Strong Poison

 

"There were crimson roses on the bench; they looked like splashes of blood" (1).

I can remember the day that I first heard the name Dorothy L. Sayers. I was in a mall, of all places, speaking on the phone with my thesis advisor. I had told her that I wanted to focus on a British author who wrote in a multitude of genres on Christian themes. Of course, C.S. Lewis was out of the question, as he is essentially the Shakespeare of contemporary Christian literature; much has been written on him, and it is difficult to find a unique perspective to add to the scholarship already available on his work. I was stuck in a pickle, or so I thought. I was prepared to compromise, as I assumed that my requirements were much too narrow.

My advisor recommended that I research Sayers, and thus began a newfound love affair with a writer who transcended my list of preferences. She was perfect--witty and intelligent, with a mysterious past and talent in any number of written forms. I spent the better part of two years learning all that I could, consuming her novels, plays, poetry, apologetics essays, and letters. It may be shocking, but my introduction will need to end at this juncture. If I were to attempt to write another paragraph, I would just as soon blather for upwards of 80 pages. (But I've already done that task in the form of my thesis, which is enough material for 40 blog posts, and so here I will be brief.) Without further ado: Strong Poison, my friends...

1. "I didn't guess the murderer till page 200, rather clever, because I usually do it about page 15. So very curious to write books about crimes and then be accused of a crime one's self" (27).

The mystery. Sayers is the sort of clever mystery writer who gives just enough information to make the reader feel that he or she is along for the ride, but not so much that the ending is revealed before its due time. Unlike other detective novels, such as Sherlock Holmes, the revelations are not so highbrow as to alienate the reader from the process. On the other hand, she writes with clear purpose, not the chaos that can accompany someone such as Agatha Christie, who adjusted the culprit even in the process of writing so as to throw one off the scent.

The autobiographical nature of this novel, written about a female mystery writer, gives the piece a personal feeling. There is a commitment to the tropes that keep fans returning to the genre, but not to the extent that it becomes turgid with cliche. While the perpetrator of the crime may become increasingly more obvious as the investigation unfolds, the means and motive remain hidden and cast doubt on the reader's analysis of the crime.

2. "What I mean to say is, when all this is over, I want to marry you, if you can put up with me and all that" (39).

The relationships. Strong Poison is rather far along in the series, but I chose it because it is a pivotal point in the relationship between Wimsey and Vane. Some critics have complained that Sayers seems to have fallen in love with her main character and placed herself in the novel to live out her own fantasy, but I tend to agree with C.S. Lewis' evaluation: Sayers allows Peter to grow up. His charming English mannerisms and romantic bachelor lifestyle serve him well in earlier iterations, but there is a turning point for him upon meeting a woman who is his match in both gumption and inner conflict. There is complexity in their relationship, even from the beginning, and they are allowed to be human with one another.

Their dialogue, the commitment that Peter Wimsey shows to Harriet even as she denies him access to her heart, and the magnetic attraction between such colorful and well-fleshed characters adds to the emotional impact of the story. Sayers has brought a personal aspect into a mystery novel and intrigue into a romantic novel--she straddles these two genres and manages to create something entirely new.

3. "Philip, who loved beauty so much--do you think he would have chosen arsenic?--the suburban poisoner's outfit? That's absolutely impossible" (77).

The cultural commentary. Some of the themes prevalent in many of her works are that of class, gender, and societal expectations. Sayers provides her characters with honest, sometimes humorous, and often thought-provoking qualities, displaying truths about human nature alongside an apt social analysis. In this book, we see the world of early 20th century bohemian artists clashing with the posh and propriety of the British elite. From courtrooms and estates to dark house parties with questionable moral conduct, she does not shy away from presenting these worlds with unflinching realism and a touch of sly wit. 

Harriet herself is accused of committing a crime that seems to fit exactly with her lifestyle and moral choices, but yet she speaks with honesty on her own failings rather than defensiveness. She has resigned herself to the court of public opinion, even as those who love her are privy to her more unexpected qualities. Peter calls on his myriad friends to assist him in the urgent quest to rescue and redeem Harriet's good name, and the women and men who loyally respond to his call are varied in every way. Maybe this meditation comes from my interactions with many of Sayers' other works, but I tend to see this inclusion of a diverse set of characters as an attempt to portray both the good and the not so good present in every social stratum. We are all human, right? We know that things are not always as they seem, and yet we fall into stereotypes because they are comfortable modes of operation. One thing that Sayers always does well is wry complexity. She calls them like she sees them, for better or worse, and never turns away from a seeming contradiction.

Have I done this novel its rightful service? Most likely not. But there are a dozen others, so perhaps I just need some practice. Read along with me, and we shall see Sayers' great Wimsey saga unfold together!

Till We Have Faces

 

"Do you think it all meant nothing, all the longing? The longing for home? For indeed it now feels not like going, but like going back," (87).

Some of my earliest memories have no images, only sound and feeling. Lying on the floor with my eyes close, listening to the sound of my father's voice, I would be lost in the world of Narnia--the swirling sand of Calormen beneath my feet and Cair Paravel rising in the distance. Before I could read much more than a picture book on my own, I found myself well-acquainted with the mystical creatures of C.S. Lewis' imagination. This specific memory contains remnants of The Horse and His Boy, as Shasta and Bree climbed endless dunes under a burning sun to reach freedom. Before I had re-read the books for myself as an older adolescent, I could recall those written descriptions in the voice of my father.

I also grew up on the 1988 BBC version of The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe. It was in 2 parts, and I can see explicitly the scene in the woods, Lucy gaping at the snow melting from budding branches. And then the tape ends. And we had to re-wind before pulling that one out of the VHS player and popping in Part 2. We were front and center in the theater when the new version was released in 2005, and there was no more re-winding necessary, thankfully.

