The Picture of Dorian Gray

 

"His own soul was looking out at him from the canvas and calling him to judgement" (121).

I have had The Picture of Dorian Gray on my TBR for years at this point. Finally, finally, a beautiful, practically un-marred copy presented itself to me at the thrift store. I knew the time had come!

And I have incredibly mixed feelings.

I know that the Oscar Wilde diehards may come for me, and I am prepared to meet you at my doorstep. I am already holding space for all of the Jane Austen fans that I periodically piss off. I keep them in my attic, where all truly great 19th century authors store their most inconvenient plot devices.

I hope that you will at least hear me out before taking a knife to my heart. There is so much to like about this novel, not least of which being the scathing critique of pride, deceit, and social idolatry, and not most because of its sweet brevity. But Oscar Wilde was, after all, a poet. I think that his foray into prose may have needed a little more development of those somewhat uniquely novelistic qualities such as plot and character. 

1. "The expression looked different. One would have said that there was a touch of cruelty in the mouth" (93).

An unforgettable metaphor. The idea of a painting bearing its subject's soul and slowly morphing into a cruelly twisted metaphor for a depraved and hideous nature, all while the man himself remains as fresh as the day he entered his twenties, is--in a word--mystifying. The Picture of Dorian Gray confronts not only the intertwining natures of conscience, personal culpability, and social falsehood over true morality, it also unveils essential human nature.

If you could live in any fashion, take part in every sin that tempts you, and not worry about being found out or facing the consequences of your actions, would you do it?

Perhaps we all think of ourselves as above such petty and childish conclusions. But in small ways, people live every day making choices that only strike them as wrong in the circumstance that they are caught. Maybe it is so subversive that it is hard to realize this propensity in yourself, and our personal ideals are put on full display when we are, in fact, caught...and spend the rest of the conversation trading believable excuses for why we are not responsible.

There is always someone else to blame. A mist shrouds our judgement when personal pleasure or satisfaction is involved. To be a hypocrite is to be human, and we are all our own worst contradictions. Dorian Gray explores this reality in uncomfortable ways. The qualities in him with which the reader is most uncomfortable may turn out to be unidentified insecurities that our own hearts and minds rebel against.

2. "The sullen murmur of the bees shouldering their way through the long unmown grass, or circling with monotonous insistence found the dusty gilt horns of the straggling woodbine, seemed to make the stillness more oppressive" (9).

Artistic prose. Oscar Wilde was a magnificent craftsman of the written description. He could communicate a mood and its undertones in a mere paragraph, all while linking together choice words like the juiciest of summer berries, dripping with connotation. Not only are they unexpected and quite striking in their artistic abandon, but they also give information about the characters' inner workings in ways that simple exposition could never so emotionally convey.

3. "It is only shallow people who require years to get rid of an emotion. A man who is master of himself can end a sorrow as easily as he can invent a pleasure" (110).

A cast of antagonists. It may be by design that Wilde chose to create a cast of characters in which there are no real heroes. Even the sensitive Basil Hallward, who tries to pull Dorian Gray back from the brink when he realizes that his former muse has slipped into the worst of darknesses, is tainted by his idol worship, indecision, and lack of insight.

Not one of the characters, even the tragic Sybil, is all that likeable. They are flawed to the extent that even their supposed redeemable qualities pale in comparison to the monstrous ineptitudes and selfish blindness that they each have in common. While this approach may make for an interesting study on human nature and the equal ground on which we all stand, regardless of the facade that we present to the world around us, it doesn't stand as a particularly entertaining or emotionally vindicating story.

Thankfully, the book is quite short. I don't believe it could have been any longer without some serious additions of at least somewhat relatable qualities or a more varied plotline. So little actually happens--the entire book can be summarized in just a few sentences and no major details would be left out. Even Dorian's great, final sin of breaking the seventh commandment isn't very shocking. There is a clear cautionary tale, almost fable-like, wrapped within the pages of this simple classic novel.

Compared to other great works of novelistic literature, the character depth is lacking and the plot almost non-existent. While I think that Dorian Gray holds a lot of value from an artistic standpoint and as an effectively unique treatise on themes of mortality, reality, and art, there is much left to be desired by way of form.

4. "He grew more and more enamoured of his own beauty, more and more interested in the corruption of his own soul" (129).

Chapter Eleven. Halfway through the book, in which very little time passes and much of the action is tied up in detailed and lengthy dialogue, there is a chapter of exposition that covers nearly twenty years. It reads like an expanded version of the book of Ecclesiastes. Year one, Dorian is invested in literature and starts spending time in irreputable bars. Year two, he is interested in embroidery, and he manipulates some women. Year ten, now we have an opium addiction and fraud.

And on and on! Ad nauseum. This chapter could be completely removed from the text and I am convinced that it would have no effect on the overall story. Its format does not match the rest of the novel at all, and it is incredibly boring. It reads like a teenager trying to write a book, only to become tired midway and try to wrap up all storylines through writing an essay about what WOULD have happened if they had deigned to finish.

I'm not sure I can forgive this oversight, either in Wilde or in the editors who let it stand.

While there are many important aspects of this novel and I find it a qualitatively important addition to 19th century British literature, I was unfortunately greatly disappointed in its actual execution. All the pieces are there to make an immensely interesting character study, but it is difficult to care enough to evaluate characters that evoke so little empathy in the reader. It is a pass for me.

A Doll's House

 

"I must stand quite alone, if I am to understand myself and everything about me" (Act III).

I first heard of "A Doll's House" in a college class on critical theories. Hearing it described by the professor to illustrate Feminist Theory, I was haunted by the characters in a play that I had not read. I don't specifically remember the words that were used. I do, however, recall the effect that they had on me--one of horror at the manipulative abuse of a marriage that was like a mouse trap. Punished for seeking some succulent aroma of sustenance, prison bars clanged shut upon the limbs of the couple. But it did not kill them immediately. 

In clawing at the trap to escape its confines, they drew blood from one another until one or both would end up destroyed if they were not able to break free.

Having had this dramatic introduction to the text before ever picking it up, my response to the play was certainly different than it would have been had I read it independently. I think I was given a uniquely powerful sense of the foreboding throughout the first two acts that may be somewhat lost on those reading more blindly.

One downside is that I had certain expectations of the atmosphere present in the play, and I am not altogether certain that those expectations were met. Does that indicate a flaw in the playwright's work, a factor unfortunately present in all stale readings of a text meant to be performed for an audience, or a personal failing of the reader? Perhaps an element of all three exists in this review.

