Tristana, Benito Pérez Galdós (trans. Margaret Jull Costa)

This post contains affiliate links. If you click through and buy I will receive a percentage commission at no extra cost to you.

Tristana is young when she is orphaned and taken into the care of Don Lope, a family friend and fading Don Juan. Sadly, it’s not long before he turns his wiles on her and she becomes a possession to him. He is willing to sacrifice his own comfort by spending his dwindling fortune on her, but the price she pays for his attentions is heavy. As she grows into a young woman she begins to question their relationship and the control he exercises over her. She has great ambitions, wanting to make her own money through creative endeavours mostly shut off to women at the time. When she meets a handsome artist named Horacio she believes she’s found her soulmate, but how will Don Lope react to the news that he is losing her, and will their love stand the test of the challenges of life?

Tristana is an interesting character. Despite an unfortunate start in life she is headstrong and talented, excelling at almost anything she turns her hand to. She is, nonetheless, in an unenviable position. She has no money of her own, her relationship with Don Lope means many men would not wish to marry her (although she does not want to marry, rejecting the idea of being under the power of another man), and as a woman in nineteenth century Spain has very little in the way of career prospects. Her relationship with Horacio has all the hallmarks of impassioned first love and there is an innocence about her despite her maturity in some respects. Sadly, she has more hardship to come that will once again alter the course of her life. She is stoic yet feels the weight of the limits placed on her. 

Don Lope is fairly repugnant. Some find him charming and enticing, as the women in the novel are meant to, but his abuse of the power he holds over Tristana and the short period it takes for him to claim her as a conquest when he is meant to be playing the role of guardian makes it hard to sympathise with him. There are moments in the novel where he acknowledges his glee at knowing Tristana is trapped, that she will not be able to leave him, is not admirable. He does seem to care for her, and at times he seems to put his own feelings aside for her sake, but for the most part he is jealous and possessive. 

Horacio makes less of an impression. He is idealistic and dreams of a pastoral future. He appears completely smitten with Tristana and is happy to forgo his desire to marry her, respecting her autonomy and desires. The way their relationship progresses however becomes unsatisfying and he doesn’t feel as well developed as some of the other characters. 

There are many themes in this short novel that feel familiar to regular readers of nineteenth century literature. We have a talented, ambitious female protagonist whose life is limited by unfortunate circumstances and societal expectations. We have a youthful romance doomed to fail, and a possessive ‘protector’ whose actions have limited Tristana’s opportunities further. There is passion and overblown emotion, but nothing extraordinary happens, they are merely trying to find their way through the life they’ve been given. Nicely written with some interesting ideas. Not many of Galdós’ novels seem to be readily available in English, but it’s worth picking this one up.

Pick up a copy:

Waterstones

Book Review: Tender Is The Night, F. Scott Fitzgerald

This post contains affiliate links. If you click through and buy I will receive a percentage commission at no extra cost to you.

It’s the summer of 1925 and Rosemary Hoyt, a young actress, freshly famous, arrives in the French Riviera with her mother. Full of innocence, she watches other visitors, and becomes infatuated with one group in particular. Dick Diver and his wife Nicole seem to be the centre, and she is drawn to them, sophisticated and in love, they signify a maturity that she longs for. Book one may focus on Rosemary, and introduces us to the cast of characters through her eyes, but book two and three shift the focus to Dick and Nicole, travelling back in time to show Dick in Switzerland when he was still practicing psychiatry, and Nicole was his patient. Book three delves deeper into their relationship and Dick’s descent into alcoholism. They see Rosemary again but she is not as central to the novel as you’d imagine from the opening.

