This Side of Paradise

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Breakfast at Tiffany's

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sense and Sensibility

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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