Category Archives: Book Reviews

Book review: The English Patient

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The English Patient by Michael Ondaatje. Recommended.

In this poetic novel by poet Michael Ondaatje, the author explores the past and present (the closing days of World War II) lives of young Canadian nurse Hana, her English patient, her family friend and accomplished thief David Caravaggio, and Indian sapper Kirpal Singh (nicknamed Kip).

Hana, who has lost her father and her lover during the war, has been desensitised and traumatized — only 19, she has held cigarettes to the lips of armless boys and moved patients only to find that they are already being consumed by worms. When the Italian villa-turned-hospital where she works is abandoned toward the end of the conflict, she insists on remaining behind with the one patient who cannot be moved — an enigmatic English patient whose skin is burned black from a plane crash in North Africa and who does not seem to remember who he is. The only clue he carries is The Histories of Herodotus, which he uses as a commonplace book.

Caravaggio, thief turned intelligence agent, has lost the practical use of his hands when he is caught stealing by the Italians and loses his thumbs as a physically and emotionally brutal punishment. A morphine addict, Caravaggio cannot rest until he knows all the secrets — those of Hana’s heart but especially those of the mysterious Englishman.

Like the others, Kip belongs nowhere to no one. Estranged from his family by his nontraditional beliefs and pursuits, he is also a man without a country — an Indian sapper in an English army that does not welcome foreigners, especially Indians. A loner by nature and by circumstances, Kip finds respite if not meaning in Hana’s arms.

For a professed amnesiac, the English patient remembers great detail, from his post-accident discovery in the desert by Bedouins and their subsequent treatment of his injuries to his earlier life as a member of a 1930s group of explorers seeking to answer such riddles as how Cambyses and his army could attempt to cross a desert — unless there were a Zerzura to be found. Of equal or greater importance to his exploration reminiscences are his memories of his hot affair with a fellow explorer’s wife that burns itself out in tragedy.

The long passages in which the English patient slowly unravels (but never admits to) the mystery of his identity and past are intriguing, spellbinding, revealing, and poetic. Those with any curiosity will find themselves wanting to read more about not only 1930s European expeditions into the desert, but about the desert itself — where dozens of different types of winds inspire the Bedouins to don them with dozens of beautiful names descriptive of their moods.

On the other hand, Caravaggio, who feels safest revealing nothing, pieces together his own knowledge with the clues dropped by the English patient to come up with a plausible theory about his identity, actions, and movements during the war — but not his motivations. Even as his name and his past are gradually unveiled, his character remains elusive — perhaps explaining why Hana is in love with the living remains of a dead man.

Hana and Kip, and their relationship, are the least interesting elements of the novel. Hana’s character functions as the center around which the others meet. As a sapper, Kip’s duty of disarming bombs becomes virtually his sole focus in life. When he learns of the ultimate bomb, the ultimate weapon that even he cannot disarm, and who it is used against, he in his ignorance confronts the English patient — a moment of irony. The villa, an island surrounded by a sea of turmoil and change, is not so remote that the “death of civilisation” cannot reach it.

The best of The English Patient reminded me at times of Mark Helprin (Winter’s Tale, A Soldier of the Great War) in tone and evocations. While not a great novel, it is certainly an interesting, thought-provoking, and worthwhile diversion.

21 May 2003
Copyright © Diane L. Schirf

Book review: Lady Chatterley’s Lover

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Lady Chatterley’s Lover by D. H. Lawrence. Highly recommended.

The most well-drawn character in this novel is not Lady Chatterley (Connie, an INFP personality type), her lover Mellors, her husband Clifford, Clifford’s nurse, or any human. It is Clifford’s hometown Tevershall and the surrounding coal district. His home Wragby stands where the great Nottingham Forest of legend once dominated the landscape. Now it is coal — mines, colliers, colliers’ shanties, colliers’ towns, and, most of all, money and ennui. It is dead, as seen through the eyes of Mellors and Connie — dead, lifeless, and grim, slowly sucking away at what is left of humanity and of human tenderness. The only idyllic place is the remnant of the Forest where Mellors is gamekeeper, and even it reeks of the smell of coal and of money and of the folly of money. The colliers and those who command them, the Cliffords, are soulless, dead, and, tellingly, impotent in the most important ways.