As a teenager, I made a list of every piece of C.S. Lewis writing that I could find. I decided that I would work my way through, book by book, until I had collected them all. I've lost count at this point, but I believe I am somewhere near the 25 mark, with several more still to go. C.S. Lewis' writing has shaped who I am, from childhood until now. This claim is one that can probably be made by many a reader. He wrote the sort of books he would have wanted to read, and it turns out that what is good reading material doesn't alter all that much, even as the outside trappings of our societies change beyond recognition. I'm guessing he understood that fact better than most.

My most recent addition to my Lewis library I is Till We Have Faces. It is the last book that he wrote and published before his death; he is quoted as saying that it his best. This review is difficult for me to write, not because I don't have thoughts, but because the thoughts are too broad. I think too much, too many things, concerning this book, and I fear that a few bullet points cannot do it justice. But that is the task that I have set before myself, and so I will attempt to craft a description that will do some small semblance of justice to the text. If nothing else, perhaps it will encourage you to pick it up and read for yourself:

1. "There stood the palace, grey--as all things were grey in that hour and place--but solid and motionless, wall within wall, pillar and arch and architrave, acres of it, a labyrinthine beauty" (149).

The fantasy. I loved the fantasy genre when I was a kid, and now that I've stepped back into that realm, I am recalling what originally drew me to it. C.S. Lewis does the fantastical and magical better than almost anyone, and I believe part of his longevity as a beloved author is his willingness to present the subtle humanity of imagination through the eyes of children. What if the trees could hear and remain loyal to the rightful heirs of the throne? What if a goat was also half-human and drank tea in his cave-like home? And what if a young, arrogant boy could fall prey to an evil witch, but his very own siblings took up the mantle and fought for the freedom of an entire country? And...what if Father Christmas was there? These are the types of dreams that we all have, but often only children are brave enough to speak them. The fairytales are only one step away from our world, with battles and simple kindnesses and the same human tendencies we see every day. However, they are also full of all the wonder that can be infused with the question, what if?

C.S. Lewis got this aspect of fantasy right, and he does it yet again in Till We Have Faces. A medievalist will always do castles and monsters right, and a Greek mythologist knows his gods and allegories like no one else. Lewis brings all of these influences into his work. As I was reading, I couldn't help but think that this work is the precursor to every modern fantasy book that I have enjoyed. There are the very real, physical dangers of wars and plagues, but the spiritual and metaphysical terrors are also ever-present. Of course, the greatest monster is always the unseen. The soaring beauty and the tragic ugliness of such a world, where all is possible and dreams or nightmares both lurk at the door, is what fantasy readers seek.

2. "What began the change was the very writing itself. Let no one lightly set about such a work. Memory, once waked, will play the tyrant" (287).

The voice. The novel is written as a journaling task by our main character, Orual. She has set out to tell her tale, to revisit the events that led her to the great plight in which she now finds herself. We grow with Orual, learning to see the world through her eyes and finding the errors in her thinking. She cannot identify them herself, at least in the beginning. Letting a first-person narrator express her own flaws without realization, essentially incriminating herself without knowing it, is incredibly subversive. We, as the readers, are one with her: we are inside Orual's mind and can only see the world through her eyes. Somehow, we are led to both empathize with her desperation and simultaneously condemn her for pride and self-imposed blindness. There is a many a book wherein the author crafts a protagonist that is lacking, who is unlikable or annoying or selfish, to the point where the book is ruined. Not so with Orual. She is, for lack of a better description, human. Her entire journey to a discovery of the truth mirrors the reader's own. If she misses the mark so clearly, then what am I missing within the annals of my own mind? Have I looked in the mirror too long and forgotten what is there? Lewis thus points us inward through the coaxing thoughts of another.

3. "That ruinous face was mine. I was that...swollen spider, squat at its centre, gorged with men's stolen lives...ceasing to be...was now too hard for me" (315).

The allegory. Lewis' scholarly focus was on the allegorical work of the Middle Ages, so of course he is a master in the form. He weaves the idea of a pagan pantheon together with clearly Christian themes. How does he manage such a feat? And is it one worth doing? In his view, all of the ancient myths and stories had their roots in the one great story of humanity: God, sending His Son to die on our behalf and drawing us back into community with Himself after our violent rejection of Him. Every mythology and religion carry the same spiritual elements, just packaged slightly differently to fit the culture. The humans in Till We Have Faces shape gods who are convenient to them. The cruel and brutal Ungit resides in a dark house in the form of a misshapen stone, requiring bloody sacrifice and withholding mercy from the people. The god on the mountain, unseen and mysterious, is imagined by some as a brute and by others as majestic and beautiful.

At one point in the novel, the priest of Ungit describes the gods as being the source and the result of one another. "[S]he signifies the earth, which is the womb and mother of all living things" and the god on the mountain is "the sky by its showers [making] the earth fruitful" (308). The people are very vague and contradictory in their theology, proving that none of them really see the truth in full, only in part. They have created gods who will suit them and explain the inexplicable, and the gods have produced in them a certain way of living that promotes unity, survival, and moral character. The actuality of their deity has very little importance, in the way that the Israelite's golden calf was not really meant to replace the omnipotent God meeting with Moses on the mountain. Down below, where nothing can be seen except the whispers of sovereign design, the human mind is apt to define everything satisfyingly within the confines of human understanding--even that which cannot be grasped.

The complexity of the allegory is hard to overstate. C.S. Lewis is, on the one hand, commenting on the reality of human nature. He is also showing the true homeliness of our "faces" when compared with the untamed holiness of the true God. We are dust...such small and inconsequential beasts in the face of the One Moses could only see from behind. The wonder is in the fact that we, merely human, will one day see Him face to face as we stand upon the merciful blood of His Son, to be reunited with Him whose image we bear imprinted on our eternal souls. And that, in C.S. Lewis' allegory, is what it means to have a face.