Dick is really the main focus of the novel. To begin with he appears admirable and desirable, as Rosemary’s first flushes of attraction focus on him. Book two reveals a different side to him. Fitzgerald does not seem to be casting judgment upon him, but many readers will feel uncomfortable with his burgeoning romance with a patient, who is naturally in a position of vulnerability. We see the unhealthy root of their relationship, him believing that he gives her mental stability, and her providing him with the money he needs to become a partner in a Swiss psychiatric clinic. They are dependent on each other, and the unequal beginnings of their relationship doesn’t bode well. Dick does seem to love Nicole genuinely but her relapses into mental ill health take their toll. We see the real danger she poses to both them and their children, and Dick comes to see her as a liability, limiting his ability to succeed professionally. In book three he has become something of a social pariah as his drinking gets out of hand. He drinks excessively and in environments where it is not at all appropriate, insulting their friends and behaving unprofessionally. He no longer seems at all admirable, and we root for Nicole. It is widely believed that the couple is based on the Fitzgeralds and so it seems strange that the author would write himself into such a flawed character. 

In book one, we see Dick and Nicole’s relationship through Rosemary’s eyes, their sexuality intimidating to her. It is an aspect of life she hasn’t yet experienced but longs to. Book one leaves us with some ambiguity about an upsetting event with Nicole, and as with Dick we gain greater insight into her character when the gaze moves from that of Rosemary. Nicole’s ill health is brought on by being abused by her father. Her relationship with Dick, although not as unequal, also begins with a power imbalance and so we can draw some parallels. This colours their relationship with a sense of dependency, which again at times mirrors that of a parent and child. Dick may be concerned with healing Nicole but at times it feels as though he makes her worse, that his own preoccupation with her mental health is not positive for either of them. It also causes him to distance himself from her emotionally, trying to separate her well and unwell, but ultimately causing a coldness between them. As book three progresses, Nicole comes into sharper focus independently.

The writing is frequently beautiful, and there are many passages that will stay with me. The emotional impact of the closing pages pack quite a punch, and although towards the end of book one the plot becomes a bit vague and wandering, Fitzgerald succeeds in bringing it back around, completely absorbing the reader in the characters. He did apparently consider whether the book would have been better if it were written chronologically. This may have been a more linear approach but I think some of the power would be lost. We are like Rosemary at the beginning, viewing the characters through the eyes of an innocent. It is more interesting to see their complexities reveal themselves gradually, and the contents of book one would feel more inconsequential if the characters were already established. A book full of intriguing characters and carefully crafted sentences which makes for a luxurious reading experience.

Pick up a copy:

Bookshop

Waterstones

Non-Fiction November Week Two - Book Pairings

This post contains affiliate links. If you click through and buy I will receive a percentage commission at no extra cost to you.

I’m late to the Non-Fiction November party this year, but when I saw the week two theme (provided by Katie of Doing Dewey) I couldn’t help but join in. 

The King Over the Water by Desmond Seward and Outlander by Diana Gabaldon

The first two books of Gabaldon’s best selling series centre around the time leading up to the infamous Battle of Culloden. For a look at the expansive history of the Jacobites which includes, but is no means limited to, the activity around Bonnie Prince Charlie, Seward’s book offers an overview of almost 120 years of the Jacobite movement.

Dark Emu by Bruce Pascoe, Growing Up Aboriginal in Australia edited by Anita Heiss and The Secret River by Kate Grenville

Grenville’s novel explores the relationship and violence between colonists in Australia and the Aboriginal people who have looked after and lived in the land for thousands of years. Dark Emu challenges the impression of Aboriginal people as hunter gatherers and shows how white history has retold their history to suit their own prejudices. Growing Up Aboriginal in Australia gives us a glimpse of life in modern Australia that reveals the ongoing impact of colonialism.

Black Tudors: The Untold Story by Miranda Kaufman and A Book of Secrets by Kate Morrison

Morrison’s book centres on a strong, intelligent, black woman in Tudor England. Enslaved, but later saved from slavery, she overcomes a number of challenges to succeed in a time where the colour of her skin and her gender would have led many to underestimate her. Kaufman’s book seeks to raise the voices of those who are often erased from the history of the Tudors, and reassesses the view that slavery was almost inevitable, urging us to think again about what caused a radical shift in perspective in the seventeenth century.