D. H. Lawrence has a unique voice and tells this tale in a unique way, albeit heavy-handedly in places. His characters’ sermon-like conversations are sometimes hard to swallow as realistic. But the frustrations and the spiritlessness of the people are real enough and save the novel from becoming too much of an intellectual exercise or a diatribe. I found myself wishing for the more subtle touch of a Victor Hugo in Les Miserables, another novel in which a human story is told against a larger setting, or even of a Tolstoy, but this is more of a story-in-a-box — a limited box. Recommended if you can suspend belief a bit; if you are looking for a good story rather than a great one; and if you are looking not for puerile pleasure in Lawrence’s liberal smattering of “naughty” words, but for a place to begin start asking the questions. There are no answers here, but there is the foundation for a beginning.

3 July 2000
Copyright © Diane L. Schirf

Book review: The Mists of Avalon

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The Mists of Avalon by Marion Zimmer Bradley. Recommended.

The Mists of Avalon by Marion Zimmer Bradley is a retelling of Arthurian legend through the eyes of the women surrounding Arthur. This sounds simple enough, but before this one is over, you’ll need a scorecard to remember who is kin to whom and how. Once you figure that out, you’ll want to learn more about the effects of inbreeding, since there is plenty of it here.

Viviane is Lady of the Lake and of Avalon, a mystical island that only those with the Sight can find in the Mists; to those not gifted, it is merely an island with a Christian church and monastery. Taliesen is the Merlin of Britain, the messenger of the [Druid] gods. Viviane’s half-sister and Taliesen’s daughter, Igraine, is married off to Gorlois, Duke of Cornwall, and in due course gives birth to a daughter, Morgaine. She also is foster mother to her younger sister (half-sister) Morgause, a teenage girl who has the combined gift of great ambition and little conscience and who will play a key role later. The young Igraine resents deeply how Viviane manipulates her, first into marriage with the much-older Gorlois. Later, Viviane’s prediction, which Igraine also resents, that Igraine will fall for Uther Pendragon, comes true. Uther becomes High King after the death of Ambrosius, Gorlois rebels against him, and Igraine conceives Uther’s son, Gwydion, or Arthur, the night before Gorlois’ death. Arthur, as we know, is fated to become The Once and Future King in the Matter of Britain.

The story is not so much about Arthur or Morgaine as about the struggle between paganism and the rise of Christianity, with Arthur as Christian king and Morgaine as pagan priestess. Arthur is installed in a pagan ceremony that leaves Morgaine pregnant with his only son, Mordred — who in this rendering never plays quite the key role assigned him in other Arthurian tales. The plot points pretty much follow the tradition — Arthur marries Guinevere, who has an affair with Lancelot, who ends up married to Elaine. Meanwhile, Viviane is killed, leaving a void in the office of the Lady of the Lake — an office that will be filled, more or less, by another daughter of Taliesen.

Bradley’s sympathies toward the pagans (the feminine) are evident as Morgaine takes over Viviane’s mission of trying to turn Arthur and Britain away from Christianity (the masculine) and back toward the Goddess. As the tale progresses, however, Morgaine becomes an increasingly ruthless and unsympathetic figure, while Arthur appears to be doing what is expedient for Britain; he even manages to make peace with and convert several Saxon kings. Morgaine is too single-minded and fanatical to listen to the counsel of the Druid who becomes Merlin after Taliesen’s death, Kevin, and eventually punishes him for his “betrayal” of the Goddess.

In the end, Arthur may die, but his legacy was already set, as many had already told Morgaine. She leaves her own legacy — a trail of the murders and the deaths of nearly everyone important to her, including two of her lovers and Lancelot’s daughter. Only at the very end does she realise she has lost; Christianity has won. Perhaps this was the way the Goddess wished it, after all, although the price she pays to learn this is very high indeed. She also learns that she has always had the love of a great man, the man who was son, brother, and lover to her — Arthur, King of the Britons.

