children she helped raise, and Atticus is an elderly man suffering from arthritis and doesn't seem to be making the same quiet but brave stand for equal rights. I hate to be the bearer of this bad news, but Jem is dead, having passed away from some genetic heart condition. Anyone looking for a nostalgic visit to Maycomb, Alabama, will not find it in these pages.

4. "It's just that every time I've come home for the past five years--before that, even. From college--something's changed a little more" (75).

Lacking plot. There is really no plot here whatsoever. The whole book takes place in the space of about a week and is filled with intermittent flashbacks to Scout's childhood, which provide the bulk of the word count. The rest is taken up with a very simple concept: Scout is mad at Atticus, she has a very angry conversation with him, she gets a pat on the back for finally thinking like an individual, and everybody makes up. The most interesting bits are in the conversations throughout the text, but the very low stakes create a significantly less interesting novel, especially when compared with a black man's life hanging in the balance as he is tried for a crime that he did not commit.

Overall, while it is a profound read in many instances and touches on issues that are still prevalent today, publishing a book that was essentially left un-edited since 1960 was probably a mistake. I can understand why people were outraged, or at the very least, disillusioned. That may be part of the point that Harper Lee was trying to make, which is that no person should be idolized so much that their word is taken as law. We must never lose the ability to have conversations with those who hold different values, because otherwise, we will never be required to think critically about our own. The execution of the book, however, leaves much to be desired and could have been greatly improved upon with some very simple edits.

Rebecca

 

"Tall and dark she was...She gave you the feeling of a snake. I seen her there with my own eyes. By night she'd come. I seen her" (157).

My first experience with Rebecca was actually through the film of the same name, which I watched one night while scrolling through movie options and landing on one that I believed I could use to wind down for sleep. Little did I know, the storyline was not at all what I expected, and I also would not be sleeping soundly that night.

I was not aware of this book until after college, when I was so struck by the film adaptation, and then proceeded to go down a black hole of internet research. From the very first chapter, I knew that Rebecca was an extraordinary publication. There are many classics that I have read for a respect of their cultural or historical importance, but Rebecca is a novel that I can recommend without caveat or hesitation.

1. "'Rebecca,' that tall sloping R dwarfing its fellows" (88).

Raw characterization. Daphne du Maurier chose not to name the main character; in contrast, the book itself carries the name of her dead rival. That in itself provides a window into the work that du Maurier was trying to do. She presents her characters so vividly, investigating the psyche of the protagonist while she crafts a personality for the Rebecca that she has never met. It is through hints from conversations, the behavior of her husband, leftover trappings of a once lively household, and the machinations of her own imagination that she develops an idea of who Rebecca may have been.

Through it all, Rebecca becomes a haunting specter who drifts through the halls and demands attention, even as her husband tries to erase any memory of her. Slowly, the truth of her hold on the house and its inhabitants is revealed. The way that the author unfolds each layer of characterization is masterful. The protagonist struggles with self-abasement and misinterprets the actions of those around her. She descends into a pseudo-madness through obsessing over this mercurial dead woman whose influence looms larger than any living character. All of the people living at Manderley House are thrown together in a battle against the unseen ghost crafted delicately within their own minds. Who are they really fighting? Certainly not the memory of Rebecca. Rather, their own insecurities, traumas, and most fatal flaws are revealed.

2. ...in a moment the dark trees had thinned, the nameless shrubs had disappeared, and on either side of us was a wall of colour, blood-red, reaching far above our heads. We were amongst the rhododendrons. There was something bewildering, even shocking, about the suddenness of their discovery" (66).

Striking descriptive language. Rebecca is written with such painstaking detail, and the descriptions don't merely float at the top of chapters before the reader dives into the more serious plotwork. The figurative language plays an important role in developing the characterization of the setting, which is featured prominently as the metaphorical existence of the dead Rebecca within the text. Manderley is more than just a beautiful and mysterious mansion on the seaside--it reflects the inner emotional state, longings, desires, and motivations of its inhabitants. The house harkens the past, foreshadows the future, and eventually represents the aftermath of the story's events.