1. "There is something so indescribably sweet and satisfying, to a man, in the knowledge that he has forgiven his wife" (Act III).

Hidden complexity. The theme of a complex inner life, separate from one's public interactions and perhaps even hidden from one's own spouse, runs deeply in "A Doll's House." No one is as they seem, and perhaps that is true of all people. Can you really know someone, as they truly are? Can we even know ourselves?

The answer, according to this play, would seem to be that you can't even begin to know yourself if you are in a relationship that doesn't allow full freedom of expression. Torvald and Nora lack the ability to see one another honestly, but blame is carried on both sides. Nora is manipulative and often falsely kowtows to her husband's expectations by lying and then going ahead with her own plans anyway. Torvald, on the other hand, is controlling, demeaning, and bereft of true listening skills. 

In the end, the characters each face a moment of crisis: Torvald uncovers his wife's lies and realizes that loyalty to her will cost him. And the price? His reputation, which turns out to be the greatest priority in his life, far and above his marriage. He pretends to be concerned for the morality of his children under such a "careless and selfish" mother, but puts on full display his own propensity for self-serving behavior and ineptitude in identifying Nora's true motives.

Nora herself has indeed kept up a web of ever-increasing deception for the play's entirety, becoming nearly hysterical at some points (which, based on her final, incredibly controlled decision, may be something of an elaborate falsehood as well). In her own estimation, her greatest mistake was trusting her husband unequivocally. When his true colors reveal themselves in quick succession, she decides to leave her apparently loveless and respectless marriage.

All along, she was willing to sacrifice her autonomy for Torvald, as long as she felt that he would do similarly for her. Well, no more! She walks out the door and the curtains drop. The aftermath of this decision is left ominously to the imagination. There is a lot to unpack in this symbolic action, as she shows that her strength of will is not so fragile as she made it seem throughout her attempts to play the part of the weaker sex to her husband's specifications. 

But in another sense, she has also left her children, who lack the ability to understand or follow their mother on this path of self-discovery. What are we to make of this resounding ending? Are there any heroes to this story, or are they all flawed people making decisions that have repercussions on those around them for better or for worse? These are all important questions, and many answers exist. That is the ultimate genius of Ibsen's work.

2. "After all, it is splendid to be waiting for a wonderful thing to happen" (Act II).

Reader's interpretation. The interpretation of the play is left in the hands of the observer to an even greater extent than perhaps the average work of literature. It does not tell us what to believe, because there is no single, sympathetic protagonist who embarks on a journey to realize the truth or the right course of action. 

Or maybe there is. Maybe Nora is that for some audience members. But doesn't the existence of multiple meanings show that final analysis has been withheld from the work? This text had great controversial value in the century of its publication, because of how utterly outlandish and frankly blasphemous the conclusion seemed to its early viewers; now, it is lauded as a feminist masterpiece. 

Which one is it? A corrupting influence or a carefully plotted declaration of the equality of the genders? I really can't say. I can only give my personal opinion, as any of us can do, and that makes the conversation a significantly more interesting one. For this reason, I teach English and not Algebra. There is not a quantifiable right answer; there is only speculation, personal experience, and the ever-evolving social views on relationships.

Math teachers are cringing. I am itching to sit in a classroom full of students who have different views and can challenge one another, promoting the flow of critical thought. 

3. "You know how devotedly, how inexpressibly deeply, Torvald loves me; he would never for a moment hesitate to give his life for me" (Act II).

Quick changes. If I have any criticism of the play, it is that the short format makes it difficult to realistically convey such huge shifts in personality. Obviously I understand that those changes are not truly changes, but rather a revelation of what has been hidden under the surface all along. However, the shift in tone is dramatic and seems sudden to me, as those undercurrents don't really shine through their honed exteriors except in subtle ways.

Maybe, if I were to see the play performed rather than read it in literary format, my opinion on this aspect would be different. The brilliance of actors and actresses is that they can show what lurks between the lines of the dialogue in ways that don't exist on a black and white page.

I am looking forward to teaching this play for the first time in the coming school year. I will be fascinated to discover how the perspectives of my students coalesce and diverge from one another, and I hope for a rousing discussion with a multitude of opinions!

1984

 

"They can make you say anything--anything--but they can't make you believe it. They can't get inside of you" (137).

C.S. Lewis said that 1984 did not "justify its greater length" for all of its "dead wood" and the "dull, mean little creatures" who populate the pages. His opinion was that Animal Farm did more and better work in conveying all of the dangers and savageries of utilitarian states in far fewer words.

Why say more when you can communicate effectively with less? Why over-elucidate when you can slice to the quick of the soul with a sharply worded metaphor? I tend to agree with this sentiment, as I rarely find a book without any extra "dead wood." A novel can be wonderful and still be a tad too long. Occasionally a text is precisely the perfect length, in which no extraneous fluff or weight can be found to drag down the plot.

While 1984 exists in international consciousness like perhaps few other twentieth century texts do (even for those who have never read it but can still quote lines about Big Brother and thought crimes). I do not believe that we can have too many cautionary tales about the horrifying consequences of giving control to government entities with zero accountability or transparency. A government that doesn't answer to the people that it governs is only a glorified slave owner.

However, despite the outlandish and yet eerie possibility that makes 1984 work as both a trip of the imagination and a timely warning, there is much left to be desired in the under-development of the characters. While I don't have quite as strong a negative reaction as C.S. Lewis did, I can still agree readily with his evaluations.

1. "BIG BROTHER IS WATCHING YOU, the caption beneath it ran" (5).

Iconic. 1984 has, for the last several decades, maintained a monopoly on dystopian vernacular. George Orwell impeccably designed a post-war England that combines just the right amounts of novelty terminology and casual violence to create an unforgettable utilitarian landscape.

There is a meanness, a desperation, the indefinable musk of an animal backed into the corner and awaiting its inevitable death, that haunts the story. The ending, which does not resolve the greater issue of the country's total subservience to a surveillance state the likes of which the USSR achieved in East Germany, also leaves the reader with a hopeless sense that the efforts of individuals are meaningless in the face of such complete political control.