The Mists of Avalon is a worthy addition to the Arthurian cycle, especially since it takes into account what must have been a very real struggle between the old pagans of Britain and the new Christianity of Rome. The plot is intricate and imaginative, the characters are well drawn (if erratic), there are a few moments of subtlety and beautifully written prose, and there is enough fantasy to make one wonder if there really is a supernatural intervention throughout. Even the lost continent of Atlantis is worked into the tale. Highly recommended for Arthurians and fans of science fiction/fantasy. But don’t forget that scorecard.

6 January 2001
Copyright © Diane L. Schirf

Book review: American Gothic Stories

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American Gothic Stories ed. and with an introduction by Joyce Carol Oates. Highly recommended.

In this 1996 anthology, noted American author Joyce Carol Oates collects American tales of horror and/or the supernatural, from an excerpt from Wieland, or the Transformation (1798) by Charles Brockden Brown, to “Subsoil” (1994) by Nicholson Baker, so that the 50 stories here represent nearly 200 years of the darker side of the American psyche.

The stories, arranged in chronological order, show some clear trends. In early stories, by Brown, Nathaniel Hawthorne, and even Edgar Allan Poe, religion plays a prominent role. Interestingly, God and his creation are seen as at odds with one another. For example, in Hawthorne’s “Young Goodman Brown,” the forest and the darkness are where Satan meets humanity. “The Tartarus of Maids,” an industrial creation of Herman Melville’s, is set in a remote rural location, contrasted to another Melville story (not included here), “The Paradise of Bachelors,” set in a London gentlemen’s club. Perhaps this conviction that nature is a place of mystery, evil, and fear, explains the early (and current) American drive to conquer it.

Another theme is denial of responsibility for one’s own terrible actions. When called to account for committing some of the most heinous crimes possible, Wieland’s defense is inarguable: He has proved his faith in God by doing that which God desired of him. (Unlike Wieland, the reader will recognise that the “shrill voice” expressing God’s bloody will from behind a “fiery stream” is more likely that of the fallen angel Lucifer.)

A second example is the famous Poe story, “The Black Cat,” in which the narrator, noted from infancy for his “docility and humanity,” becomes a cold-blooded maimer and killer of that which he loves most. To what does he attribute his violence and subsequent fall in fortunes? Not to himself, but to the “Fiend Intemperance,” saying, “for what disease is like Alcohol!” While Poe, a self-medicating alcoholic and bipolar sufferer, seems to have had an early understanding that alcoholism is not a moral deficiency but a disease, his narrator’s choice of scapegoat does not explain the obvious: Most alcoholics do not maim and murder.

In “The Yellow Wallpaper,” Charlotte Perkins Gilman also beats the medical establishment in recognising a pathological condition rather than a purely emotional one: Postpartum depression. Gilman gets her digs in at the predominantly male medical profession — the narrator’s own husband, who makes every misstep conceivable in his attempts to “help” her, is a physician. Feminism and the gothic meet.

As the collection progresses in time, the stores become less religious and psychotic in tone, and some, such as “Snow” by John Crowley and “The Girl Who Loved Animals” by Bruce McAllister, are more science fiction than gothic. “Exchange Value” by Charles Johnson translates the tradition of psychological horror into inner-city terms. “Replacements” by Lisa Tuttle is telling commentary on the battle of the sexes; a literal vampire is preferable as an object of affection, attention, and obsession to the emotional vampire the human male of the story represents.

Other highlights include “The Veldt” by Ray Bradbury, which combines gothic sensibilities with science fiction; the unforgettable “Cat in Glass” by Nancy Etchemendy, in which the narrator’s implausible reality is the only one that makes sense; and “In the Icebound Hothouse” by William Goyen, where erotic elements predominate.