The Shadowy Third by Julia Parry and The House in Paris by Elizabeth Bowen

Parry’s enthralling book traces her grandfather’s affair with the writer Elizabeth Bowen through their correspondence, bringing her grandmother to the fore, who had destroyed her own letters from the time. This is a fascinating book that makes you think about how history is constructed. Reading it will definitely make you want to explore some of Bowen’s writing and The House in Paris is the novel cited as being central to the family’s myth around Bowen, so makes a good place to start.

Inconvenient People: Lunacy, Liberty and the Mad-Doctors in Victorian England by

Sarah Wise and Jane Eyre by Charlotte Brontë

Brontë’s ‘madwoman in the attic’ speaks powerfully to us through the years, inspiring creative responses and intriguing the casual reader. Wise’s book gives a startling insight into the way those considered mad were treated in Victorian England, as well as those who weren’t but were conveniently diagnosed as such to keep them out the way.

Beauty and the Beast, Madame de Villeneuve

This post contains affiliate links. If you click through and buy I will receive a percentage commission at no extra cost to you.

A tale as old as time, but not as you know it. Madame de Villeneuve’s original Beauty and the Beast is darker and more complex than the Disney version. Beauty’s father has fallen on hard times and is under pressure from Beauty’s selfish siblings to provide them with treasures. When he goes away for business he insists Beauty request a gift. She chooses a rose, knowing that he’ll easily be able to find one for free. Unfortunately, he tries picking one from the Beast’s garden, condemning her to a lifetime locked away with him.

The character of Beauty is sympathetic to begin with. She is kind and thoughtful despite her immediate family. As the novel progresses she begins to feel more otherworldly - she is selfless to a fault, beautiful beyond belief, and can play any and every instrument, speak countless languages, and generally excel at anything she tries her hand at. Despite the lavish praise that is heaped upon her however, we do see glimpses of capriciousness later in the tale, and a tendency toward the dramatic.

Her family don’t come off particularly well, even her father doesn’t argue against her being the one to go to the Palace. Later in the story we see how unwaveringly loyal to her family Beauty is despite the fact they insult and reject her. They feel in many ways more realistic - they have their human weaknesses and respond naturally, albeit not admirably, to events.

The Beast, for the most part, keeps to himself. He proves himself generous and kind through his actions but spends only a short amount of time with Beauty each day, simply asking for her hand in marriage. His counterpart appears to her in her dreams, her great Unknown. She falls for this mysterious man and wonders if he is also held prisoner in the Palace. Her feelings for him almost get in the way of her relationship with the Beast, despite the repeated advice not to be fooled by appearances.

This was an interesting and fairly enjoyable read that draws on a lot of familiar themes from other fairytales. The final section of the book, which seeks to explain the events that led up to it, is overly complex, convoluted, and frankly detracts from the rest of the tale. There are some shock revelations and a few lessons to learn from, but ultimately it would have been a stronger story without it. Nonetheless, it was fascinating to explore the original.

Pick up a copy:
Bookshop
Foyles
Waterstones

The Quest of the Absolute, Honoré de Balzac

Balzac’s 1834 novel considers the nature of genius and the lengths it will take people to. Balthazar Claes devotes himself to the pursuit of the philosopher’s stone, spending his own fortune and that of his family in the process. Joséphine has always been a devoted wife, but despairs at the destitution he is leading them into, fearing for the life their children will have once she is gone. Early in the novel Balzac writes ‘Too often, vice and genius produce similar results, which mislead the multitude. Genius is nothing more than constant excess, which devours time, money, and the body, and which leads to the poorhouse even more rapidly than evil passions.’, setting the tone for the story to come.

Frequently you will despair as Balthazar’s seeming obliviousness to the needs and lives of those who love him. Despite the failure of his experiments, his family are compelled to offer what they can to help him. The other characters cannot think poorly of him, seeing the agony of a frustrated mind, and so, ultimately, the final line inflicts a sharp wound to the reader.