Great damage is done when all freedoms are stripped and people trade humanity for a false peace. The afterword of the book speaks in a past tense about the anomalies of this specific government and its many, many overreaches within every aspect of society, as though it has already been eradicated and the author is merely recording researched facts. Perhaps this subversive epilogue is meant to be the small, glimmering sense of hope: eventually, all tyranny perishes. We just don't always get to know when or how.

2. "But he had suddenly understood that in the whole world there was just one person to whom he could transfer his punishment--one body that he could thrust between himself and the rats" (236).

Candor about the human psyche. The more personal aspect of the novel is the relationship between Winston and Julia, which takes on a very unfamiliar patina to those expecting a star-crossed romance that conquers all opposition. The two lovers don't really conquer much of anything, even within their own courtship. Winston views their physical and emotional connection as an inherent act of rebellion, but Julia concentrates only on retrieving as many personal pleasures as she can in a world that despises individualism.

They are selfish, insecure, and completely bereft of any desire or ability to begin much of anything that could be labeled as actual rebellion. Maybe Orwell meant for their relationship to be more of a doomed romance than it now seems to be in the eyes of modern readers, but I tend to think that his rather cynical outlook on the perseverance of love in the midst of persecution may portray something interesting about human nature.

We want to believe that, if the Gestapo once again come banging on doors and the KGB start wiring houses, we ourselves will be the ones to rescue books and people alike from the flames. We wouldn't betray our neighbors. We would revolt against tyranny in both small and large ways from the comfort our own homes. Our love, unlike so many others, would conquer all.

Except that none of us really know if we would be the heroes of the story or simply scared and self-preserving citizens trying to survive impossible situations. We are all susceptible, no matter our intelligence or personal awareness, to the effects of mass brainwashing and plain, simple fear. 

Perhaps the point isn't that we rally behind the victorious cries of a small remnant fighting the evil majority, but rather that we develop empathy for our fellow man. Each person is doing their best, and so are we. One person's resistance against "the machine" may look entirely different from the person next to them, but does that make it any less important or worthwhile?

Perhaps not. And if we realize that maintaining our humanity means remembering that we all fail and falter, but continue to get back up and try again, we may in fact have encountered the very mindset that preserves a free society.

3. "Power is not a means; it is an end. One does not establish a dictatorship in order to safeguard a revolution; one makes the revolution in order to establish the dictatorship. The object of persecution is persecution. The object of torture is torture. The object of power is power. Now do you begin to understand me" (217)?

Slightly overdone. This part is where something like Animal Farm, in its simplicity, may do more effective work than 1984. The story feels so lengthy and filled with excerpts from journals and literature of different political facets. It becomes cumbersome and repetitive, dragging the story down until the actual narrative elements begin to feel like remote accoutrements of the greater novel.

The emotions are also overwrought in many places, seeming stronger and more dramatic than makes logical sense. Actions and motivations don't always seem to match up. Despite my earlier praise of Orwell's manipulation of reader expectation, the plot is really rather disappointing, by all accounts. There is not much of substance to it beyond the daily work of Winston and his forbidden rendezvous with Julia. As a novel, stripped of its dystopian aspects, it doesn't amount to much.

4. "He hardly thought of Julia. He could not fix his mind on her. He loved her and would not betray her; but that was only a fact" (189).

Slightly under-done. Whereas the many practical elements of the text can appear overblown, the relationships between the characters are somewhat lacking in realism. Winston and Julia betray one another in the end, which doesn't come as too much of a shock to those who see the selfishness inherent in their romance, but certainly seems to astound the both of them.

Unfortunately, because their partnership is so under-developed, I didn't have a strong emotional reaction to their breakup. People are disappearing, being tortured, and dying throughout the novel, and there is a sense that those who are taken don't ever reappear (case in point, the disappearance of Winston's own parents, a huge source of trauma for him). However, both Winston and Julia descend into Big Brother's maw and return to their regular lives sometime later, completely unscathed.

The story that was set up, one of quiet, daily rebellion under threat of death, was not delivered. Not that I am one to complain when main characters live to the end of their novels, but I think that if a book sets up the expectation of immense personal sacrifice, then that should be a more meaningful part of its conclusion.

1984 is an important text that I believe is here to stay, until we don't need it anymore; as long as there are those who exploit others for power and wealth, that day will never come. Animal Farm is perhaps the better twin. However, all literature that provokes critical thinking is necessary and should continue to be read.

The Catcher in the Rye

 

"That's all I'd do all day. I'd just be the catcher in the rye and all. I know it's crazy, but that's the only thing I'd really like to be" (225).

American classics are not my strong suit. For one, I spent a lot of my time in college reading British literature, and when you settle into a certain region, it is difficult to breach new horizons. A second reason is that I tend to find the themes of American literature, on the whole, generally narrow and somewhat depressing.

There is a saying that Americans believe a hundred years to be a long time, and Europeans view a hundred miles as a long distance. In literature, I think that this maxim also applies. European literature tends to span the length of time, both literally and metaphorically. There is a sense of the self within a tapestry of ancestry and a multi-national awareness.

The characters seem to ask, "How do I find my way as a part of the broader world, both within and above my need to find a personal identity?" Les Mis, 1984, Rebecca, The Time of the Doves, Anna Karenina...all stories from different countries and about people as individuals, but ultimately embracing one or more themes of ancient tradition, national or international awareness, and a cyclical timeline of interconnected events.

American literature, on the other hand, has largely been a pursuit of both national and personal identification. "Who are we as a nation, and how can we each establish a distinct voice?" The Scarlet Letter, Huck Finn, To Kill a Mockingbird, Death of a Salesman...yes, there are universal themes, but they center around the individual rather than the other way around. America's relative youthfulness, isolation, size, and individualistic spirit certainly all play a role in this phenomenon that I am not prepared to fully analyze in a simple blog post.

While there is nothing wrong with these themes, I tend to find them (as young Holden might say) rather boorish in literature. The Catcher in the Rye is, unfortunately, representative of everything that I dislike about American literature. Here is why.

1. "Guys that are boring--But I have to be careful about that. I mean about calling certain guys bores. I don't understand boring guys" (160).

An unflinching look at the mentality of a teenager. As an author, JD Salinger is giving "rats in a trenchcoat," except that his version of this phenomenon is best described as the mind of a teenager disguised within the body of an adult. He portrays the selfish, simultaneously insecurity and over-confident, lacking in self-awareness, judgmental, anti-authoritarian short-sightedness of the middle-class American teenager suspiciously well.