A personal favourite, “The Lovely House” by Shirley Jackson, succeeds in evoking the surrealism of that most tangible and ordinary of places — a home.

In some cases, I wish Oates selected more obscure works of equal quality by the same author; for example, I wonder if there are any H. P. Lovecraft short-story alternatives to the oft-anthologised “The Outsider.” Still, it is innovative of Oates to include “The Enormous Radio” by John Cheever, who is not traditionally seen as a gothic writer — although “The Swimmer” might have been an even better choice.

With the exception of a handful of selections (most notably Oates’ own “The Temple,” which is unoriginal and uninteresting), this is a rich, diverse collection. In the end, it does leave one wondering, What exactly is gothic? As helpful as some of the information Oates provides in the introduction may be, she offers few if any insights into the nature or history of the American gothic or the authors whose works are found here.

One quibble: I would like to have seen each story’s year of publication included at its end, as is the case with many anthologies. Although the authors’ birth and death dates are part of the contents page, some dates are mentioned in the introduction, and there is a permissions page with copyright dates, there is neither a comprehensive nor an elegant way for the interested reader to place each tale in its historical context — a serious deficiency in an otherwise excellent collection.

13 May 2003
Copyright © Diane L. Schirf

Book review: Wide Sargasso Sea

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Wide Sargasso Sea by Jean Rhys. Highly recommended.

Jean Rhys, troubled by the one-dimensional Bertha Mason in Brontë’s classic Jane Eyre, or perhaps seeing an opportunity to take the depiction of Creoles out of the hands of English writers, decided to “write her a life.” The result is Wide Sargasso Sea, in which the Bertha Mason of Jane Eyre (Antoinette Cosway in Wide Sargasso Sea) finally steps out of the realm of caricature and becomes both human being and symbol. In the Norton Critical Edition edited by Judith L. Raiskin, several commentators expound on their views of what that symbolism means from a Caribbean, British, and feminist perspective.

First, I have noticed that several reviewers mistakenly assume Antoinette is of mixed race (the modern assumption about what Creole means). In the context of the time, however, Creole meant a person of English or European descent living in the Caribbean. Rhys makes this even clearer with terms such as “white Creole” and “white cockroach.” This is an important distinction because it, combined with her French ancestry and poverty, sets Antoinette apart from the wealthy English and from the former slaves on the islands who are of African descent. That theme of having no home, no society, nowhere to go, and, essentially, being nonexistent, is integral to the storyline — and fits in perfectly with Bertha’s role in Jane Eyre.

Another important point is that Antoinette’s mother (as well as her nurse) is from Martinique, a French island at a time when the French and the British were in bitter conflict. This makes Antoinette even more alienated from the societies in which she dwells but of which she is not a part. It’s interesting to note that some of the academic commentators mistakenly attribute her mother’s birthplace and the origins of the nurse Christophine (one calls her a Haitian, no doubt because of that island’s strong associations with obeah) and even get Christophine’s name wrong.

Although there are parallels between Antoinette and Jane, between Antoinette and the Black child Tia, and even between Antoinette and her carefully unnamed husband (Rochester), this is a brilliant novel that does not depend on the reader’s knowledge of Jane Eyre; like Antoinette herself, it stands alone. There are also many cycles throughout the book, including Antoinette’s repeated dream. Antoinette’s lack of identity is reinforced by Rochester’s invocation of a principle of obeah; he calls her Bertha, a name that is not hers (this also emphasizes the predominance of an English identity over that evoked by the French name Antoinette). There are the clear dichotomies between Rochester and his England, where he is a disenfranchised second son, and Antoinette and her Caribbean, where she belongs neither to the wealthy whites or the freed slaves.

Wide Sargasso Sea invokes the Bible several times. Rochester’s father and older brother betray him to Antoinette’s stepfather Mason for 30,000 pounds, alluding to the 30 pieces of silver that Judas Iscariot takes from the Romans for betraying Christ. There are numerous references to a rooster or cock crowing at key moments, as the cock did after Peter had denied Christ three times. The Christian allusions are intermixed with the presence of obeah throughout — just as the Christian faith and obeah beliefs from Africa became intermingled in the Caribbean.

