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.

Death on the Nile

 

"Her eyes met his, just for a swift moment. Thinking it over the next day, he came to the conclusion that there had been appeal in that glance. He was to remember it afterwards" (144).

Mystery's unmatched mistress, Agatha Christie, produced work that was uniquely set, but with casts of characters that formulated a suspenseful crime-scape with consistency. What successful blueprint did Agatha land upon, one might ask? I believe her success has to do with, number one, the inclusion of all elements that attract fans of the genre. The reader can nearly check them off of a list: stock characters with too many secrets, strange occurrences that can be written off as coincidence until the shocking crime is produced, red herrings that drive suspicion and distrust within the investigation, and the internal machinations of a mercurial detective piecing together what the audience hopes to understand before the grand reveal.

And yet, despite all of these expectations, mystery novel readers don't want the plot twist to be revealed to them too readily. They come in order to have very specific desires fulfilled within the text, but if the perpetrator is too obvious, then the satisfaction of reading is compromised. To write a classic mystery thus requires a very talented author, as one is given specific and nearly un-varying tools with which to work, but must produce something surprising enough to be thrilling. Death on the Nile does this task through subverting expectation enough that the reader begins to question his or her own logic, until the ending reveals that the secrets were within reach all along.

1. "They came out from the shade of the gardens on to a dusty stretch of road bordered by the river" (40).

The setting. Egypt is a land ripe with majestic awe. The cultural elements add an exotic and unfamiliar background, and the contrast between the ancient monuments and modern accoutrements of the characters adds to the thrill. Almost one hundred years ago, those sandy Nile shores held a fascinating escape for the European traveler. It has remained a stalwartly striking setting for the modern reader.

2. "The body of the dead woman...lay on the floor of her cabin. The two men bent over it" (258).

Bonus murders. The primary murder is obviously portrayed and advertised before one can even crack open the book. The bonus murders are a perfect addition, as they add trepidation and throw complications into whatever thought process the reader may have concerning the guilty party. Of course, many of the characters have reason to despise the life of the wealthy heiress. But what relationship would any of them have with the other corpses?

3. "But now that she is dead and that her husband, as you have just pointed out, inherits, the whole thing is different" (302).

Missing shock factor? There were many twisting turns that my mind took as I was reading, and several of them resulted in musings over climaxes that could have been quite unexpected. The resolution is one that perhaps could (and should) have been assumed from the beginning, but Christie has the habit of causing one to doubt oneself continually. Was I unsatisfied with the result? Perhaps partially. I was quite attached to some of the hypotheses that I constructed along the way. But I also feel a certain amount of gratification in the fact that my suspicions from the beginning were confirmed, albeit put under heavy scrutiny as so many other possibilities crowded my mind. On both accounts, Christie remains triumphant.

Frankenstein

 

"...we are unfashioned creatures, but half made up, if one wiser, better, dearer than ourselves--such a friend ought to be--do not lend his aid to perfectionate our weak and faulty natures" (16).

Monsters. Ghosts. Aliens. Witches. Dragons.

What goes thump in your night?

Nothing haunts quite like a Victorian ghost story. There is a sophistication and subliminal quality inherent in the British horror genre. Dracula, Mr. Hyde, the Invisible Man...and, of course, Frankenstein. The American monsters are brash, bold, and seemingly indiscriminate in their destruction: chainsaw-wielding cretons and swamp-dwelling clowns rampage through the streets and wreak havoc on the unsuspecting residents of Small Town, USA. Even a girl dripping with the blood of an innocent pig quite literally upends an entire community with her wrath. But across the pond, British writers have been the ruling class in Gothic literature. Their specters are born of universal internal conflict, fears that one can feel but not quite see in their entirety, the true "bumps in the night" that reveal themselves to be none other than actualized versions of the demons terrorizing society. From where do these stoic beasts originate, if not in the minds and hearts of the people themselves? Don't worry, they seem to say. Your worst nightmares are true.