The family dynamics and role of women in the novel are interesting. Both mother and daughter, Marguerite, try to curb Balthazar’s recklessness to little avail. Indeed, there are moments of softness and affection, where we see that even in the midst of his mania a small part of him remembers his family. On the other hand, these can feel like small consolations of a family desperate to find some evidence of paternal affection. They live in fear of what he will do to himself if his experiments are taken away, and ultimately sacrifice themselves for his intellectual pursuits.

Balthazar is a conflicting figure - his behaviour is unacceptable in many ways, but, near the end of the novel Balzac writes ‘That colossal sorrow, so courageously restrained, had its effect on both Pierquin and Emmanuel, who sometimes felt so deeply moved that they were inclined to offer him the money necessary for a series of experiments: so infectious are the convictions of a genius!’ Whether or not you believe he is a genius, or feel any sympathy for him in his depressed state, Balzac is here offering us a chance to see him through the eyes of those close to him. As an outsider, the willingness to repeatedly bail him out may seem illogical, even foolish, but we are reminded how convincing such a level of conviction can be, drawing all those around him into the pursuit of the absolute.

This is an interesting, accessible book with characters that will keep you pondering after the last page. A great one to try if you want to broaden your classics reading.

Shirley, Charlotte Brontë

This post contains affiliate links. If you click through and buy I will receive a percentage commission at no extra cost to you.

Shirley is perhaps Charlotte Brontë’s least read novel today, but this historic, social novel, has a lot to offer. The book doesn’t have one overarching narrative thread - there are the industrial depression and Luddite uprisings, some elements of romance, and plenty of social commentary. Most prominent however, are the two main female characters - Caroline Helstone and Shirley Keeldar. Their positions are opposite - Shirley has money and is strong-willed and defiant, Caroline has no fortune and is more obliging, but both find difficulties in their status. It becomes clear that for many, money takes precedence over all else, meaning that Caroline cannot marry the man she loves, and Shirley is wary of potential suitors, as well as being reluctant to give up the liberty her single status affords. 

Brontë is forthcoming with depictions of the plight of women. 

What do they expect them to do at home? If you ask, they would answer, sew and cook. They expect them to do this, and this only, contentedly, regularly, uncomplainingly all their lives long, as if they had no germs of faculties for anything else - a doctrine as reasonable to hold as it would be that the fathers have not faculties but for eating what their daughters cook, or for wearing what they sew. Could men live so themselves? Would they not be very weary? And, when there came no relief to their weariness, but only reproaches at its slightest manifestation, would not their weariness ferment in time to frenzy?

Caroline has very little autonomy, even being refused the opportunity to make her own money as a governess, and so finds herself with no occupation to stimulate her mind or add interest to her days. She ponders what her life will be like with very little chance of marriage. Her home life is unhappy; she has no contact with her mother, her father is dead, and her uncle is not pleasant company.

As is often the case in Brontë’s writing, the characters are well-drawn. She is expert in providing descriptions that instantly give a sense of personality, revealing anecdotes that show their true nature. The opening chapter introducing the three local curates contain cutting appraisals and touching stories that will keep you amused and curious. Some parts of the novel drag a little, but the character sketches are little gems scattered throughout. 

Despite there being hardship and unrest present, the main characters are not suffering themselves from the downturn in industrial work, so this always feels like a background feature rather than the main thrust of the book. In our introduction to Robert Moore we are told that he little thinks or cares where his workers get their daily bread when he lets them go, which may fool you into thinking the plight of the industrial worker will play a much more prominent role. In fact, little space is given to the working man.

This is a novel that’s hard to define. Some sections are slow but others are utterly gripping. The headstrong Shirley, famously based on what Charlotte imagined her sister Emily would have been if she’d been born into wealth and health, is a force to be reckoned with, and shows herself to be more than capable of holding her own time and again. There are some touching moments that some may find a little twee but which I enjoyed. Illness and mortality are a concern, and remind us of the fragility of life. It’s said that Gaskell’s Mary Barton, and the loss of her siblings during the writing process, changed the course of the story. We’ll never know for certain what Charlotte had originally intended for it, but what has come down to us is worth picking up, with Brontë's command of the language in her beautiful prose evident throughout.