I recently read a book that attempted to personify the house in which the story took place. In a book review, someone had commented that the final effect felt very much like a high school creative writing prompt. Rebecca exemplifies how one can utilize this tactic to perfection. The result is eerie, achingly beautiful, and terrifyingly bizarre.

3. "The sky above our heads was an inky black. But the sky on the horizon was not dark at all. It was shot with crimson, like a splash of blood. And the ashes blew towards us with the salt wind from the sea (386).

The quality of a living nightmare. Rebecca is categorized as a romantic psychological thriller, a very interesting intersection between two genres, neither of which entirely fit the novels true character. There is a nightmarish and shocking quality to the writing and the plot, and the elements of psychopathy, murder, and arson all contribute to the categorization of the book. It is the psychological torture of the main characters, particularly by their perception of the deceased Rebecca, that truly identifies the text with this department of literature. 

And then we must address the romance between the unnamed protagonist and the widowed Maxim de Winter. The book begins by describing a future time when they are together, away from the destructive qualities of Manderley's unerasable memories, happy in whatever way is possible after the trauma of their experiences. The rest of the story is told in flashback, and as the reader sees the intrepid couple suffer through brutal misunderstandings that threaten to drown them, there are still glimpses of their true love for one another. Eventually, we know, they must conquer this strife and persevere, but so much of the story revolves around their parallel and intersecting conflicts that it is hard to view the novel as a true romance.

Rebecca is one of the best classics that I have read in some time, and although I found myself marking and highlighting page and after page of memorable language, I wanted to read without interruption. There are times when you read a book and know that it will come back into your life at some near point in the future, and that is how I feel about Rebecca. I am only disappointed in one thing: that I did not encounter it sooner.

Oliver Twist

 

"Let the tears which fell, and the broken words which were exchanged in the long close embrace between the orphans, be sacred."

There is nothing quite so comforting and wholesome as reading a Charles Dickens novel, and all the better if it is raining and a flickering candle casts its glow on the water-streaked windowpanes. For the first time, I chose to listen to an audiobook of a Dicken's novel, and may I just say that Oliver Twist turned out to be an excellent choice. The book has long been adapted into a stage play, and thus its theatrical value is well acknowledged. Hearing it read out loud has convinced me that, like Shakespeare, Dickens is meant to be experienced in this way! The nuanced accents that differentiate each person and the characteristically British sense of ordered revelation in each chapter come alive in the voice of a talented orator. I can't recommend it highly enough.

For some time, Great Expectations has remained one of my favorite Dickens works. However, I believe that my opinion is shifting after this latest interaction with orphan Oliver and his many shady or compassionate acquaintances. What I love about all of Charles Dickens' writing is his extremely memorable characters; he shows their flaws and their humanity, as well as the societal pressures that force them into character-shaping circumstances. Yes, the story is about Oliver Twist: an orphaned boy in his pre-teen years, seeking to escape the poverty and mistreatment of his youth, but consistently falling innocently into the clutches of evil influences who would abuse his naivety.

But the story is so much more than just one boy's journey to finally finding family and a rest from his sojourning in the sinister corners of London's less affluent boroughs. Dickens tells a tale of the inherent meanness of so many people whose positions in life allow them the freedom to raise up their fellow man, but yet choose arrogant mistreatment and manipulation of the disadvantaged instead. The characters who fight against these forces of selfishness and hatred may seem to falter for a time, but they succeed in the end by choosing to do what they can. Rescuing just one small boy from the street may seem insignificant, but showing kindness is reciprocal, and no villain will be left unpunished in the end.

What I love specifically about Oliver Twist is the desperation that Dickens first creates and then sequentially resolves. The reader follows Oliver's abandonment and imprisonment in a seemingly irreparable life of crime, but his goodness and innocence persist, and he eventually lands in the home of a widow and her adopted daughter who will do everything in their power to protect and preserve these qualities in him and also in the world.

The last reason I'll give for loving Dickens in general, but Oliver Twist specifically, is the inclusion of ironic humor. There is a satisfying poetic justice in how the villains find their demise, but there is also a morbid cheerfulness throughout even the darkest of situations. Throughout it all, the reader maintains hope, because there is still sarcasm in the world--a true talent of the author.