There is no doubt in my mind that you should read Till We Have Faces. If not, I will read it again for both of us. And that is not a threat, but a promise!

The Scarlet Letter

 

"Wondrous strength and generosity of a woman's heart! She will not speak!" (59)

The Scarlet Letter is another novel that I recall from my early high school experience. What I specifically remember about my introduction to the text was the scandalous nature of its plot concerning a woman who had committed adultery...I was at once appalled and fascinated. I don't particularly remember how old I was upon being assigned the book, but I was young enough to be relatively ill acquainted with most content pertaining to such actions. I did, however, love a good forbidden romance. Imagine my disappointment when I realized that the book begins after the romance bit has taken place, and the reader isn't permitted to observe the two lovers interact until about 75% of the way through. So, NOT a romance. Let me just clarify that fact for anyone unsure of the story you will find herein.

I would probably have said, up until a recent point in life, that The Scarlet Letter has historically remained one of my least favorite classics. As a teacher, I've presented it as necessary within courses of American Lit, but with nowhere near the enjoyment I find in most other novels. My earliest memories of the thing are poor, and it hadn't really redeemed itself upon subsequent readings. Now you may be asking, "Dear lady, what has changed? What mysterious providence led you to a newfound love of this work?"

To which I answer, not much. Not much has changed. I am severely sorry to dash your hopes in such a rude fashion; if you were anticipating a rousing treatise in appreciation of Hawthorne's merits, it will not be found here. I will tell you that I started my summer by re-reading TSL--partly because I want to believe in the validity of the classic and would gladly admit, if possible, that the error lies with the reader, but also partially to vindicate my generally harsh critique. I'm sure I looked very studious and "literary" to the casual observer. But there at the end...I must be transparent. I skimmed a little. I just couldn't read Hester's inner turmoil one more time. We get it; the central conflict is within her. She fights against herself, the expectations of her society, the dark emblem upon her chest. I really would like to see the characters do more than sit and think, stand and talk, walk and think and talk. Except for Pearl, who is allowed to run a bit and tromp through water. Usually while talking. And the number of exclamation points! In the last chapter! Is enough to make a high school English teacher blush (with rage)! Shouldn't the emotional climax of the text speak for itself, rather than requiring punctuation to communicate that we have reached the fullness of plot intensity?

Now, to give credit where credit may be due: from the standpoint of characterization and a thought-provoking portrayal of Puritan societal pressures, I can see the value in the text. It is also a really wonderful study on characters. Teaching character analysis and symbolism is pretty easy when a book is primarily characters and symbols, without much distracting plot to speak of. While there is usefulness in it, I still struggle with appreciating The Scarlet Letter as anything more than a tool for the classroom. There are so much more exciting and well-written texts than this one.

In typical form, we find a list of the "Why?":

1. "Then, what was he? -- a substance? -- or the dimmest of all shadows? He longed to speak out...I, your pastor, whom you so reverence and trust, am utterly a pollution and a lie! (119)

The character analysis. As good a place to start as any, Hawthorne's characters are the major substance of his text. We have whole chapters given to waxing poetic about almost every important individual living in New England. While I have my reservations about this mode of writing a novel, I do appreciate the depth with which he evaluates the physical and psychological morphology of Hester, Dimmesdale, Pearl, and Chillingworth. I can stand before a class of students and ask, "How is Dimmesdale's internal unraveling portrayed?" If they've read chapters seven-twelve, the answer will be evident, as it is written no fewer than twenty times. I love this as a method to determine right away which students need habitual public shaming as motivation for reading the assigned texts. If I've interpreted TSL correctly, I believe they will respond by liking it and coming back for more.

2. "The boughs were tossing heavily above their heads; while one solemn old tree groaned dolefully to another, as if telling the sad story of the pair that sat beneath, or constrained to forebode evil to come," (162). 

The language. Over and above the repetitive prose, which I will address shortly, the figurative language in the novel is beautifully executed. There are many descriptions and revelations, especially pertaining to the setting, that strike the reader. A characteristic of many 19th century publications, narrative and exposition often carry the qualities of romantic poetry. Perhaps, rather than writing novels, Hawthorne should have focused on landscape verse. He really would have excelled.

And, in less typical form, a list of the "Why not?":

1. "The mother herself--as if the red ignominy were do deeply scorched into her brain, that all her conceptions assumed its form--had carefully wrought out the similitude; lavishing many hours of morbid ingenuity, to create an analogy between the object of her affection and the emblem of her guilt and torture," (84). 

The pace. There is an interesting viewpoint in writing about the aftermath of a passionate love affair, but the character work that is done sometimes feels hollow when the reader has no real connection to the relationship that set it all in motion. Pearl's father is slowly revealed over the course of a few chapters, which is not my issue. The plot points are so few and far between, they could be listed in a meager number of bullet points; internal struggle is the main impetus for the book's movement. By the time that Hester and her ex-lover meet in the forest and finally acknowledge their still-burning passion for one another, the reader hasn't been set up to care. In short, it took too long. And yet, not enough happened in all of the novel to create a likely scenario where such an admission would make sense. They each battle the sin that was committed, not their hidden love. I waver between thinking that either they are both infuriating and deserve each other, or it would really be better for everyone if they just continued to struggle in private and left one another alone.

2. "The links that united her to the rest of human kind--links of flowers, or silk, or gold, or whatever the material--had all been broken. Here was the iron link of mutual crime, which neither he nor she could break," (132).