Pick up a copy:

Bookshop

Foyles

Waterstones

Lorna Doone, R. D. Blackmore

This post contains affiliate links. If you click through and buy I will receive a percentage commission at no extra cost to you.

Published in 1869 and set in the seventeenth century, Lorna Doone is Blackmore’s most famous book, and the only of his once popular novels that is still readily available. It tells the story of John Ridd, an Exmoor yeoman, and his love for Lorna Doone. The name Doone is met with fear and disgust by the locals, having been terrorized by them for years, they even killed John’s father. Lorna, however, rejects their way of life and wishes for the freedom to be with John despite other plans being firmly in place to keep her within the Doone family.

John narrates the tale, although does at one point pass the narrative over to Lorna. He speaks directly to the reader at times, giving glimpses of what his future looks like as well as little asides on his views and opinions which are not always endearing to the modern reader. He is however largely portrayed as kindly if a little vain and you do find yourself hoping that things turn out well for him.

It may be Lorna’s name on the title page but she is not often part of the action, being in large part the greatest dream of John’s heart, who is utterly enchanted from their first meeting. Some readers accuse her of being weak and overly compliant yet there are glimmers of strength within. For example, she tells John that the Doones are ashamed of their villainy in front of her. She must therefore have expressed her distaste for their behaviour, to hold some kind of power over her manipulative and uncaring relatives is no small feat. She is also resilient, growing up in violent surroundings with very little love shown to her, and then trying to fit into the Ridd family when there is a certain level of distance due to her social standing.

The novel is rich in descriptive detail and the landscape is brought to life in much the same way you find in a Hardy novel. Indeed, one of the reasons the local community turn against the Doones, aside from their violence and thievery, is the way they misuse their land. In many ways this is a moral tale, but one in which people are easily forgiven if they exhibit signs of kindness. ‘Everybody cursed the Doones, who lived apart disdainfully. But all good people like Mr Faggus – when he had not robbed them – and many a poor sick man or woman blessed him for other people’s money…’ Mr Faggus is a highwayman, but his involvement in the community and the occasional kind action allow him to be embraced by the very people who may well be his next victim.

This is a long book that could likely have been cut down while still retaining its appeal. For the moments where it drags however there are many more where you become completely absorbed in the story and the writing, which at times feels almost poetic. The Doones are brilliantly drawn villains and never fail to live up to their reputation. There are moments when the tale seems to go off on a tangent and you’re left wondering quite how you got there. Nonetheless, this is a great read with a dramatic, violent climax.

Pick up a copy:

Bookshop

Foyles

Waterstones

Novel Houses: Twenty Famous Fictional Dwellings, Christina Hardyment

This post contains affiliate links. If you click through and buy I will receive a percentage commission at no extra cost to you.

In this journey through literature from Horace Walpole to J. K. Rowling, Hardyment attempts to demonstrate the central importance of houses in literature. She explores the influences and inspiration of some of the best loved fictional dwellings and considers how these buildings sometimes become characters in their own right. The twenty chosen novels are dealt with chronologically, allowing the reader to understand the progression of ideas and how the authors could be influenced by each other. Each chapter lasts on average only ten pages but there feels a great difference in the depth of analysis between them.

The likes of Walter Scott and Horace Walpole were interested in the medieval period and this is reflected not just in their writing (in which Hardyment points out their aims and preoccupations relevant to their contemporary political and social situations) but also in their own homes. Later authors are attributed to having particular obsessions with the idea of home or of one particular house that they mentally held on to throughout their lives. These claims occasionally feel a bit loosely evidenced with only a couple of quotes thrown in to add seeming authenticity.