I know that this is the case because I was incredibly annoyed throughout my reading of The Catcher, and consistently felt the need to call Holden's mother and send him to his room. Or a work camp. Whichever was closer.

In all seriousness, there is something very important about preserving our remembrance of what it was like to be a young person with an under-developed brain and over-developed sense of our own importance. Some of us never grow out of this stage. It is incredibly difficult to organize a measured response to life when everything is completely out of proportion--small occurrences feel so traumatic, and big ones seem to have little to no effect.

Would any of us go back in time and re-live the years between 13 and 19? I, for one, absolutely would not. It renews my empathy for those coming into their adulthood, because I can recall being desperate to find my place, but also feeling as though the world couldn't care less about my efforts. For realism, Salinger receives full points. 

2. "Besides, he was such a touchy guy, it wasn't any pleasure discussing anything with him" (108).

Completely unlikeable characters. My first criticism is that Holden, as a narrator, is mostly an absolute terror. Every once in a while, there will be a moment wherein he shows empathy for another human being or speaks with candor about his grief surrounding the loss of his brother. Those moments, however poignant, are few and far between.

Holden is unreliable. But not in a fun way. We see all of the other characters through his lens, and in true teenage fashion, he doesn't like most of them. Adults are annoying and out of touch, other boys are boring, and the girls are essentially objects for him to consume for his own pleasure. The result of this portrayal is that none of the people who populate this book (other than perhaps 1 or 2 exceptions) would I want to spend more than 5 minutes around.

I understand the concept of creating realistic and morally gray characters, but there must be some creation of empathy towards them, or else the reader does not and cannot care about what happens to them. I think Holden needs to go to military school and have some sense knocked into him, because he acts like a spoiled brat for about 200 pages. I was frankly sickened by most of his choices and his internal commentary, and the attempts to build empathy for him fell flat because of these aspects that could not be overlooked.

3. "I was only thirteen, and they were going to have me psychoanalyzed and all, because I broke all the windows in the garage" (50).

Little to no plot. The book takes place over the course of a few days, as Holden escapes from his school dorm after being expelled from yet another high school, and goes to New York to fritter away his time before his parents will be expecting him home. All he does is drink, attempt to hire a prostitute, walk around in the dark, call friends and try to hook up with them, and essentially kidnap his little sister from her room.

I was continually waiting for something to happen--for him to face the consequences of his actions or encounter a problem that would force him to realize the ridiculousness of his actions. Maybe for his parents to make an appearance. But no, he spends all of the money in his wallet and runs amok with essentially no accountability, and then he has some sort of revelation at a merry-go-round that life is worth living. Or something like that.

It is hard to believe in a positive character arc when every time Holden shows some glimmer of maturity, he immediately descends back into his philosophy that fate owes him the desires of his heart and that he is the main character of everyone's story. 

4. "I was crazy about The Great Gatsby. Old Gatsby. Old sport. that killed me...If there's ever another war, I'm going to sit right the hell on top of it. I'll volunteer for it, I swear to God I will" (183).

No real consequences. Finally, as previously mentioned, he does not face any repercussions for the choices that he makes. Underage drinking and hiring of prostitutes aside, Holden is a pretty dumb smart kid. He is clearly the embodiment of "intelligent but doesn't apply himself," given every resource to succeed but choosing instead to metaphorically show the middle finger to anyone who tries to help him.

I don't like the precedent that this storyline sets, making it seem as though teenagers are just rebels at heart and need to be given room to grow at their own pace, even if that includes breaking the law and generally treating every other person with disdain. Grief can chart a course in our lives that is completely unexpected and impossible to define, but I didn't feel that the loss of his brother was enough to give Holden a reason for going off the rails the way that he does.

Overall, this novel is definitely a pass for me. I wouldn't recommend it, I would never assign it, and it can be tossed on the pile of, "I don't understand how this became a classic."

Les Misérables (abridged)

 

"...still bleeding from the lacerations of his destiny, who had been almost evil, and who had become almost holy" (212).

I know what you're thinking. "Haley, how could you read an abridged version of a book? Isn't that English teacher sacrilege?" Well, I'm here to tell you that it isn't. If you've been reading my posts for very long, you will know that one my most oft-listed critiques is that many classics (and other novels as well) are TOO LONG. 

What makes them too long? Not necessarily page count, but that they say all that is needed and then say more. If I feel that a book is far too lengthy, it is not because it took too long to read. The reason has much more to do with the content. Sometimes, hundreds of pages are needed to communicate an idea or plot correctly. But most of the time, an author doesn't actually have that much to write. They repeat themselves and fill their work with bloated descriptions that distract from the core story.

As the introduction to this abridged version of Les Mis says, "What is chiefly lost [in the abridgement] is the novel of ideas...What remains is a novel of character and action see in much clearer outline" (9). I do believe in enduring even the lengthiest and most drudging classical work for the sake of trying to understand what gave it such cultural meaning and endurance. But I also consider it an important tool to cut away the excess and experience these classics in a more manageable and friendly way.

I have not read much French literature at all, and so this being my first time reading Les Mis, I chose to use the abridged version that more clearly highlights the story itself. If those extracurricular aspects were left out, how many reviewers of this book would be able to engage more directly with the narrative itself? I understand why this book has reached the height of acclaim, and I am glad for the opportunity to talk solely about the novel without the entanglement of essays on the Parisian sewer system, however enlightening it may be.

1. "'And how does it happen that you know me?''You saved my life,' said the man" (124).

Unfailingly engaging. There are a lot of plot points in this story, and it covers half a lifetime of ground. It is almost "all things to all people," because it includes characters who traverse everything from falling in love, to personal moral reform, to abandonment by a parent, to military participation. The hundreds of pages went very quickly. I looked forward to picking up the novel each day, because I knew that something new was around the corner of every chapter.

This allure is also due to Hugo's prose. I am reading the book in a translated language and not the original, so perhaps there is some meaning lost in translation, but I found it both easy and charming to consume. The wording is not bogged down by long descriptive phrases or confusing exposition, and there are many moments when I paused to revel in the poignant dialogue or relevant observations.

2. "Her long, fair lashes, the only beauty left to her of her maidenhood and youth, quivered as they lay closed upon her cheek. Her whole person trembled as if with the fluttering of wings which were felt, but could not be seen, and which seemed about to unfold and bear her away" (88).