The repetition. I've already mentioned this point, but to be clear and ensure that every reader understands, Hester has sinned against the natural order. She is shunned by society. Her struggle is profound, symbolized by the wayward child born of her illicit union. This story does not change until, in the thirteenth chapter, we get "Another View of Hester," which is that... she has sinned against the natural order. She is shunned by society. Her struggle is profound, symbolized by the wayward child born of her illicit union. AND she also still cares for her father's daughter and seeks to protect him. For lack of a more highbrow way to write it, TSL is so boring. You could cut out about half of the chapters and not miss much of anything important.

Harsh, I know. In regard to a recommendation, I would say that The Scarlet Letter may have value from an educational standpoint, but I would be happy to never read or teach this book again. I'd love to speak to someone who likes it (not appreciates or understands it, but LIKES it), because that point of view is beyond the grasp of my mental faculties. 

A Raisin in the Sun

 

"They spirited alright, my children. Got to admit they got spirit...Like this little plant that ain't never had enough sunshine or nothing - and look at it" (43).

I owe yet another positive experience with a classic to one of the professors who guided me through my Master's. The course was Dramatic Literature, and I registered for it because the class that I actually wanted to take wasn't being offered that semester, and I only needed one more elective to graduate. One might say that my participation was, if not reluctant, at least passively resigned to competently finish the assignments before me and move on to thesis work. Completely outside of my expectation, I did, in fact, end up analyzing a series of plays for a portion of my thesis. I suppose God organizes our lives with a continuity that human foresight lacks.

The theme of the class was: family relationships in dramatic literature. My high school and undergraduate educations were somewhat lacking in exposure to any plays other than Shakespeare, and so most of the subject matter was new to me. A Raisin in the Sun was one of these. While not my favorite play, it is one to which I returned, as the stark characterization of family life is resonant with the contradictions of the everyday. It is a quiet play, set in a singular location, without much shocking plot work. Anyone looking for the sort of excitement or scandal required to keep the attention of many a modern theatre attendee will not find it here. The importance in what Lorraine Hansberry accomplished is in her subtle and straightforward insistence on displaying what each family experiences in its own way, without ringing bells or unexpected twists. Whatever a reader's familial origins may be, this play will touch on some aspect of what it means to be together with the people who understand one another, simultaneously, for the best and for the worst.

Why should you sit awhile with this inconspicuous text?

1. "You see, Mr. Asagai, I am looking for my identity!" (51)

The characters. Each member of the Younger family portrays an important role consistent with the successes, failures, and challenges of the average working-class American. Beneatha, the younger daughter, searches for her identity; she is a young black woman struggling to break free of what she perceives as the oppressive restrictions of previous generations while simultaneously connecting with her African heritage. Walter desires nothing more than to be a man as society defines manhood. Unfortunately, he does not have the maturity or freedom within his mother's home to take control of his family's direction and solely provide for them. Even George, a side character who is an occasional date for Beneatha, functions as a picture of the shallow carelessness of a young man seeking a pretty girl without too many challenging thoughts in her head. Everyone involved in the story plays their role to perfection, and from within the archetypes rise complexities that are familiar to anyone struggling through the daily messes of life.

2. "Son - you - you understand what I done, don't you? I - I just seen my family falling apart today - just falling to pieces in front of my eyes. We couldn't go on like we was today" (86).

The family dynamic. Speaking of daily complexities, familial conflict is a key element of ARitS. Family can either strengthen or condemn, support or humble. This reality is especially true in the case of multi-generational homes. We see three generations of family living in a small, two-bedroom apartment on the south side of Chicago. They trip over one another in their attempts to achieve personal dreams and goals, and there is little privacy to be had. Every member of the family has both selfish and selfless tendencies. For example, Mama interlopes in the parenting and marital relationship between Walter and Ruth, but also endeavors to do everything that she can to protect the integrity of her family's future. Ruth berates Walter for running after every barely formed get-rich-quick investment that comes his way, but she also quietly advocates for him when discussing the use of the insurance check with his mother. 

Here we find the core of why this play was, and still is, so important: every person has a family. And what we all know, every time we enter a room with a group of those people who hold us dear while also instigating more anger and hurt than we have felt anywhere else, that our lives rise and fall by our families. We are each our own worst contradictions-everything that we think to be true about ourselves is thrown into question by those who know us best. ARitS reminds us of this truth and gives us hope for moving forward, whatever we may face in life. Our families are who we are-past, present, and future-for better or worse (and sometimes both at once). 

3. "All that talk about dreams and sunlight that goes on in this house. It's all dead now" (128).

The symbolism. Hansberry's symbolism is often attached to the physical, daily world, leaving the reader with a sense that meaning is sitting innocuously all throughout the home. The most obvious metaphor, that of Mama's plant, is a dear reminder of the care she gives each member of her family as they battle their lacking resources necessary for growth. It sits by the window and survives, not truly thriving, but sprouting new leaves against all odds. The final moments in the play show Mama carefully cradling the pot as she leaves the apartment for the last time. The plant will go to their new home with them, and perhaps it will find new life where there is sunlight and nourishment. 

Another symbol, the insurance check, dominates the plot and is held in almost reverent regard by each member of the family. That money is their ticket to a better life-whatever each of them may determine to be the best path forward. Beneatha's education is assured identity and progress, Walter's liquor store is self-sufficiency and independence, Ruth and Mama's house is a place for the family to thrive. Isn't that how we all operate within life, attaching specific meaning to whatever resource our hearts cling to? Perhaps it is only obvious from the outside looking in.

I would recommend A Raisin in the Sun as a reserved treatise on the challenges of life, for any who are searching for identity, security, or the strength to keep growing.

Pygmalion

 

"You see, really and truly, apart from the things anyone can pick up (the dressing and the proper way of speaking, and so on), the difference between a lady and a flower girl is not how she behaves, but how she is treated" (63).