Reality and dream are equally inseparable. “Is England like a dream? . . . She said this place London is like a cold dark dream sometimes. I want to wake up.” The unnamed husband (Rochester) retorts, “Well, that is precisely how your beautiful island seems to me, quite unreal and like a dream.” Their erotic life is no less a dream. “I watched her die many times . . . Only the sun was there to keep us company. We shut him out. . . . It was at night that I felt danger and would try to forget it and push it away.”

Rhys, saddled with the pre-determined ending of Jane Eyre, manipulates its foreshadowing and symbolism brilliantly. Rochester says, “I would give my eyes never to have seen this abominable place.” Obeah woman Christophine responds, “You choose what you give, eh?” In a return to the beginning, Antoinette, determined mad by an equally mad Rochester, burns down Thornfield Hall, just as her own childhood home was burnt by the freed slaves who held her and her mother in such contempt (“white cockroach”).

There are seemingly endless layers of meaning within the slight 112 pages of Wide Sargasso Sea, about ethnic and national identities, about imperialistic and patriarchical repression, about madness, and about the relative relationship between reality and dream. Ultimately, Antoinette reclaims her identity and reality through a dream — and with her death. The more times you read this rich novel about a poor woman, the more you will discover.

8 December 2002
Copyright © Diane L. Schirf

Book review: Nothing But You: Love Stories from the New Yorker

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Nothing But You: Love Stories from the New Yorker ed. by Roger Angell. Not recommended.

Earlier in 2002, I had read Victorian Love Stories: An Oxford Anthology edited by Kate Flint, a wonderful, imaginative anthology that covers the gamut of love, from earnest and longing to the impulsive and painful, from gritty realism to the fantastic and the supernatural. I had had Nothing But You for a while, and it seemed natural to read it as a follow-up to the Victorian anthology. This proved to be a mistake; the contrast between the two highlights the shallowness of the New Yorker stories.

There are a few gems, such as “Marito in Città” by John Cheever, “The Diver” by V. S. Pritchett, “Eyes of a Blue Dog” with Gabriel Garcia Marquez’s magic surrealism, “The Kugelmass Episode” with Woody Allen’s characteristic offbeat humour and angst, and “Here Come the Maples” with a touch of irony by John Updike. One story by a lesser-known writer, “In the Gloaming” by Alice Elliott Dark, stands out for beautifully conveying the tragedy of loss and alienation, not through death, but through the chains and barriers that life erects to prevent insight and truer love between the mother and son and between them and the distant, unloving father. Impending death finally begins to break down those barriers and reveal the humanity of mother and son to one another.

For the most part, however, these highlights are overwhelmed by the blandness of the rest of the selections. Somehow, this collection about “love” seems to miss many of love’s elements — affection, depth of feeling, passion (depth of emotion of any kind), perception, dedication. Instead, many of the stories read as pointless, plodding, surface tellings of things that happen, with an amazing attention to mundane and unrelated detail, and revolve around featureless, interchangeable characters with no depth and no interest. “The Nice Restaurant” by Mary Gaitskill, with its generic yuppie characters Evan and Laurel, their meaningless relationship, and endless detail such as “Evan picked at his pork-chop bone. He downed his glass of wine” and “Laurel shifted in her chair” that is meant to convey the flat emotions of these flat people contrasts badly with the underlying passions and conflicts subtly portrayed in Lucy Clifford’s “The End of Her Journey” and Hubert Crackenthorpe’s “A Conflict of Egoisms” from the Victorian anthology. Later, the same cardboard characters, with different names, will appear in “Ocean Avenue” by Michael Chabon, where, nine yawning pages of yuppie angst over coffee later, the predictable happens.