The Invisible Man

 

“Alone-- it is wonderful how little a man can do alone! To rob a little, to hurt a little, and there is the end.”

I never used to listen to audiobooks, as I found them (at their best) to be cringeworthy, with all the little accents and inflections that the speakers chose to introduce. At their worst, I found them prosaic, stealing away my own creative interpretation of the writing and imposing ideas upon me about the sound and pace of the story. Perhaps, at the root, my distaste for them came from a niggling doubt about the validity of the format. Are audiobooks cheating? My erudite sense of superiority certainly seemed to think so...

In the last few years, my opinions on this subject have softened. For one, every child's first introduction to reading is listening to books being read aloud. Sometimes, when we read, our eyes skip over certain parts of the prose, and we miss elements of the speech patterns and nuances in the dialogue. An added bonus to listening to a book is an assurance that you know how to pronounce words, rather than just use them correctly in a sentence: a challenge that every avid reader can appreciate.

I've found quite a few audiobooks that have changed my overall thoughts about them, and The Invisible Man is one of them. The dramatic reading of a thriller, especially one filled with uniquely specific British accents, can really elevate one's experience with the text. The Invisible Man is such an outlandish story with an entirely unforgettable cast of characters. The people that populate the story are somewhat hapless, blown about by the effects of the protagonist's unpredictable and sometimes violent behavior. This mode of storytelling invites a certain amount of inevitable chaos that is one of the novel's strong points. A thriller is inherently lacking in perfectly reasonable motivations, and thus the reader is not always certain about what lies around each corner, even while knowing that it cannot be good.

The novel is quite short, which I think aids in the immediateness of its plot. We are in the streets, seeing the people of the town dissolve into anarchy as they attempt to locate and escape the wrath of an unseen threat. There is both humor and horror in this scenario. The doors and windows are locked, but is the unperceivable villain hiding in the darkness, waiting to pounce?

The character of the invisible man, both the protagonist and the antagonist, is like Mary Shelley's Frankenstein--blinded by ambition, arrogantly convinced of the importance of his own scientific contributions, and ultimately meeting his demise through these devices. There is a cautionary tale within the book's pages, a sense of reluctant sympathy for the man despite the responsibility he bears for every consequence. He describes the fear, exhaustion, and exposure to the elements that his invisibility has caused him, but yet, he never truly repents of the pride that led him down such a path.

If you are looking for a quick, extremely British, and lightly chaotic thriller, this book will certainly suffice. It is not my favorite, as the character development of nearly every person other than the invisible man is essentially nonexistent. The book holds its readers at arm's length by presenting the story as a deliverance of evidence or report on the events. This technique is enjoyable and uncommon, but is also not my preference in storytelling methods, as the end result is a cold and distant narrator without much emotional depth.

Dracula

 

"...masses of sea fog came drifting inland--white, wet cloud, which swept by in ghastly fashion, so dank and damp and cold that it needed but little effort of imagination to think that the spirits of those lost at sea were touching their living brethren with the clammy hands of death" (66).

There are few genres that I enjoy as much as gothic horror. There is something so striking about the contrast between English formality and the haunting monster-laden shadows of nightmares. Like Frankenstein, Dracula addresses social and cultural issues of its time by dramatizing the battle between good and evil. In a world where the demons are physical entities that can be struck down with garlic and stakes, the enemy is satisfyingly clear and conquerable. The heroics of a few intrepid vampire hunters are inspiring to those who may fight against the more hidden ills of society.

However, there is also great value in the method and form of the novel, notwithstanding the historical significance. Dracula and his plan to infiltrate England are deliciously horrid; the descriptions of his villainous castle and the women he has cursed to spend eternity with him in perpetual purgatory align perfectly with the stuff of Victorian revulsion and fear. And of course, the romance between Mina and Jonathan contributes the tragically ideal background for a passionate journey of retribution.

1. "I didn't think of it at the time; but when she went away I began to think, and it made me mad to know that He had been taking the life out of her" (240).

Unique format. The simplicity of the formatting of Dracula adds so much to its effect. Journal entries, newspaper clippings, and telegrams piece together the story from different perspectives and adds an immediacy to the tale, also emphasizing the emotional impact inherent in reading a person's intimate thoughts. In all practicality, Stoker made a unique choice that has been duplicated in many modern novels because of its relatability and success.