Characters about whom the reader can care. When I say that I believed in these characters, it is not an exaggeration. I wept with Fantine at her abuse and death; I was on the edge of my seat when Thénardier held Jean at gunpoint and attempted to rob him. How did Hugo manage to write such relatable characters into a tale from 19th century France? I think it has to do with the caste of humanity lent to each of them.

Maybe I have not been left by my father or mother so that they could provide a better life for me, but I have felt abandoned or forgotten. I have also had to make hard decisions that perhaps were not fully successful in their application. I have loved and lost, and I have known those who lost themselves in the pursuit of their desires.

Les Mis is not only a novel of the miserable. It is also a novel of those who long within themselves for a different world. The people found within hope to see the good in those around them, but they often find the result of unfulfilled longing--dissatisfaction that leads to pain and a crisis of identity. How each character recovers varies, and their responses indicate the trajectory of their lives. Not always do our actions result in the most justly deserved ending, and anyone who has lived for a short amount of time will know this truth in their bones. 

3. "He rose, shivering, chilled, infected, bending beneath this dying man, whom he was dragging on, all dripping with slime, his soul filled with a strange light" (272).

Overly romantic and sentimental. Les Mis is, at its core, a romance. This quality does not just ring true in the puppy love and marriage between Cosette and Marius, but also in the familial compassion of the likes of Fantine, Jean, and others. An interesting dichotomy exists in a novel about longing, both fulfilled and otherwise. The characters are never dealt joy without the accompanying sacrifice that creates a reality where that contentment is possible.

However, the romanticization appears in the foundational belief that there is always someone willing to make that sacrifice on behalf of those who are indefatigably good. The heroes win and the villains do not. Everything aligns so that the soul mates can be together, and fate leads to where they belong.

While there is much tragedy between the covers of this book, both the losses and the gains are viewed as predestined to occur. There is something inherently romantic about the idea that, even in the face of great agony, pure love will prevail. While the romantic elements are not a criticism per se, it is sometimes difficult to swallow the sentimental ponderings and continued chance encounters of those who continue the plot.

To offer a few examples, Marius roams the streets of Paris for months following and pining after Cosette when he hasn't spoken a single word to her. I did appreciate the relatability of the responses that Hugo ascribes to his longing, and the subsequent commentary on how Cosette (as the object of affection) and Jean (as the father of that object). However, at some point it does need to be acknowledged that this type of stalking is insane behavior and could just as easy be the introduction to a very different kind of novel, if not for the romantic ending.

Also, Jean Valjean ends up allowing Javert to go free instead of being executed, finding and rescuing Marius, and interacting with Thénardier in the sewers so that he can eventually be the one who unwittingly reveals the truth of his salvation to Marius. All of these plot points are so conveniently placed that the only argument that makes sense is that destiny allowed it, as the book continually notes as the cause for all that happens.

4. "This man was Thénardier. Jean Valjean perceived immediately that Thénardier did not recognise him" (274).

Difficult to believe. This point leads me to my last thoughts on the novel. Sometimes, as mentioned in my above examples, the suspension of disbelief becomes a little too much. I primarily felt this way when the same group of characters were repeatedly running into one another, unplanned, in the streets of a bustling city. 

Maybe once in a novel, a chance encounter or mistaken identity can work for a plot twist. But when that trope becomes the main plot device used over and over again, it starts to lose its luster. Of course Jean will meet Thénardier in the sewers! Who else would he meet? And Eponine spends page and pages being the catalyst of different events throughout the novel. Whenever a shadowy figure was described as doing anything, I immediately knew that it was she.

Maybe one day I will invest time in reading the entire thousand or so pages, in all of its glory, of Les Misérables. I certainly enjoyed the solely narrative portion that I read and would label it a contender for re-reading. I strongly recommend the abridged version, as it is beautifully written, and I would be disappointed were someone to feel hatred toward the book because of the extraneous exposition in Hugo's full tome.

Overall, it is a great read that I have thought deeply about since I finished. The novel is beautifully crafted thematically and formally, and I think anyone with a love of good storytelling will find its pages enjoyable.

Tender is the Night

 

"--Do you mind if I pull down the curtain?

--Please do. It's too light in here" (93).

Fitzgerald allegedly advised his daughter to "absorb six good authors a year." If absorbing an author involves reading all of their publications, then such a feat could be quite a difficult one. While I can say that I do read the novels of more than six authors every year, I certainly cannot report having absorbed their writings in entirety. I both approve of this idea and shrug my shoulders in wonder that any fully employed person can achieve this goal.

Of course, Fitzgerald was never what anyone would consider "traditionally employed," as he spent his adult life alternately living the roaring '20s lifestyle of a successful writer and barely making ends meet in drier financial times. He lived mercurially, epically, tragically, curiously. His celebrity marriage was the stuff of supermarket tabloids and influenced every one of his novels, as far as I can tell.

Speaking of absorbing authors and Fitzgerald himself, I have reached the end of my journey in reading all of his published works. This journey began when I was in high school and first read The Great Gatsby, and I must say that I have been looking for the magic I found in one of my favorite American classics ever since. I'm not entirely sure that I've found it, although traversing so many of Fitzgerald's has certainly given me a very well-rounded and interesting reflection on the writer himself. I have chosen to conclude my time with Fitzgerald, for now, with his final novel, Tender is the Night.

1. "The faces were only formally sad but Dick's lungs burst for a moment with regret for Abe's death, and his own youth of ten years ago" (200).

Narcissism and the unreliable narrator. Nick from The Great Gatsby is one of my favorite unreliable narrators. He gaslights himself about so much of life; most dangerously, the magnanimous character of Jay Gatsby looms over him like an idealistic specter. To read the story of East and West Egg in 1920s New York is to experience a study in reading between the lines and seeing the villains amongst the glittering facades.

I have begun to think that perhaps these characters are less intentionally written than I originally believed, or else this style of characterization was all that Fitzgerald found interesting or within his capability to write. After awhile, the intensely internal focus of every character, along with their inability to see their own failures with any clarity or accountability, begins to wear on the reader.

Tender is the Night carries the internal ponderings of characters who wear their flaws upon their sleeves and seem to ascribe to certain un-relenting ideologies without self-awareness. Rosemary is young and beautiful, not yet jaded by her own magnetic attraction, but wisened enough to pursue her own every desire with impunity to consequences. Dick has a savior complex, which cannot come without some degree of narcissism. Perhaps the most self-aware of all is Nicole, his wife, who is in fact a schizophrenic suffering from supposed mad delusions.