How modern authors have reduced one of humanity’s deepest, most elemental, and disturbing emotions into a painfully superficial detailing of everyday functions is, perhaps, a reflection of modern love and life. I would like not to think so, however. I would like to think that we are still capable of passion, even cartoon characters like Evan and Laurel and Chabon’s California counterparts, Lazar and Suzette.

At the end of the Victorian collection, I felt elated, disturbed, empathic, inspired, and despairing. At the end of the New Yorker collection, I felt nothing but bored.

3 November 2002
Copyright © Diane L. Schirf

Book review: The Stories of John Cheever

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The Stories of John Cheever by John Cheever. Highly recommended.

John Cheever has long had a reputation as the quintessential American writer of the 20th century, and this collection, which he edited, is illustration of why he is a favourite of the American literati.

Cheever’s stories are populated by mostly mundane people in mundane settings — the corporate executive and rising stars who go home every night to an affluent suburb like Shady Hill, with its unforgettable recurring cast of characters (the Beardens, the Farquarson, the Parminters) who live on such unforgettable streets as Alewives Lane; the New York City elevator operator whose life consists of going up and down all day and whose mind and imagination never leave their comfortable paths; other apartment building workers, half of whose lives are spent on the fringe of luxury and the other half in grimy poverty; the thoughtless affluent who cannot conceive of any other life; the downwardly mobile who have no choice but to lower their level of existence closer to that of their former servants and who cannot seem to grasp that things will never be what they once were; the social outcasts, like Mrs. Hewing, who is “kind of immoral”; the former duchesses and other members of the old European elite who wear their rags with grace while their estate homes crumble around them; the expatriates who fit in neither where they come from nor where they live; and the travelers who find tragedy awaits at the end of the trip with the death of their child — or even the beginning of the journey of their doomed marriage.

What sets the stories and the characters — and Cheever — apart is the surreal nature of so much of what happens in the course of these vignettes. Instead of addressing an addiction like alcoholism directly, Cheever tells of an ordinary woman who cannot stop listening to her neighbours as their lives, their arguments, their loves, and their passions are voiced over a new radio her husband has bought for her in “The Enormous Radio.” The birth and course of the affliction are seamlessly revealed through Irene Westcott’s inability to withdraw from vicariously living through her neighbours’ conversations.

“The Five-Forty-Eight” reveals how an ordinary event — sexual relations between executive and assistant — can lead to the humiliation of a confident, secure man, who finds himself falling into the filth, while the disturbed and wronged ex-assistant is finally free of the demons he helped to feed while ignorant of their existence.

In “The Swimmer,” which takes place on a Sunday where the recurring refrain is, “I drank too much” can be heard at every home, Neddy Merrill decides to go home from a party by swimming across the county through all the pools in between his host’s home and his own — a novel idea taken to its surreal level as the weather and the trees change, and Neddy finds himself lost in a world where he knows what has become of himself but not how or why.

The world of John Cheever is primarily male; the vast majority of the stories are told by a man in the first person. The women whom they encounter range from their tired wives to their enigmatic lovers — and, in the case of the third of “Three Stories,” an enigmatic wife. Sex is central to many of the tales; the happily and the miserably married are in many cases equally open to sexual adventure and excitement if occasionally afraid of the consequences. It is the rare protagonist who would voice the thoughts of one incidental character: “After sixteen years, I still bite her shoulders. She makes me feel like Hannibal crossing the Alps.” (“The Country Husband”)

It is fascinating to watch Cheever’s subjects and style evolve from the 1920s and ’30s to the 1960s — from an era of elevator men, fedoras, ubiquitous cigarettes, Martinis (with a capital “M”), and “affairs” to a time when “Artemis, the Honest Well Digger” can refer to the sexual act by its most unacceptable term and be whisked off to Washington, D.C., for making the mistake of falling in love in the U.S.S.R.

The surfaces here are untroubled, but the depths roil with repressed thoughts and emotions that are typical of Shady Hill and its ilk — but are neither acknowledged nor acceptable. Nearly everyone, whether they live in New York, Shady Hill, or Rome, is desperately seeking something — love, sex, passion, something — anything — to lift them above the towers of the city skyline where they work and the chimneys of the suburban trap they cannot — and really do not wish to — escape. An empty life is still a life of social acceptability.