Occasionally one comes across a text with baggage. The ambiguity of the preposition in this proclamation is intentional, as the reader brings the baggage and attaches it to the literary work so that the two become inseparable. The result is that the novel no longer stands on its own, and the reader's opinion on and experience with the text are inextricably linked to his or her presuppositions. For this reason, I always attempt to avoid adaptations, summaries, reviews, or any such secondhand interactions with a book on which I desire to form my own independent opinion. Unfortunately, I am not always successful, whether that failing be due to negligence, ignorance, or plain lazy curiosity.

In the case of a book with great social traction, such as Where the Crawdads Sing, I was the victim of all three. I happened upon information about the book from the mouths of my own peers before engaging with the screen adaptation and scrolling through a series of unfortunate online reviews. My judgment of the book was irreparably tainted. While I may have my thoughts, it is difficult to determine if they are objectively begotten or a partial result of my ill-fated journey through the media adjacent to the novel. In other cases, such as with The Lord of the Rings series, watching the movies from a young age aided my understanding and love of the books as I became old enough to read them. My interactions with Tolkien's storytelling previously to actually investing in his writing has indubitably affected my thoughts on the works, but in the positive sense rather than the negative.

For better or worse (and perhaps impossible to mete out the difference), most individual's reading of Pygmalion will be like entering into a relationship late in your 20s. You may have some beloved memories of the early stages of dating, but no doubt they are intertwined with many hesitancies. In some ways, you hope that this new person will carry the good qualities of the others with whom you have matched; the Lord forbid that he or she prove to be too similar. You desire something different, something new, without the person being too far off from the "type" to which you are attracted. 

In approaching Pygmalion, if the reader loves a musical, Audrey Hepburn, Julie Andrews, or the tropes of a mid-twentieth century romantic comedy, the play may or may not be what he or she is looking for. The original text differs enough from the adaptations that it might disappoint a truly die-hard My Fair Lady aficionado. It could also prove to be a refreshingly original take (since it is, in fact, the original) on the classic story of Eliza Doolittle learning to become a lady. Seeing as it is such a short read, the hour or two that it takes to make it through the pages may be a worthy endeavor in order to find out. My own thoughts, confused as they may be, still fit themselves neatly into The List:

1. "I suppose the woman wants to live her own life; and the man wants to live his; and each tries to drag the other on to the wrong track. One wants to go north and the other south; and the result is that both have to go east, though they both hate the east wind" (21).

The irony. If one researches George Bernard Shaw, it is apparent that the dogmatic Professor Higgins may be somewhat autobiographical. He was a man who was quick with an opinionated ideology, and the shock value of a sentiment seemed to hold as much importance as the content. These personality traits arise within the pages of his most famous work. Read literally, Pygmalion could be construed as anything from upsetting to egotistical jargon. The dry and edgy humor so often attributed to the Brits fills the dialogue. Taken as it was intended, with an eye to the dramatic demonstration of human archetypes, the outlandishly exaggerated characters manifest as the sarcastic representations of class and gender that they are meant to be. As an American reader, even one who typically loves the bite and wit in British literature, I find that my enjoyment of the play has increased upon subsequent reads as I train myself to take each interaction as the parody that it is.

2. "What call would a woman with that strength in her have to die of influenza? What become of her new straw hat that should have come to me? Somebody pinched it; and what I say is, them as pinched it done her in" (39).

The humor. This point is an extension of the previous, as irony is the intended mode of humor throughout most of the book. Eliza, the clueless flower girl, takes up with Professor Higgins, the man who she believes will train her to be "proper" and enable her to open her own flower shop. Higgins' deplorable habits and tendencies slowly reveal themselves; Eliza herself affects change on the upper society to which she gradually gains entrance. Her good-natured lack of awareness gives way as Higgins continues inexorably in the direction of selfish and sloppy bachelorhood. Ultimately, the ignorantly asinine Higgins is excommunicated from his own social group in favor of the surprisingly charming and self-possessed lady that Eliza has always been--he merely plays a role in smoothing away the rough edges hiding her true magnanimity of character.

3. "Why did you take my independence from me? Why did I give it up? I'm a slave now, for all my fine clothes" (69).

The social commentary. Descending from the ironic and humorous characterization of British society, the discourse on class and gender is not only for the purpose of entertainment. Alfred Doolittle, Eliza's hapless father, undergoes a transformation of his own. He begins as a self-declared member of the "undeserving poor" class. Upon coming into a bit of wealth, he then requires himself to adhere to the rules of "middle-class morality": marrying his lover, supporting his daughter, dressing and behaving in a respectable manner. He is angry about acquiring the possessions that propagate this reality. Eliza is similarly trapped as an educated woman with proper manners, as she embarked upon the whole journey of bettering herself so that she could attain better vocational opportunities. However, upon mastering gentrification of dress and speech, she becomes enslaved to the expectations and standards of high society...a world in which women of her "status" are not permitted to work. Where all of this madcap contradiction leads is up to the reader to decide. Shaw presents the world as he was it in its extremes and allows for the interpretive interaction of those who stumble upon his work.

4. "I sold flowers. I didn't sell myself...I've got a little of my own back" (52-53).

The search for identity. In light of all this intentional and sometimes unintentional change, Eliza, the centerpiece of the story, is molded by her ever-shifting environment. While Pygmalion may be a partial blueprint for the plot of a prototypical hallmark romance, the ending contains that Shaw flair that does not allow for something as unrealistic and prosaic as a "happy ending." The My Fair Lady adaptation leaves the aftermath of the movie/musical up to interpretation (albeit with a strong suggestion that Eliza and Higgins may have more to do with one another after the story's ending); the original play will leave room for no such ambiguous romantic musings. This inclusion is one that I applaud. There is nothing wrong with a love that conquers against all odds (see my review of The Scarlet Pimpernel if you are looking for such a story). But I love that Shaw so stoically avoids that storyline. It is refreshing to have an author determinedly write that no, in fact, the relationship between Eliza and Higgins is NOT the point! There is so much intermittent playfulness and exposition on human nature and society that a shoe-horned happily ever after was never on his mind. Shaw even wrote an epilogue just to undermine those who thought they might speculate on how the couple could possibly come together in the end.