Some chapters offer interesting analysis of the text, explaining how buildings were personified or used to explore certain character traits, reversing expectations. Others seem to be largely padded out with a synopsis of the story, unnecessarily revealing plot points with little relevance to Hardyment’s arguments. I’d previously read about half the books discussed and this allowed for a good mix in enjoyment. If familiar with all twenty I’m not sure you’d get much from this book.

A beautiful book with moments of insight but not overall adding much to the conversation. It did, however, pique my interest in a number of the books I’ve yet to read and is a gentle, bookish read.

Pick up a copy:

Foyles

Waterstones

I Capture the Castle, Dodie Smith

This post contains affiliate links. If you click through and buy I will receive a percentage commission at no extra cost to you.

The Mortmain family live in Godsend castle, crumbling and increasingly sparsely furnished as Cassandra’s father continues in a writer’s block that has impoverished his family. When the Cottons, a wealthy American family who have just inherited nearby Scoatney Hall, arrive they see an opportunity to marry Rose off and provide them all with some much needed financial stability.

Cassandra, our narrator, is seventeen and hoping to follow in her father’s footsteps and become an author, believing that writing a journal will help train her in telling stories. The narrative style creates a real closeness with the characters. It is realistically written, her filling us in when she hasn’t had time to write for a couple of days. Both her and Rose seem younger than they are with an innocence and naivety that has presumably sprung from their secluded home. Cassandra is an honest narrator, explaining and questioning her own motives even when they don’t paint her in the best light. She is sweet and willing to do all she can to help Rose succeed in wooing Simon Cotton, even braving a freezing nighttime swim with his brother Neil to give them more time alone.

There are many glimpses of normalcy that feel entirely natural throughout, the awkwardness of the Cottons enquiring whether or not her father will be releasing a sequel to his popular first novel Jacob Wrestling is painfully familiar to all who have ever been subject to questioning on a sensitive topic at a family gathering. The scene also gives extra context to his struggles. His novel was experimental and well received but others have built on and surpassed his work in the interim. He seems paralysed by the pressure and instead of writing spends his days reading detective novels and doing crosswords while his family makes do with what they have.

Stephen, who carries out errands for the family and is utterly devoted to Cassandra, contributes any income he can to make life more comfortable for them, although as Cassandra says, she never feels hard done by in their situation. She is also largely oblivious to Stephen’s affections but tries to rebuff him gently when encouraged to do so by her step-mother Topaz. Former model and a big believer in communing with nature, she completes the bohemian lifestyle and brings some light dramatics. Cassandra’s brother Thomas is largely absent throughout but does play an important role in an unexpected plot to encourage their father to start writing again.

This is a book I’ve always heard good things about but thought perhaps I’d missed the boat with. I was wrong. This is an enchanting, delightful read at whatever age you come to it. Cassandra’s voice is distinctive and honest, creating such vivid descriptions of their home and lives that you feel you could easily step through into her world. An absolute treat of a book.

Pick up a copy:

Bookshop

Foyles

Waterstones 

A Christmas Carol, Charles Dickens

This post contains affiliate links. If you click through and buy I will receive a percentage commission at no extra cost to you.

Dickens’ most famous Christmas tale is a warning against greed and a reminder that money doesn’t buy happiness. In his characteristic style, he brings Victorian Britain to life skilfully, with some dark humour running underneath. In such a short story he succeeds in creating believable characters and drawing out the traits them make them so memorable.

Scrooge is a miserly figure, universally disliked (although some do try) for his lack of generosity and dismissal of those closest to him. He finds no comfort in his wealth, keeping himself in discomfort to save money. He is the epitome of the futility of hoarding wealth for the sake of it. Through the visits of the three ghosts we learn more about his behaviour and some hint at what turned him into the cold, unloving figure that we know him as.

The Cratchits on the other hand are full of life and love despite their meagre income and the health problems that haunt them. Dickens’ character sketches are such that we feel for them almost instantly. The juxtaposition of Scrooge’s solitary, cold life and the affection and joy shared in the company of loved ones in the Cratchits is stark.