1 September 2002
Copyright © Diane L. Schirf

Book review: Middlemarch

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Middlemarch by George Eliot. Highly recommended.

It seems that it’s nearly impossible to talk about Middlemarch without mentioning its breadth and scope. The irony is that the entire novel takes place within the confines of this small community and within the sometimes-small minds of its various citizens.

Although a vast number of characters populate Middlemarch and its environs, each who speaks has a distinctive voice, yet does not fall into being mere type only. The horse dealer sounds like a horse dealer — but one with a particular background and perspective. The setting itself represents every type of town, suburb, village, or neighborhood where you’ll find the complacent, the critical, the aspiring, the intellectual, the earthy, the wealthy, the poor, and the worker in between. As with many English novels, the setting, in this case Middlemarch, becomes as much a central character as any other, whether it’s Dorothea or Lydgate.

The tapestry Eliot weaves is complex; one character’s actions can affect the lives of others he or she may rarely meet, while the unknown behavior and works of Bulstrode in his youth decades ago eventually touch nearly all.

How the characters come together is sometimes obvious, sometimes subtle. Dorothy’s interest in Causabon, although a puzzle to her friends and family, is painted in broad strokes to the reader; her later interest in Will Ladislaw, grows somewhat more delicately if based in the same altruistic roots. Mary Garth and Fred Vincy have, in their way, come together in their childhoods; they are still struggling with mutually agreeable terms that will allow both to acknowledge the love and affection that are already there. Lydgate and Rosamond are both more of a puzzle and less of one — a case of two opposed personalities with opposing views, opposing goals, and opposing personalities drawn together by that most capricious of matchmakers, proximity and circumstance, to form a union that will frustrate both and satisfy neither.

Against the background of these four sometimes difficult relationships (Dorothea and Causabon with its lack of love or eros, Dorothea and Will with the barriers set by Causabon’s will and that of the Middlemarch society who frown on Will and Dorothea’s association with him, Fred and Mary with her imposed restrictions to set him on the correct course in life before she can make a commitment to him, and Lydgate and Rosamond with their diametrical oppositions) is the long, happy marriage of Nicholas Bulstrode and his Vincy wife Harriet. Unlike the others, there are no visible barriers to their happiness, and they are happy as a couple — except for the events in Bulstrode’s past that haunt him in the back of his mind and then at the front with the appearance of Raffles. The marriage survives the ensuing scandal, but the individuals — Nicholas and Harriet — become poor shadow of their former selves.

It is in a town like Middlemarch that a woman like Dorothea will find it impossible to find approbation for her plans and Bulstrode will find the antagonism of those who have come to terms with their own worldly desires. It is in a town like Middlemarch that merely the raving words of a delirium tremens-afflicted Raffles can upset the respectable work of a respectable lifetime. The downfall of Bulstrode validates the town and its modernizing secular culture.

Middlemarch is a novel of insight into personality, motivations, social behaviours, and history. In the end, even the happiest characters have failed at most if not all of their youthful aspirations and have become variations on the Middlemarch theme — husbands, wives, fathers, mothers, sons, daughters, day-to-day toilers rather than dreamers and achievers. Middlemarch is Everytown, where you will find an example or two of Everyone — and their dreams or lack thereof.

If you intend to glean the utmost from it, begin with an annotated, critical edition; while Eliot enjoyed a high enough level of erudition to reference the current events of 1830s England along with mythology, religion, quotations, and developments in science and medicine, most of us today cannot begin to follow them without assistance. Knowledge of these references will enrich the rich text of a rich mind.

1 September 2002
Copyright © Diane L. Schirf

Book review: A Confederacy of Dunces

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A Confederacy of Dunces by John Kennedy Toole. Highly recommended.