Why read Pygmalion? It is brief, thought-provoking, and indecorously funny. You may want to read it twice, and perhaps it will start to influence the way that you approach My Fair Lady and other variations.

The Scarlet Pimpernel

"'Sacre tonnerre,' said the captain, 'but it is feared that it was that accursed Englishmen himself--the Scarlet Pimpernel" (Orczy 9).

Seventeen hundred and ninety-two. Paris, France. September massacres.

Ring any bells? Let us try a few more: Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette. Madame Guillotine. Ah, Paris! If only you had known the hour of your visitation. Over a century after the curtain closed on France's "surging, seething" revolution, a Hungarian baroness dreamed of a messiah who might take the stage in an endless replay of swashbuckling and romantic liberation of the innocent. He is a brave master of disguise, living a mild-mannered life amongst his English kin and secretly delivering French aristocrats from the relentless maw of their bloody war. He doesn't display an emblematic S on his turgid chest; however, his moniker happens to carry the same initial. He is, of course, the Scarlet Pimpernel!

It was not until recently that I stumbled upon The Scarlet Pimpernel and drank deeply of its simply satisfying plot, prose, and psychological inspection of a seemingly star-crossed marriage. Maybe Les Misérables has jaded me toward literature addressing the myriad internal French conflicts, but I hesitated upon first immersing myself because I imagined the text being a lengthy portrayal of poverty and struggle ending with death, although not entirely unsatisfying. Well, I was wrong. The legacy of Baroness Orczy can be seen in the superhero storylines of today's media: the man in the mask, the beautiful lady carrying on her own private battles without any idea of her lover's self-sacrifice, and the iniquitous villain singularly devoted to his dastardly plot. I can think of a few directors who might benefit from taking a peek into this work and learning a thing or two about writing within the genre. And now, for our ubiquitous list:

1. "A woman's heart is such a complex problem--the owner thereof is often most incompetent to find the solution of this puzzle" (141).

The female voice. I believe in meaningful art. In fact, I would say that art created merely for the purpose of entertainment and not at all connected to the human experience is a waste (construe this statement as you will, for these pages are too short to soliloquize such nuanced subject matter). However, recently I attempted to embark upon a journey into a novel on a starlet of the '60s (my current era of fascination) and was inclined to put the book down after only a chapter. This particular text mentioned the disadvantages of women and the pitiable failings of men (through exposition, I might add, completely breaking out of the narrative) an estimated five to ten times in so many pages. My annoyance at these seemingly unrelated additions stole any curiosity I might have had about the plot or connection to the characters. I can accept a certain amount of an author's posturing for his or her ideological standing, but there comes a point where enough is enough! I cannot stomach such use of narrative for the sake of virtuous preaching. 

And here is where The Scarlet Pimpernel sets itself apart from so many modern novels: Baroness Orczy was a woman of singular talent. She faced the severely more gender imbalanced world of the late 19th century, and she did so by writing a female protagonist who is not offended by the heroism of the man immortalized on the cover of her novel. Margeurite is a woman--feminine, beautiful, witty, and brave. She can also be selfish, emotionally destructive, and naive. Orczy created a character that is true to the humanity of both men and women. Might we not be who we are, with the qualities of our gender intact and appreciated, but not ultimately defined by anything other than the universal elements that govern all of life?

This portion of my appreciation for the text is quite lengthy, so I hope that you will forgive me this indulgence before I move on to the next. To read a female character who is both flawed and admirable, who is not undermined by the success or failures of another (regardless of gender), is refreshing and necessary. I find myself nodding along to the thoughts of Margeurite as she exists in a myriad of realms without contradiction: a woman, a hero, a lover, a damsel, a person. In writing what is true, Orczy has created a case for the argument that so many women scream at the clouds these days. Women are human, equal to men, but they are also unique, divinely their own. Don't tell the world that this statement is true; show us through the crafting of good art.

2. "'I made friends with Madame Guillotine's lover,' she said with a coarse laugh, 'he cut these off for me from the heads as they rolled down" (7).

The theatricality. What makes a superhero flick so engaging? One answer might be the immense spectacle of it all, the improbability of the incredible rescue of the helpless. Our friend the Pimpernel flits across the English Channel with impunity and disguises himself as the most disquieting characters while whisking away the families next in line for decapitation. This dramatic iteration of an already immensely vivid historical conflict keeps the reader turning pages and suspending all disbelief for the sake of the hero who tickles our imaginations with his unscrupulous fight for justice.

3. "Had she but turned back then, and looked out once more on to the rose-lit garden, she would have seen...he kissed one by one the places where her small foot had trodden" (139).

The romance. How could we discuss such a novel without touching on the aspect that enlarges our hearts while the thrilling action widens our eyes? Sir Percy has every appearance of a hapless man attached to the stunning Margeurite for reasons unknown. Miscommunication and pride are the obstacles that stand in the way of their intimacy, and the reader is equally frustrated and entranced by their verbal disconnect and mutual internal agony. They long for each other, but yet feel that the other has either betrayed or been betrayed too thoroughly for redemptive recompense. Of course, it takes many lives and a foreign country's survival hanging in the balance to draw them together. But that is all par for the course of love, is it not?

It is so rare to find a novel that produces all of these aspects so fully, with such panache and relatability. If you are looking for a classic that is, to condense it all down to one word, a fun read, look no further than the book before you.