The problem with all of the characters, but most especially Dick, is that they seem to barely hit upon awareness of their own shallowness and then fade away from it, back into the many attractive trappings of their privileged lifestyles. Tender is the Night did not do well when it was first published, as Americans steeped in the Great Depression and on the cusp of another world war were disillusioned by these tales of careless wealth and dramatic self-aggrandizement.

I can honestly see where this failure to appease his audience occurred. I believe that all three of these main characters--Rosemary, Dick, and Nicole--are supposed to be sympathetic in their own ways, whether because of their innocence, ignorance, or chronic unhappiness. However, each one falls short of this mark because of how wide the chasm is between their supposedly pure motivations and the nature of their mistakes.

2. "...it was Tommy Barban from Monte Carlo, saying that he had received her letter and was driving over. She felt her lips' warmth in the receiver as she welcomed his coming" (280).

Unsympathetic characters. Why do these characters, who are most likely intended to evoke our empathies, miss the mark so profoundly? At some point, the irresponsible consumerism, casual drunkenness, and ill-begotten marital affairs become too heavy a burden to bear. Dick "saves" Nicole and essentially sacrifices both his career and some semblance of his manhood (through financial, emotional, and sexual independence). But does he really save her? He crosses the bounds of ethics and marries his patient, against his own better judgement. 

When everything goes wrong and their marriage erupts from within, the inevitability of it doesn't feel like a naturally occurring conclusion without real culpability. The unraveling of it all is written as a shoulder shrug--"This is how life is. They made the best decisions they could with the information that they had at the time. What can one do in the face of passion and desire but ride the wave to its end?"

I beg to differ. Dick is cowardly, selfish, a manipulator and womanizer. From beginning to end, the supposed sacrificial work that he does to serve those around him is in fact a thinly veiled narcissism masquerading as people-pleasing. He loves to think of himself as the perfect, ideal man, doing whatever is needed for the young and innocent women who fall prey to his orbit. But alas, a predator is all that he is, and this identity is proven true when he self-destructs through the above-mentioned vices of alcoholism, emotional instability, and unfaithfulness.

The women in the book are not much better. Rosemary is a self-centered actress who uses her innocence and reliance on older men and women to cover her extremely poor character qualities. She befriends Nicole while simultaneously romantically pursuing Dick until she gets what she wants. Nicole, although holding probably the most reasonable explanation for poor behavior (her mental unwellness), also cheats and lies and schemes her way out of her marriage and into the arms of another, although not in that order.

3. "Most of us have a favorite, a heroic period, in our lives and that was Dick Diver's" (119).

Disjointed plot. Fitzgerald published an edited version of Tender is the Night that was chronological rather than containing a flashback throughout the middle third of the text. I'm not sure if this change would have truly improved the story, but it may have somewhat prevented the disjointed feel of the plot. But the problems are not merely found within the order of the storyline. 

The book seems to ramble and meander its way through explanations of events that don't seem to have much to do with the main characters' development, including a random duel in the first few chapters and the murder of a black man about halfway through. These vignettes contain no real consequences for the primary storyline whatsoever. I may need someone to educate me on the subversive symbolic importance found in these moments, because I am lost as to what value they actually add to the story at large. 

4. "The vividly pictured hand on Rosemary's cheek, the quicker breath, the white excitement of the event viewed from the outside, the inviolable secret warmth within" (93).

Beautiful prose. Fitzgerald was a beautiful lyricist. He described everything from nature to internal motivations with the clearest of word choice and most poignantly placed phrases. My books are full of underlinings that indicate a moment in the text that stood out to me for its striking literary quality. 

The characters are always emotionally driven, detailed, and imperfect. I can appreciate the somberly unsatisfying endings that were Fitzgerald's talent, wherein the villains aren't really punished and the good (if there is any) isn't truly rewarded. His novels are a strange mix of realism and romanticism that is so unique to his work and era.

The Beautiful and Damned, This Side of Paradise, The Great Gatsby, and Tender is the Night all hit at a singular note. The men in his stories either cannot quite make something of themselves despite unmet potential or find themselves incredibly dissatisfied with the success that they do achieve. The women are often tossed about by the whims of their romantic counterparts, but they also portray a searing determination to arrive at their own desires through any manipulative tactics available to them.

Understanding some of what plagued the short and vacillating lives of F. Scott Fitzgerald and his wife Zelda, I can see that he unfalteringly wrote autobiographically. I can appreciate very much the talent that he clearly had, and I also mourn the artistic growth that he denied himself through an inability to move past personal pitfalls both professionally and personally. While Tender is the Night has great potential and maintained my attention, The Great Gatsby does most of the same work in a shorter and more polished form.

Animal Farm

 

"And so, almost before they knew what was happening, the Rebellion had been successfully carried through: Jones was expelled, and the Manor Farm was theirs" (20).

Few allegories exist in the canon of 20th century literature so provocatively as does Animal Farm. C.S. Lewis called it "formally almost perfect; light, strong, balanced" with "not a sentence that does not contribute to the whole." The subject matter is presented so simply that children can (and often do) engage with the themes found within. 

Perhaps the poignancy of the text can be accredited partially to this simplicity of form. How many treatises have been written proclaiming the atrocities of totalitarian states, describing historical and modern example after example, and exploring the innate human qualities that lead to a political imbalance that eventually destroys its own sycophants?

I often say that there are three protected groups, and a villain is easily made through the mistreatment of one: animals, children, and the elderly. I would argue that Orwell has created a story that compiles all three of these, by casting the characters as animals and imbuing upon them the qualities of both trusting children and the vulnerability of lifelong believers in a cause that accepts no less than everything. (These two points in time are conveniently not separated very greatly in span of time, for farm animals transition from young to old within a very short lifetime.)

There is so much to be said, but in the tradition of the book itself, I will jump right into the meat of it:

1. "All animals are equal, but some animals are more equal than others" (134).

Collective memory. A key element of the formation of Animal Farm is the written commandments on the side of the barn. Unfortunately, only some of the animals are able (or event desire) to learn how to read, meaning that they must rely on the others to communicate and remember the new laws. Degradation, within any scope or circumstance, typically occurs slowly, over time, as people forget what they originally stood for.