2. "He throws no shadow...He can come in mist which he create [sic]...He come on moonlight rays as elemental dust...He can see in the dark" (205).

The villain. There are some villains that stand out above the others. In my opinion, they adhere to a specific brand of cold, barely restrained cruelty. These blackguards are masters of manipulation, quietly percolating in their hatred for humanity, and you know that they could burst forth with unfettered violence if pushed too far. Darth Vader, Maleficent, Sauron, Lady Macbeth, and the King of the Undead himself. 

Dracula is a brilliant villain. He is first introduced before we know that it is him, taming rabid wolves with a commanding hand. He is then presented as a demure and accommodating, if rather strange, host to Jonathan. Until he locks Jonathan in a room and refuses to let him leave. And then crawls down the side of the house like a spider on all fours. And materializes from dust motes. And sleeps, during the day, in a coffin full of dirt. Not all is as it seems in Transylvania.

For most of the rest of the novel, we catch only glimpses of Sir Dracula. He is seen leaning over Lucy and sucking the life from her veins, dressed all in black on a street corner of London, and observed through Mina's hypnotic connection to his unconscious mind. It is not until the last chapter that we see him once again, in his full glory, seething at being foiled in his plans and foaming at the mouth with blood. He is scary because he is truly dangerous and horrifying, but also because of the way he fades into the background, becoming the unseen terror that you know will bring impending doom.

3. "Then I caught the patient's eye and followed it, but could trace nothing as it looked into the moonlit sky except a big bat, which was flapping its silent and ghostly way to the west" (94).

Genre. Overall, I just love true gothic horror. There is nothing quite like it. Culturally, the genre has left a great impact on our modern media landscape, although arguably not enough. Too much contemporary horror relies on shock and gore to thrill the audience. I think that constitutes a lazy brand of horror, as it is too easy to walk away and forget. There is no lasting impression left in your mind, and the creativity and cleverness that it takes to invent an entirely new nightmare is severely lacking. 

I love that Dracula is a classic with unique character and a genuinely engaging read. In college, I was part of group that performed a dance version of Dracula, and it was one of my favorite performance experiences. We were given a copy of Dracula to read and educate ourselves during the rehearsal process, but of course, I elected to commit civil disobedience and avoid the book at all costs. Now, having read it on my own time, I am reminded of the many excellent aspects of the story that I enjoyed as a performer. 

Do I wish I had read the novel all those years ago? Maybe. Making a point was very important to me at the time. Somehow, I think the characters of Dracula would've supported me in this endeavor. But I am glad to recommend it now. 

Wuthering Heights

 

"It would degrade me to marry Heathcliff, now; so he shall never know how I love him...he's more myself than I am. Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same" (59).

On my journey through the classics, few have disappointed me. I have found most of them, both the ones that I remember from my academic career and those that I do not, to be impactful and also (shockingly) rather likable as well. However, there are a group of outliers. Wuthering Heights seems to be one of those classics in which I can see the reasoning behind its endurance as an important piece of literature, but I also question the sanity of readers who laud it as enduringly admirable and exemplary. I can't say that I hated the book, but at the same time, I would prefer to never read it again. 

I was never assigned Wuthering Heights as a student, so I don't have the benefit of prior engagement with the text to influence my opinion on it. Perhaps there are pros to this approach, as I was able to come in without any expectations, which is relatively rare for many of these novels. The main analytical feedback that I have seen or heard has to do with the promotion of Heathcliff and Catherine's romance, as proof that they exemplify some ideal relationship. All I have to say in response to those who think this way is, Have you read the book?? The Pinterest posts of quotes indicating that this couple have any qualities worth imitating hit so differently now that I have read their context.

1. "Catherine Earnshaw, may you not rest, as long as I am living. You said I killed you--haunt me then" (124)!