The Great Gatsby

 

"He talked a lot about the past, and I gathered that he wanted to recover something, some idea of himself" (Fitzgerald 110).

I can remember looking at the cover of The Great Gatsby as a high school student, anticipating a text that would be an absolute sedative. Some fear cropped up within me that the words would be indecipherable, the plot out of reach, the characters of too high a caliber for me to fathom them. The fatal flaw that an author would have written for me was a debilitating anxiety over not understanding. Perhaps the result of being pushed ahead a grade in English, or maybe plain pride in my supposed "giftedness" in the subject, I was horrified that the reality of my perceived ineptitude would rear up and I would be made to feel failure. It would be better, I reasoned, to exert barely any effort and partially blunder than to apply myself and be seen as a fool.

What a peach, right?

Thus, my earlier memories of the book are not glamorous or whimsical. The main sticking point I can recall was the non-existence of East and West Egg. How a kid that popped through fantasy novels like they were a bag of M&M's became hung up on a partially fictional setting, I will never know. It may have had something to do with the actuality of New York and comparative invention of all the rest of it. In my mind, if you were going to fabricate a small island, you might as well build an entirely new world. Why let laziness get the best of us?

Again, what a peach.

From this point, we move forward in time to a course in Critical Theory. The text utilized by the professor to demonstrate the literary application of each theory was, for purposes of ease and convenience, none other than The Great Gatsby. I purchased a new copy and set out to re-invent myself as a hesitant lover of the massive, mirrored eyes looking out at whosoever may tread upon the hallowed ground of the valley of ashes. Fifteen weeks and five or six reads later, there I was: a fully formed Fitzgerald junkie, purchasing his other, lesser-known works for my summer reads. But how did I get there, you may be asking. What demon possessed and transformed me into someone enthralled by the annals of fictional characters caught up in Jazz Age vices?

Great question. I would love to tell you.

1. "Inside, the crimson room bloomed with light...The lamp-light, bright on his boots and dull on the autumn-leaf yellow of her hair, glinted along the paper as she turned a page with a flutter of slender muscles in her arms" (17).

Color theory. This concept was one that I wish had been part of my initial education on the novel...I first became aware of Fitzgerald's consistent and subversive use of color upon my second interaction with Jay Gatsby. What fascinates me about well-executed color theory in literature is the understated way that it conveys meaning to the reader without his or her awareness. We feel the weight of Tom's abusive American aristocracy, Myrtle's desperate facsimile of the upper-class lifestyle, and the corrupted opulence represented by Gatsby's Rolls Royce. But how do these emotions infiltrate our perception of the characters, somewhere beyond our conscious awareness? Fitgerald's genius utilization of color. What binds together all of the characters in the aforementioned list is the inconspicuously obvious golden hue of Tom's hair, Myrtle's clothing, and gleaming exterior of the convertible. Myriad such examples exist within the text, and they cannot be unseen, especially after one has taken an arsenal of highlighters to each and every mention of color.

2. "Every one suspects himself of at least one of the cardinal virtues, and this is mine: I am one of the few honest people that I have known" (59).

Unreliable narration. Nick Carroway is perhaps the most understated narcissist I have ever had the pleasure of encountering in the pages of a book. He consistently presents himself as separate from the clueless crookedness of the people around him and casually lauds his moral superiority, but yet there he is, always partaking in the same drinks, drugs, and dances as the rest. He can't decide what he thinks about Gatsby in life, and his borderline obsessive interest doesn't end with Gatsby's eventual demise. The man is larger than his surroundings, singular in his bold willpower, and Nick desires more than mere friendship with Gatsby-he wants to be Jay Gatsby. The unrepentant ambition that topples all moral conviction doesn't repulse Nick, even as he identifies and condemns some of Gatsby's actions as such. Perhaps Nick sees a braver and more austere version of himself in the ruthless Gatsby.

3. "Possibly it had occurred to him that the colossal significance of that light had now vanished forever...Now it was a green light on a dock. His count of enchanted objects had diminished by one" (93).

Human nature. The Great Gatsby is a tragedy of human desires warring with moral and practical truth. Nick falls for the glitzy exterior of the New York set that in fact never fully accepts him. He is an observer, but not reluctantly so. He treasures this role, as it enables him to both associate with and harshly judge those with whom he associates. Gatsby, on the other hand, is in love with himself as the afflicted romantic lead who builds an empire in order to regain his lost lady. Daisy is the perfect item for this disparate longing, as she is beautiful, shallow, and coldly aware of the part she must play to "win" at this self-imposed game.

4. "A sudden emptiness seemed to flow now from the windows and the great doors, endowing with complete isolation the figure of the host" (55).

The facade. A continuation of the previous point, Fitzgerald presents the Jazz Age (a term that he coined) with all of the dizzying glamor that draws later generations back to it. He also slowly reveals the falsehood hidden there with all the honest reflection of a man who lived through it. Readers can see the trap inherent within the desperate evasion of responsibility and emotional stability. The characters are imprisoned by their desire for financial and moral freedom, even when faced with the consequence: a sacrifice of truly meaningful relationships or pursuits. The toxic cycles go round and round. They each fall, dizzy, into whatever circumstance will serve their cloying need for physical gratification.

So, should you read The Great Gatsby? If you do, you will find a warning within its dysfunctional storyline, the type of warning that can only come from someone who sat behind the bars of social neurosis himself.

Fahrenheit 451

 

"The magic is only in what books say, how they stitched the patches of the universe together into one garment for us" (Bradbury 79).