A cautionary tale for those in a position of privilege, it encourages a softer, more gentle approach. Scrooge realises how callous his own attitude to the poor is and comes to regret it. Dickens was originally planning to write a pamphlet in response to the horrifying facts revealed in the Children’s Employment Commission report. His choice of fiction instead has meant that his words and message have endured through the ages and remain relevant and heartfelt into the twenty-first century.

A short yet powerful book, and a great one to pick up if you want to give the classics a go.

Pick up a copy here.

Victober 2019

To my great delight, I discovered Victober this year – a month of reading Victorian novels run by some lovely bloggers. Check out the Goodreads page for more details and to get involved. I found out about this quite late and alas already had a full reading schedule for most of the month so haven’t been able to take part as much as I’d like but will be ready for it next year and have loved all the discussions going on around it. As regular readers will know, I’m a big fan of Victorian literature so this month is my idea of bookish heaven. Not wanting to be left out, I thought I’d do a summary of books I’ve read that fit in with the themes and a few that I’m still hoping to get to.

Challenge one – read a book by a female author (bonus if you haven’t read it before):

There are a lot of great female Victorian writers, many of whom I still need to get to. I’m always an advocate for Mary Elizabeth Braddon who doesn’t get nearly as much love as she deserves, but my book by a female author that I haven’t read before will be Shirley by Charlotte Brontë.

Challenge two – Re-read a Victorian book: 

Wuthering Heights is my most re-read Victorian novel, with Frankenstein a close second. With Christmas fast approaching though, I think I might give Charles Dickens’ Christmas books another go.

Challenge three – read a book under 250 pages or over 500 pages:

My favourite short story from the period (although not from a British author so not sure if it entirely counts) is The Yellow Wallpaper. For the 500+ pages I’m going to suggest Melmoth the Wanderer by Charles Maturin, a generally under read book that may have had a boost with Sarah Perry’s re-imagining Melmoth last year.

Challenge four – read an underrated book from the same year as your favourite:

I’m going to go for The Professor by Charlotte Brontë which I know wasn’t technically released in the same year as Wuthering Heights but Charlotte was trying to get it published at the same time and it would have been written around the same period. I read it last year and wasn’t sure what to expect as it’s famously her first rejected novel, but it was brilliant, and I’d recommend picking up a copy.

I’d love to hear from you if you’re taking part or for a general chat about all things Victorian. 

Far From the Madding Crowd, Thomas Hardy

This post contains affiliate links. If you click through and buy I will receive a percentage commission at no extra cost to you.

Published in 1874, Far From the Madding Crowd is Hardy’s fourth published novel and underwent many edits and revisions throughout his lifetime. This Penguin edition revives his original manuscript with notes explaining excisions in the serialised version. The book revolves around Bathsheba Everdene and the three men vying for her heart. Patient, loyal Gabriel Oak who brings to mind Diggory Venn in The Return of the Native, Boldwood, swayed into affection by a foolish valentine but then doggedly determined in his attempts to secure her hand in marriage, and Sergeant Troy who is introduced as disingenuous and impulsive. I’ll leave it to you to surmise who she chooses.

Occasionally naïve in her behaviour, Bathsheba is nonetheless headstrong and ambitious – she refuses to marry one she does not love, but further, she is reluctant to give up her position as head of house and farm as she would be obliged to should she marry. Keenly aware of the societal expectations of women, she pushes against convention and is disappointed when she believes herself to be acting in the weakness of her sex. Her blunt honesty, beliefs about marriage, and confidence in a world designed for men makes her feel quite modern despite circumstances forcing her into more traditional roles.

Hardy’s characteristic affinity for using chance as a narrative device to progress the plot is present at a number of crucial moments as is his favoured fatalistic character arcs. The characters that make up the local community seem inconsequential but succeed in adding context to events. Hardy’s verbose descriptions will frustrate or delight depending on preference, but the climax is sure to grip all who reach it.