Mary Shelley is probably one of the most mercurial and fascinating writers of her time. Her life was a constant reflection of the darkly ironic and twisted sensibilities of the genre in which she has conjured nearly immortal fame. Losing her virginity on her mother's grave? Check. Murder rumors surrounding the death of her lover's wife? Check. Carrying around your dead husband's calcified heart? Check. She stated that her inspiration for Frankenstein was a lucid dream in which she saw a maddened scientist kneeling by a re-animated corpse.

Right. Check and check.

But really, who else could have written such an enduring myth? Only a teenage girl, albeit one with incredible talent and intelligence, could have dreamt up a story about a crazed and self-righteous chemist becoming involved in the re-assembling of the deceased for the purpose of alchemical experiments. Only Shelley could have herself constructed a book that artfully cobbles together critiques of scientific abuses, male ego, unfounded prejudice, and revenge, all while essentially pioneering the idea of crossing horror with science fiction, an as yet unplumbed genre. Frankenstein unearths the monster within, and perhaps the most terrifying fact it teaches is that one cannot separate oneself from that internal fiend.

1. "Those were the last moments of my life during which I enjoyed the feeling of happiness" (177).

The drama. Victor Frankenstein is sort of like Jack Black's character in the re-imagined Jumanji--a teenage girl trapped in the body of a grown man. He is moody and obsessive, isolates himself from family and friends for long periods of time, romanticizes the fictional, blames others for the problems of his own creation...and we love him for it. The wonderful thing about the novel is that it creates a world in which his surroundings match the dramatizations of his soul. Every event happens exactly how it must in order to create a sense of mourning over the tragic destruction of nearly perfect beauty. Victor succeeds in re-animating a corpse which longs only to please its creator, but their relationship is forever destroyed by Victor's fear, selfishness, and warped savior complex. Each character, man and beast, loses his beloved at the unmerciful hand of the other. The monster lingers in the shadows of a stormy night, lures Victor to blustery mountaintops for a keen warning, and then escapes into the Tundra on a dogsled, of all things. Frankenstein captures the imagination by embodying the dramatic underpinnings that have enabled the longevity of gothic horror.

2. "Slave, I before reasoned with you, but you have proved yourself unworthy of my condescension. Remember that I have power; you believe yourself miserable, but I can make you so wretched that the light of day will be hateful to you. You are my creator, but I am your master--obey!" (153).

Subverted expectation and social commentary. One cannot have a conversation about Frankenstein without discussing the innate critiques of society present in the writing. The true monster is, of course, Victor Frankenstein himself, not the creature who has (ironically) taken his name in modern day. Victor feverishly constructs his own worst nightmare and then proceeds to deny it of any human rights: food, shelter, clothing, and community. The brilliance of these British horror novels is that the physical manifestation of fear is, while fairly terrifying in its own right, only a front for the real villain. Greed, lust for power, abuse of authority, selfishness, pride, unfettered conquest, you name it. This quality makes it impossible for readers to lie peacefully in bed at night, comforting themselves with the thought that "it was all made up." Is the true monster something on the inside, something all around, something subversive, something impossible to destroy with a physical weapon of war? Are we doomed to forever fight that which is part of humanity? In that case, we might wish for an animal more easily slain. Haunting, isn't it?

3. "These wonderful narrations inspired me with strange feelings. Was man, indeed, at once so powerful, so virtuous, and magnificent, yet so vicious and base? He appeared at one time a mere scion of the evil principle, and at another as all that can be conceived as noble and godlike" (107).

Literary quality. For me, Frankenstein walks the line between containing gorgeous, marginally archaic language and still being reasonably readable. There are classics that I like, but I would not read again. They are certainly worth the trouble the first time around, but I can't exactly sink into the stories and lose myself in them. Frankenstein is a re-reader. It's one to which I return, because the experience is not tainted by having to trip over lengthy prose and indiscernible syntax.