Every so often, someone will remember one of their statutes and take issue with the decisions of the pigs. Upon perusal of the barn wall, it will be determined that the animals must have gotten confused and read something different into what is written there. The reader, of course, knows that the laws are being minutely changed upon whatever occasion befits the pigs' aspirations. This plot concept reveals two seemingly contrasting viewpoints: collective memory cannot always be trusted, and communal experience should not be ignored in the interest of "general progress."

To explain the first: the animals become cogs in the machine that the pigs are running to only their own ultimate benefit. While they continually release the rights that they fought so hard to gain, until they are nothing more than indentured servants, the cycle of totalitarian oppression is revealed for what it is--permissed by the majority. The animals forget so quickly, remembering only what is continually presented to them, which is often a twisted farse; first, they lose their memory of how they functioned under the previous leadership. Then, they forget what truly initiated their revolution and what they fought to establish. Finally, they forfeit all sense of self not imparted upon them by their new regime.

The latter viewpoint is born from this resultant ignorance. When collective memory is mandated and free thinking is repressed, the only way forward seems to be in the name of societal progress. But who defines "progress?" And what sacrifices, individual and societal, are worthy of each progressive goal? Strikingly displayed first and foremost when the animals are forbidden from singing the anthem of freedom that elicited their great revolution, the (ironic) dehumanization of the animals climaxes with the merciless abuse and execution of Boxer, the revolution's staunchest supporter.

2. "And so the tale of confessions and executions went on, until there was a pile of corpses lying before Napoleon's feet and the air was heavy with the smell of blood, which had been unknown there since the expulsion of Jones" (84).

An allegorical warning. By the time the veil of collective progress is lifted and all-out violence ensues, it is already too late. The animals have given themselves over to a cause, a mere concept, without consideration for the nuances of humanity. But how could they know any better? They are merely animals. Perhaps Orwell chose this aspect of the allegory to indicate what people become in the eyes of a totalitarian government, nothing but fodder for the ruling power. 

Conversely, many of the animals have the capability to educate themselves, but choose not to, thereby placing their unequivocal trust in a small group without accountability. Such a situation is untenable. It will ultimately always result in a cesspool of cyclical corruption...absolute power corrupts absolutely. Do we, the readers, hear these warnings, grasp their gravity, and apply such lessons? Or do we fail in small ways every day, not realizing the impact of the choices that we make to release our grasp on individualism and critical thought?

The brevity and cutting specificity of Animal Farm are synonymous with its success. Many dystopian novels exist, but Orwell's work stands apart in its form and application. History and human nature tell us that there will always be those who would abuse any chance at power, and it is the responsibility of all who have a staked interest in freedom to combat this propensity. 

We hold each other accountable through the checks and balances of the democratic system; although imperfect, it is the sole governmental model that has proven itself a consistent method for protecting the rights of all members, as it considers each member an integral participatory part of the whole. There is a naive hope that Animal Farm will one day become obsolete, but I do not think this is so. The striving for its obsoletion is an understanding that the fight against corruption and violence rages on.

Elephants Can Remember

 

"It's like a burr, something sticking into you, and you can't leave it alone. Yes. I would like to know. Because then, you see, I shouldn't have to think about it anymore" (55).

The intensely suspenseful and terrifying "killer at large" plots of And Then There Were None and Death on the Nile are some of Agatha Christie's most well-known. Elephants Can Remember is not a novel that I had heard of before finding it in a resale shop, but I think it has turned out to be one of my favorite Christie mysteries. A double death (Suicide? Murder?) occurs on the cliffs of the English coast. Decades later, Celia, the daughter of this ill-fated couple, is attempting to solve the case that left her parents' corpses cold in the ground without any answers. While Hercule Poirot does have a hand in investigating the mystery, a writer by the name of Ariadne Oliver (godmother of Celia) provides a woman's perspective and wisdom to the search for clarity.

1. "There is a proverb my grandmother used to repeat: Old sins have long shadows" (64).

A cozy mystery. Seeing as there is no bloody crime scene, no impending court case, and no present danger, this mystery is rather meandering and casual. The main character being a somewhat eccentric elderly mystery writer also offers a different vibe than some of Christie's other more famous novels. I enjoyed the simplicity of the story--it is an easy read and doesn't require immense emotional commitment or moral pondering to appreciate. All of the research takes place many years after the alleged crime, which means that Ariadne and Poirot must use more unconventional sleuthing techniques, hunting down enduring evidence.

2. "As I say, there are one or two things that I think could do with an investigation. An elephant investigation for you, shall we say?" (146).

The perfect length. While sometimes Christie's novels can include chapters of character interviews, lengthy recaps of all available evidence, or complicating factors (such as subsequent murders), this one contains none of those factors. It is straightforward and mercifully brief. A reader could finish it in an afternoon, which is refreshing considering the typical length of classics.

I don't have much more to say about the mystery, and in coordination with the book itself, I will keep my review brief and simple. I really liked the lightheartedness of this book and the unique mystery-solving techniques needed to investigate years after the initial incident. We don't always need long-winded and complex books to entertain us, and a well-written short novel can be a refreshing change!

The Floating Admiral

 

"Inspector, there are many things connected with this tragedy that I cannot tell you. My lips are sealed by the confessional" (204).

Every time I go to Half-Price Books, I make my way to the mystery section and search for any Dorothy Sayers or Agatha Christie novels that I have not, as of yet, come to own. The older the copy, the better. This time, I found a book that I did not know existed until I pulled it from the shelf. A collaborative effort between both of 20th century mystery's premier mistresses! Sayers, the head of the Detective Club at the time, wrote a prologue detailing the impetus behind the undertaking. Each member of the club would add one chapter, testing the hypothesis that a number of viable solutions can be found to any one murder.

The resulting experiment, although not a fully realized example of the many impeccable works that each author produced by him or herself, is yet still an interesting read and exploration into the anatomy of a murder mystery. Despite not necessarily being a book that I will pick up again, I enjoyed the novelty of it and appreciated the purpose behind such a literary exercise. I personally would love to participate in such a group writing activity, so any other word sleuths (i.e. literature nerds), please make yourselves known!

1. "Whether the game thus played for our own amusement will succeed in amusing other people also is for the reader to judge" (4).

An interesting literary exercise. The number one reason for this book's existence is stated at the very beginning: it was meant to be a fun game amongst author friends. Not necessarily meant to be published, I'm glad that it exists! Such a collaborative mix of voices and ideas is rare, and observing the transition between writing styles was of great interest to me. A reader who is enthralled by the personal artistry of writing will enjoy this aspect of the book.