Romanticizing unhealthy relationships. Let's just get right into the meat of my issues with this novel. I often refer to what I have termed "The Notebook Effect" when discussing the problems with modern iterations of romantic relationships. The crux of this phenomenon is the glorification of poor behavior or toxicity, from the perspective that the relationship is somehow more passionate or meaningful for being codependent and emotionally unhinged. In The Notebook, the main characters are portrayed as constantly fighting, verbally and sometimes physically abusive, and complete opposites in terms of upbringing and life goals. When the female love interest cheats on her fiancé (who happens to be a stable, mature, and tragically boring individual), the act is exonerated as a necessary return to the man with whom she was always destined to end up.

I will perhaps have to adjust my vernacular to now include "The Wuthering Heights Effect," as this novel is just as bad. The whole plot is full of selfish and harmful choices compounding on one another while the main characters escape culpability for their actions because they are supposedly in love. Isn't it romantic how, even when married to other people, the couple finds a way back to each other? Isn't it meaningful that they portray extremely selfish and borderline narcissistic personalities, but yet still cling to a codependent and boundary-less relationship? Don't you want to imitate an emotional attachment that endures beyond the grave, to the extent that the living parties suffer within an all-consuming obsession until they themselves perish?

Um...no?

Why does the culture promote these types of relationships? Maybe it's because they make more money in media, whether written or filmed, than the healthy and normal alternative. Regardless, I find them increasingly frustrating to observe.

2. "...it is some devil that urges me to thwart my own schemes by killing him--you fight against that devil, for love, as long as you may; when the time comes, not all the angels in heaven shall save him" (103)!

"Victim of circumstances" mentality. Here is a continuation of the prior point. Wuthering Heights is narrated by the housekeeper as she relays the story of her employers to a man who has rented one of the adjacent houses. Thus, we have an unreliable source who gives her own opinion on situations as readily as the actual facts. I like this perspective for two reasons: the choice highlights a sense of mystery and strangeness as though we are also outsiders looking into the story, not able to fully understand or interfere, and it also provides an interesting bias that adds layers to the character and plot development.

Though I may appreciate the narrative choice as a thematic element, I do not enjoy the resulting morals revealed to the reader. It would seem that the author is trying to help the reader to empathize with the characters, even as they make questionable and even murderous decisions throughout. Ellen, the housekeeper, continually makes excuses for nearly everyone, even when she still condemns their actions. Heathcliff is abusive and violent because he was mistreated as a child, Catherine is selfish and vindictive because of her ethereal spirit and mistreatment as a child, Linton is verbally cruel and self-obsessed because he is physically ill and mistreated (you guessed it) as a child.

At what point do we start holding people accountable for their actions, regardless of whether or not they were disadvantaged by some situation out of their control? Even though Ellen does openly criticize and lament the behaviors of those around her, they are so consistently shown in light of their treatment by others that the resulting actions are painted as almost inevitable. The book seems to be saying: Yes, it is wrong to be cruel, narcissistic, and deceitful, but people are always the result of their environments and can't necessarily be held fully responsible. 

3. "I...listened to the soft wind breathing through the grass; and wondered how anyone could ever imagine unquiet slumbers, for the sleepers in that quiet earth" (248).

Literary value. I do believe, despite my dislike for the general characterization and underlying moral values of the text, that there is literary value in the writing. The historical context, turbulent characters, and artistic composition all speak to the talent of the author. Emily Brontë's critics and readers were convinced that the writer must be a man, as the subject matter was considered too intense and crude to have come from the delicate mind of a woman. Clearly, she was not afraid to write on darker and more sinister topics that belied resistance from her contemporaries. These aspects I respect greatly, and this novel being the lone publication of her short life, it is all the more worthy of analysis to determine the impetus of the different literary elements.

Do I consider this a profound and important piece of British literature? Yes. Wuthering Heights certainly provides the grounds for some very interesting conversations about characterization and the psychology of anti-heroes. I'm not sure that I will be treading through its pages any time soon, but I do consider the time well-spent, even though my general dislike for the novel is (I'm guessing) abundantly clear. Read it if you are curious, but otherwise, I believe there are other novels that achieve the same effect with less frustrating techniques.

Jane Eyre

"One would almost say that, if there were a ghost at Thornfield Hall, this would be its haunt" (108).