He’s egotistical, erudite, ejaculatory (literally), and explosive. He’s “emptily verbose” (Merriam-Webster’s definition number 3 for “gassy”). He’s also that — gassy, a man with a flux. He’s Ignatius J. Reilly, a monster of a man with a master’s degree, a faulty pyloric valve, a love for Boethius and The Consolation of Philosophy, a hatred for modern life, a passion against anything to do with sex (at least sex involving a second person), and a distinctly lower-class New Orleans lifestyle. He’s also a man about whom his own pet phrase could apply: “Do I believe what I am seeing?”

Set in the New Orleans of the 1960s, A Confederacy of Dunces begins with an incident with an overzealously inept policeman that leads Ignatius, one of the most unforgettable characters of American fiction, into a world with which he is unfamiliar and ill-equipped-work. As a result, he encounters a cornucopia of characters — from the cynical female owner of the laughably named “Night of Joy” to the wizened owner of the equally ill-named “Paradise Hotdogs” — who are as unforgettable as Our Hero. The most memorable is undoubtedly the generically named Jones, who, behind his dark glasses and his cloud of cigarette smoke, manages to see the world, its people, and the ironies of situation all too clearly. There are also Ignatius’s wine-loving mother, his irascible neighbor, and “Myrna Minx” — the closest Ignatius has ever had to a girlfriend.

Ignatius, taken away from his magnum opus (written on a series of Big Chief tablets strewn everywhere in his room in his mother’s house) and the modern movies he so likes to deride, touts the value of The Consolation of Philosophy and bemoans the work of Fortuna while attempting to leave nothing to chance. To feed his laziness and lack of desire to work, he works hard at being sly, devious, and manipulative. He carefully plans and plots his efforts from the perspective of a man who has little perception of human nature; the results are hilariously unexpected — the whims of Fortuna. In the end, Ignatius’s life, such as it is, will never be the same thanks to his forced interaction with the outside world.

A Confederacy of Dunces will make you laugh out loud and, at the same time, you will probably detect an undertone of sadness, even hopelessness. As Walker Percy notes in his introduction, perhaps this is due to the knowledge that author Toole committed suicide. But perhaps it is equally due to the absurdity of modern life that the adventures of the larger-than-life Ignatius reveal at every turn.

2 June 2002
Copyright © Diane L. Schirf

Book review: A Walk in the Woods: Rediscovering America on the Appalachian Trail

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A Walk in the Woods: Rediscovering America on the Appalachian Trail by Bill Bryson. Recommended.

Bill Bryson is known for his wry humour, and this is my first experience of it. Bryson gets it into his head to walk the famous Appalachian Trail. He is joined in this venture by Stephen Katz, an alcoholic, troubled, overweight friend who’s an unlikely candidate as a hiker/mountain man but who, with his many foibles, adds a much-needed personal touch.

Bryson covers a lot of territory — literally and figuratively. He talks briefly about the birth and history of the trail, hazards that range from bears and lethal viruses to unforgiving weather and deranged murderers, the decline of forest species, acid rain, the maps developed of the trail, its disputed length, the shelters along the way, the Forest Service’s love affair with road building, the National Park Service’s love affair with inefficiency and mismanagement, the people they meet on the trail and off the trail in small towns and tourist trap cities, pack weight, food, and how what you do is walk. We also learn a great deal about Katz that make him both likeable and not at all likeable. I suspect he is someone who is interesting and funny to read about, but who is infuriating in real life. His nonchalance when Bryson is convinced there are bears nearby is a high point.

Bryson is charming, witty, aggravating, and snobbish. If you can see the humorous side of bureaucracy, small-town and rural America, and what was once known as Yuppiedom, you will appreciate his running commentary on The downside of the book is that it hits an anticlimax shy of 2/3 through and never recovers. Perhaps this is symbolic of how walking the trail is.

This is not an Appalachian Trail “how-to” book, nor is it for the serious hiker or nature lover who expects to find out vicariously what it’s like to hike the trail. It’s a dryly funny commentary on humanity that happens to be a walk in the woods.

16 March 2002
Copyright © Diane Schirf