An appendix at the end also contains each author's intended solution. It is a rare occurrence that one is able to read such a wide range of plot variations for a single story, and such content probably teaches more about the writing process than reading a "normal" book with a singular plotline. What makes each scenario effective? How can an outside influence completely change the direction or read between the lines some eventuality that was not meant to be found? This book provides some very good teachable moments on the theory and practice of writing.

2. "My theory is that the murder was committed several miles up-stream and that before the boat reached Whynmouth the tide turned and it floated back to where it was found" (49).

Lack of continuity. As for the actual story itself, there are, as to be expected, some continuity issues. If the book were written by a single author, it would be considered a pretty poor mystery novel, as the plot is schizophrenic in many cases. Each new chapter produces variations on characters' personalities, adds some previously un-heard of context, and often leaves the threads of seemingly important clues hanging. Far be it from me to criticize published writers, but if I were their teacher, I would have encouraged them to introduce fewer new elements and focus on one or two aspects of the previous writer's chapter that stood out most. This change may have improved the readability of what was merely meant to be a private game amongst friends.

Unfortunately, one of the novelists chose to make a list of every element of proof that had been presented thus far. By way of creating a legitimate novel, it is obvious where this addition becomes a problem--I legitimately skipped most of these pages, because I'd rather forget a plot point than read more than twenty summary items of what just took place in the book. Perhaps such a list could also be considered cheating? It isn't my game, after all, but I do feel that a numbered recounting of every chapter goes against the spirit of such an activity.

3. "I didn't want to tell you about that because you might stop us from going to town. But I'll come clean now. I saw the Admiral alive here in his study" (128).

No "real" solution. Most of my critiques can be explained away by the context of the book, but it is still worth mentioning that the final solution is not really a satisfying one. An additional murder in the final chapters and the misdirection (if it can be called that) promoting certain suspects over others are solid moments, the ending is not one I would have chosen. The actual culprit was absent for most of the book, and the ending that he meets is less than satisfying.

I make this comment continually, but my idea of a good mystery novel is one in which the solution (at least to some extent) can be deduced through the information presented. Maybe in a second round of such an activity, the authors could improve their ability to simplify each chapter. I think part of the problem may have been that several of the participants wrote dozens of pages, while others only wrote ten or so. At this point, I am criticizing the parameters of the game rather than the book itself, but I think the point still stands that a page limit would ultimately produce a more readable novel.

I would recommend this book to writers and teachers, but casual reader, be warned! The Floating Admiral is not a polished novel, but rather an opportunity for a diagnosis of the task and practice of writing.

In Cold Blood

 

"I didn't want to harm the man. I thought he was a very nice gentleman. Soft-spoken, I thought so right up to the moment I cut his throat" (244).

Coming away from my immense enjoyment of Breakfast at Tiffanys, I was looking forward to finally digging into Truman Capote's most renowned work. In Cold Blood is the first-billed listing in any conversation about true crime. All of the girls telling murder stories while putting makeup on have him to thank for their multitude of followers.

Unfortunately, due to no fault of Mr. Capote's, this one was a non-starter for me. I picked it up and put it right back down several times. The writing itself is beautifully rendered, and the story is meticulously and creatively told. I can only conclude that the combination of genres (true crime told within a narrative format) killed the momentum (Ha. Set me up with my own comedic true crime YouTube). My reasons for enjoying the likes of Dateline and 48 Hours are very different from my motivation for reading murder or crime novels. 

The commentary in my head while finishing In Cold Blood was telling me contradicting things:

If this is true crime, I want the details and only that, not a lot of extra fluff around the criminals and victims before and after the crime itself.

If this is a novel, I shouldn't already know how it ends. Otherwise, what is the point of suffering through layers of foreshadowing, characterization, and plot development?

Against all odds, I finished the novel, and here I am to tell you my thoughts in the most balanced form that I can muster.

1. "Then, with the dog running ahead of him, he moved southward toward the fields, lion-colored now, luminously golden wit after-harvest stubble" (12).

Beautiful prose. Capote was a truly gifted wordsmith. He could write a symbol or description that cuts right into the reader's soul, and here he is able to utilize that prowess to the utmost. The Kansas landscape, a seedy gas station in the middle of the night, the family hound, a neighboring cellmate...Each detail is carefully crafted to communicate the emotion behind a scene. Not only can you picture it, but your bones can feel that place and those often-disregarded minutia. Even when I was bored of the story itself, such world building kept me going.

2. "And certain sounds returned--a silver dollar rolling across the floor, boot steps on hardwood stairs, and the sounds of breathing, the gasps, the hysterical inhalations of a man with a severed windpipe" (110).

Detailed characterization. Sometimes criticized for filling the gaps of the knowable a little too much, considering the books qualifications as literary NON-fiction, Capote delves into the inner lives of each person involved in this tragic story. The Clutters feel like your own family, and their murders cut like the proverbial knife to the heart. Questions of motivation, culpability, and guilt are explored through the psyches of two criminals: one a self-proclaimed "normal" with a familiar background, and the other with somewhat of an unfortunate or unconventional past. 

While Capote does not necessarily succeed (if it was indeed his intention) in creating sympathetic villains, he does invite the reader to delve into societal notions concerning the influencing roles of "nature and nurture" on criminality. 

3. "This biography always set racing a stable of emotions--self-pity in the lead, love and hate running evenly at first, the latter ultimately pulling ahead" (130).

Long-winded extraneous information. My final point, the only real literary criticism that I have to offer, has to do with the extreme amounts of information provided on this very topic. After the murder is committed and the perpetrators are overtaken, there is still a significant amount of book left to digest. Writings from the family members of Dick and Perry fill the pages, and it seems that nearly every person waiting on death row alongside them is described within their own short portion of plot.

I won't lie, I skimmed much of this decidedly unrelated information. I already wasn't vibing with the presentation of the content, and all of the "side quests" certainly did not hold my interest. If these aspects needed to be included for Capote's vision to come to fruition, my opinion is that they could have been severely shortened and summarized, to much greater effect.

Overall, I would not pick up In Cold Blood a second time, but I am glad that I was able to experience it. I understand Capote's importance in this genre, and while it may not be for me, I am certain that he continues to have an audience of incredibly engaged readers.

This Side of Paradise

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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