Pick up a copy:

Bookshop
Foyles
Waterstones

Reader Morality

* Spoiler alert – this post discusses Rebecca, Wuthering Heights, The Phantom of the Opera, and American Psycho and you may find some parts to spoil the plot *

Last year I finally got round to reading Rebecca, and although it wasn’t quite what I was expecting, it is a book that inspires debate. The final quarter is by far the most engaging section of the novel as Rebecca’s murder and true character are revealed. Of course, Maxim’s depiction of her may well be skewed – their marriage did not end well and he’s unlikely to admit to murder in the same breath as praising his deceased wife. There are hints from other characters that suggest she was not as perfect as others would have the new Mrs de Winter to believe. Assuming that we believe Maxim’s tale, does this justify the reader in rooting for him to get away with it? Does the fact we know it’s fiction lessen the moral dilemma? I would argue that we are more accepting of extreme behaviour within the confines of fiction, and yet it can help us to see the world in less black and white simplicity.

The point of view of the narrator will play a large part in our reaction to events. We have witnessed the story unfold through the eyes of Maxim’s new bride and although she is not particularly likable and seems self-centred to the extreme when discovering the sticky end of Rebecca and feeling only relief that she no longer has to live in her shadow. Yet, because we have never met Rebecca except through the reminiscences of other characters, it is easier to side with Maxim. We experience the events through the loving eyes of his new wife and so it is her desire for evading the law that is projected on to the reader.

Often it is either the narrator’s voice that sways us as readers or the knowledge of mistreatment that has led to their otherwise unforgivable actions. Take Heathcliff for example; he behaves abominably through large chunks of Wuthering Heights and yet generations of fans hold him up as a romantic hero or misunderstood man. Popular adaptations lean heavily toward this interpretation, cutting many of his wicked deeds, yet many readings of the novel are also often reluctant to condemn him. Why? Is it because we see his mistreatment at the hands of Hindley and abandonment by Cathy and hold on to the sympathy this evokes? Regardless of this, can we really justify his abuse of the next generation who have done him no harm? Is it fair to look the other way because of childhood trauma? Would we feel the same way if it were real life?

Similarly in The Phantom of the Opera we are led to feel pity for the Phantom. Again, popular adaptations downplay his villainy, but even in the popular musical he kills somebody. In the book he has a torture chamber that we see put to use in horrifying detail, but we are also told that even his own mother would not kiss his head. His rejection is total. This sense of him having been wronged throughout his life through no fault of his own, to begin with at least, encourages us to feel more compassionately toward him. These characters show humans to be much more complex than simply good or bad. We seem to find this almost easier to accept in fiction than in life.

In both Wuthering Heights and The Phantom of the Opera we don’t have the story told to us by the perpetrators themselves but pieced together through other narratives. This suggests that it is knowledge of hardship that plays with our reactions more than the narrative point of view. If we look at a more recent example, American Psycho, we are reading a first person narrative, experiencing crimes in uncomfortable detail, and I can’t imagine many readers making excuses for Patrick Bateman’s actions as we have in the previous examples. Why does he not hold this same ambiguity (for the purpose of this post, let’s assume the crimes are real and not figments of his imagination, as is the belief held throughout the bulk of the book)? Consumerism and the shallow society he lives in seem to be his main driving factors, seeing humans as little more than commodities. This admittedly does not spring from the same abuse that our other examples have endured, yet there is the suggestion that he is mentally ill and therefore not entirely culpable for his actions. Why is this not enough? If we witnessed Heathcliff’s actions against Isabella in similarly gruesome detail would we find it as easy to make excuses for his behaviour? Does Bateman’s lack of regret close him off to us where in others there is some inkling of remorse? Do we need this as something we can relate to on a human level?

I’d love to hear your thoughts on these famous characters, what books have raised moral questions for you, and if the experience translated into altered world views? Let me know in the comments below.