I am a step away from adding this novel to my British Literature course. Read it for yourself and unironically enjoy one of the classics. 

The Bell Jar

 

"I wondered why I couldn't go the whole way doing what I should any more. This made me sad and tired. Then I wondered why I couldn't go the whole way doing what I shouldn't...and this made me even sadder and more tired" (18).

Having read much of Sylvia Plath's poetry, this year felt like the right moment to finally interact with her one and only novel, The Bell Jar. There is a part of me that wishes I had read it as a teenager, or at the very least in my early 20s, in order to compare my current thoughts to the response I might have had as a younger woman. When a book infiltrates one's dreams, its impact is evident. The few nights that I read a few chapters before bed and the taste of them lingered in feverish nightmares. I was relieved when I finally reached the end. It is difficult to slog through the inner workings of an emotional breakdown and navigate the twisted thoughts of a person caught in the throes of mental illness. Few authors have undertaken such a risky and unnerving task, and Plath's tragic legacy only add to the solemnity that descended upon me during my journey through the book.

There is some literature that can be liked or disliked, others that can only be accepted and respected for what they are, in spite of our emotional responses to them. I believe this text to be one of the second category. Can anyone truly like interacting with the brokenness of internal struggle and sickness? Perhaps we see ourselves in the characters, or maybe others with whom we have interacted. A lucky few may have had little to no contact with any psychological disorders, and these readers could entirely miss the accuracy in Plath's presentation of disordered thinking. Whatever our response to her work, no one can debate that she knew quite intimately the subject matter on which she chose to write. Such skill came at the highest cost, and her honesty haunts each new generation of readers.

1. "They hung the raw, red screen of their tiny vessels in front of my face like a wound" (82).

Literary artistry. Plath has mastered that form of figurative language that I consider as walking the line between inevitability and surprise. The descriptions cut to the truth of human experience--they feel so true that it almost shocks the reader into contemplating why they hadn't thought of it that before. Simultaneously, the comparisons are fresh. They don't remind one of any other text. Artists are always influenced by other artists, but Plath manages to bury her influences so deeply that each passage shines with the crystal clarity of originality. I think at once, Ah, of course, that is the feeling! and, Well, I have never thought of that before.

2. "...babies doing all the little tricky things it takes to grow up, step by step, into an anxious world" (153).

Accurate portrayal of mental illness...positives. The accuracy in Esther's decent into madness and depression, and her struggle to dig out of the darkness and back to a functioning life, is unmistakable. Especially for a woman of the mid-twentieth century--wherein women who displayed excessive emotion in any direction would be considered unstable and hysterical--recording the experience of mental and emotional disintegration is important. Many who have had similar struggles may feel seen and understood, and those who have not may take time to understand that which is outside of their realm of experience.

3. "I felt myself melting into the shadows like the negative of a person I'd never seen before in my life" (6).

Accurate portrayal of mental illness...negatives. The problem with delving into a broken mind is that madness can be catching. I have already mentioned that this book was not an easy read for me, as the nightmarish cast of Esther's plunge into self-flagellation and harm began to manipulate my own way of thinking. A consistent aspect of mental illness is the selfishness that encapsulates the person who is suffocated by their own internal contortion. The internal becomes all-encompassing, even as external forces are blamed as the causal factors for one's agony. Esther views her life as a failure, but she ultimately believes herself to be a victim of the choices that others have made. Her boss, her friends, her parents, her lovers, her counselors and doctors...they have all compromised her in some way, forced her into the shape of a monster that will ultimately destroy every good aspect of her life. While this characteristic may be important to identify, it is imperative that a person does not dwell on such duplicitous thinking for long. We are all prone to selfishness and faulty introspection anyway, and such constant reminders cannot be healthy.

Tread with care if you choose to undertake this read. It is an important work but may not be appropriate for every mind.