If classics are the books that we read during the vague years of our secondary education and leave behind as soon as the mortarboard tassels brush our shoulders, then they are no different from the broken hearts and neglected hobbies of adolescent development. They are in the same category as the textbooks we search for on secondhand websites and store "just for now" in our parents' basements until the boxes are slowly devested upon us over a series of holiday celebrations. Perhaps such educational detritus holds bearing on the adult artifact, like the bristles of a paint brush left behind on the canvas it helped to produce, or perhaps it is just the noise in the background as we are crafted into fully grown humans. Of course, those whose jobs hinge on the genuine impact of education hope for a different outcome. 

Did we even read what was assigned to us? Or was that the week of a game or a show or an illness, or just a regular month of the school year in which the books were simply not going to be read? No reason other than that the cover looked obscenely boring and the moon wasn't in the right phase. Or perhaps it was the deluge of information, so much that our brains revolted against the introduction of anything new. I can recall at least one undergraduate literature course that involved about seventeen assigned texts, of which I read maybe half.

I, for my part, cannot sit here and claim linguistic superiority based on an ironic romance with crumbling tomes. I have a tradition of summoning a sense of disgust for literary slogging through said dusty paperbacks, as they (amusingly) kept me from the novels of my choice. Oh, I am a "reader," alright! But maybe not in the marketable sense. Before the trope of the manic pixie dream girl, there I was, biking to the library every three days in the summer, carrying a red backpack bulging with paperbacks. Nothing romantic about the picture, my friends. Merely a girl and her method of entertainment, escape, education, engagement, and any other "e" word that you can produce. The classics, for the most part, struck me as a necessary evil. Some classics are such because they are representative of their origin-they unfold the traditions and contemplations of their time. To achieve this ambition, they were unfortunately required to sacrifice a few accoutrements that I deemed essential, brevity and liveliness among them.

But then, one is struck by the likes of Fahrenheit 451. The fire-spewing hoses, weaving salamander vehicles, and 6-legged canine assassin robots-the stuff of a high school boy's fever dream. The gentle romance between a man locked in a derelict marriage and the books he recovers from the turbulent flames of his own creation. Clarisse, the seventeen-year-old beating heart at the center of the story. Ray Bradbury achieved what C.S. Lewis lauds in his treatise on writing for children: we get the sense that he wrote the sort of story he would have liked to read as a child, and still enjoyed reading into his adulthood. He told a story, in all of its simplicity, with interesting characters and an engaging plot. Bradbury did what is so rare in the fiction of new and old. This novel teaches readers a small part of what it means to be a watchdog for learning, creativity, independent thought, and the preservation of history, but in doing so, he does not neglect the form. If there is an argument to be made about the validity of creative work-specifically that of the literary persuasion-that argument is often severely undermined by shoddiness within its own mode of communication!

Perhaps it is cliché to manifest an obsession with a book affirmed as a work of "especial magnitude." But I've never made a high ground out of being intentionally unique. I do, however, stand on the authority of lists:

Should you read Fahrenheit 451?

1. "How like a mirror, too, her face. Impossible; for how many people did you know that refracted your own light to you"(8)?

Character. From the stilted maturation of Guy to the indiscreet thoughtfulness of Clarisse, the characters are shockingly human. Their motives are not always clear, and the reader will not see the logical underpinning of every action. Bradbury will not be elected to over-explicate himself. For better or for worse, their frustrating convolution tosses ourselves back into our faces. Beatty, a masterful villain, inundates us all with the gaslit manipulation of an expert fireman. Do we feel his false affection for his underlings? Do we bow at his hefty literary arguments? Then he has been shaped into our worst enemy. And if Clarisse is the heart of the novel, then Faber is the stalwart cricket. He becomes a conscience for Guy, in all of their simultaneous imperfections, as he rises to life after decades of dormancy.

2. "Someone somewhere will give me back the old face and the old hands the way they were. Even the smile, he thought, the old burnt-in smile, that's gone" (74).

Plot. When Fitzgerald set out to compose The Great Gatsby, he wanted the work to be clean and simple, to write a story with only the most essential elements. Bradbury conquered this form of writing, leaving not an unnecessary plot point or expository explanation in the crevices of any chapter. The impact of this clarity and modesty of prose is greater than a novel twice its size with half a dozen extra characters battling their inner voices. Perhaps it feels bare to those of us who are used to the unabridged content dumped on us by the entertainment industry, but it is a rare author who knows when there is just enough, when to leave the consumer alone and let him digest what little he can handle at once.

3. "So now do you see why books are hated and feared? They show the pores in the face of life" (79).

Theme. Ray Bradbury loves to burn. He thrills to see the provocative flames of a destructive fire spread across his cautionary dystopian tales. Just as in his short story "August 2026: There Will Come Soft Rains," when the blaze creeps up the stairs to devour Picassos, a nursery, and the windows all alike, F451 forces us to grapple with the disturbing disappearance of history, culture, and innovation. But you can almost see the glisten in Bradbury's eye as he typed the lines about the warmth of the fire Guy expected "to burn and glitter with the knowledge" the Rememberers carry (147-8)! To invert the narrative, that is what a clever author does. Should we have seen it coming all along? Well, of course. But we were too busy cursing the fire to see its purifying qualities and the importance of our own intentions.

4. "The street empty, the house burnt like an ancient bit of stage scenery, the other homes dark" (114).

Symbolism. Again and again Guy observes the stage of his world, the prop that is his house and all of the myriad screens within it, the governmental stage masters who declare this character obsolete and that one necessary. Pulling us out of our own Truman Show nightmare, Bradbury directs our attention to what is important. He doesn't need to wax poetic about Clarisse, because when her role is complete, she steps into the wings. The ending doesn't need to satisfy our emotional vacancy, because the book itself is only a rehearsal-a display of the possible, so that we can get up from our stupor and live. Not act, but live, with the memory of such stories prodding us onward.

So, should you read Fahrenheit 451? I will leave that you. But if you are curious to know what the kindling of a dictatorial regime looks like, you will find it here.