Jane Eyre is another text that I was assigned as a high school student and cannot, for the life of me, remember reading. I must have, because I certainly recall submitting an essay on the topic. Perhaps I hated it so much that I blocked out any details? Difficult to say. Ultimately, my experience with the book did not stick with me whatsoever. I have lived with a vague acknowledgement of its prominence in British literature for many years and not felt compelled to delve between its pages in adulthood.

This year, I decided that I should probably spend some time reminding myself of what I either repressed or never truly engaged with in young adulthood. One conclusion at which I have arrived: Jane Eyre is not a book that precludes feeling. In fact, I would go so far as to say that it demands feeling. The characters are complex and experience both growth and stagnation; their actions are sometimes excusable and often completely outlandish, but also painfully relatable. This novel is one that you think about, for days afterward, and try to move on. But you can't. The tragedy and ecstasy of each plot point continues to revolve in your mind, making you pine for a windswept English hillside and the darkened halls of a country estate, haunted by the living as much as the dead.

1. "Do you think, because I am poor, obscure, plain and little, I am soulless and heartless? You think wrong! -- I have as much soul as you -- and full as much heart" (250)!

The passion. Jane goes through a series of life changes that illustrate the capriciousness of circumstance. She is alternately an angry child plotting revenge on her cruel family members and a grown woman leaving behind her fiancé when she can no longer face his lies and deception. In between, her emotions fluctuate with the changing of the weather: Jane is abandoned and then she is in love, she is content and then she dreams for a different life. She speaks with gentle understanding, acquiescing to the desires of others, and then her true character reveals itself when she stands on her convictions and refuses to yield. Who is Jane? She is all of us--any woman who has traversed the undulating mountains or valleys of adolescence and young adulthood. Charlotte Brontë allows her heroine to make mistakes and to learn from them, to be mostly right but a little bit wrong, and to come out on the other side hoping for, at the very least, strength of character and endurance.

2. "'What must you do to avoid [hell]?' I deliberated a moment: my answer, when it did come, was objectionable: 'I must keep in good health, and not die'" (35).

The wit. The draw of Jane Eyre, and perhaps most 19th century British authors, is the biting dialogue. The smart articulation and stoic flirting between characters is unmatched. Who has never thought of a perfect comeback hours after a conversation, wishing that the brain had cooperated and produced such a retort in the moment? Reading books of this genre are as satisfying as saying the pithiest riposte every time. 

3. "I looked with timorous joy towards a stately house; I saw a blackened ruin" (416).

The dramatic romanticism. Arguably, no one is more dramatic than a Brontë sister. Why have a normal and healthy relationship with a single man when you can find one with his insane wife hidden in the attic? Dark romance is successful only when the characters are making absolute spectacles of themselves for the good of the melodrama. I think this aspect is largely why the genre has become so prevalent, as stories of brooding and emotionally stunted men with dark secrets who fall for brave but sensitive orphan girls really fulfill some deep need in a woman's psyche.

4. "I understood that, sitting there where I did, on the bank of heath, and with that handsome form before me, I sat at the feet of a man, erring as I" (399).

A terrible example of a romance. The greatest problem in modern evaluations of Jane Eyre happens to be its greatest triumph historically speaking. At the time of its publications, the author used a pen name in order to hide that she was female, because public opinion of female writers was generally unfavorable. Insinuating that women were just as worthy, intelligent, strong, and flawed as their male counterparts. Brontë is essentially arguing for the humanity of her female characters by showing their vast internal landscapes. However, that attempt has not aged well in every aspect of the text...Rochester is, unfortunately, a complete disaster as a love interest. He is rude, selfish, mercurial, and an outright liar who commands Jane like an army general. Jane, for her part, cannot get over the inequality in their relationship--he is wealthy, older, and a man, meaning that she is at his mercy. This reality does not sit well with her, and she can only fathom acquiescing to marriage after Rochester has had a terrible accident and becomes physically dependent on her, essentially evening the field. There are other examples, but overall, there is unfortunate romanticization of very unhealthy relationship dynamics.




Jane Eyre is an undertaking, and it does not allow the reader to walk away without contradicting thoughts and desires, mirroring the journey of the main characters. It is perfect for cold winter nights when the wind is howling and the lamps are glowing warmly.