Yesterday I found this in Critics on Jane Austen, one of the books I was talking about in my last post. I have always known Charlotte Brontë wasn’t exactly Austen’s biggest fan, but this is the first time I read her specific words on the subject. I thought I might post them.
Why do you like Miss Austen so very much? I am puzzled on that point. What induced you to say that you would rather have written Pride and Prejudice or Tom Jones, than any of the Waverley novels?
I had not seen Pride and Prejudice till I had read that sentence of yours, and then I got the book. And what did I find? An accurate daguerrotyped portrait of a commonplace face; a carefully fenced, highly cultivated garden, with neat borders and delicate flowers; but no glance of a bright vivid physiognomy, no open country, no fresh air, no blue hill, no bonny beck. I should hardly like to live with her ladies and gentlemen, in their elegant but confined houses. These observations will probably irritate you. but I shall run the risk.
from a letter to G.H. Lewis on January 12, 1948
She does her business of delineating the surface of the lives of genteel English people curiously well. There is a Chinese fidelity, a miniature delicacy, in the painting. She ruffles her reader by nothing vehement, disturbs him with nothing profound. The passions are perfectly unknown to her: she rejects even a speaking acquaintance with that stormy sisterhood … What sees keenly, speaks aptly, moves flexibly, it suits her to study: but what throbs fast and full, though hidden, what the blood rushes through, what is the unseen seat of life and the sentient target of death–this Miss Austen ignores….Jane Austen was a complete and most sensible lady, but a very incomplete and rather insensible (not senseless woman), if this is heresy–I cannot help it.
from a letter to W.S. Williams on April 12, 1850
Personally I have always preferred Austen. I loved Jane Eyre, but the irony and realism of Austen’s novels always manage to pull me back to them.
As I am writing an incredibly boring piece of informative text for my Dutch Linguistics class, I have no time to make a big post today. But I was just thinking how much I love not only to read fiction, but also to read about fiction.
My late grandmother collected articles and essays about authors her whole life, not to mention the amount of books on literary criticism she had. So I have lots of sources to choose from, often going to my grandfather’s house to borrow books. Today alone I acquired three books full of essays about the works of Jane Austen, since I’m considering writing my next English essay on Northanger Abbey (either that or Dorothy Parker).
I always thought it was obvious that I enjoy actually studying literature, since why else would I have chosen to study it at university? But now that I am here, I often hear my fellow students complain about how analysing a book can ruin it, which confuses me. I do understand that it can be boring. Even I, obsessed as I am, don’t find all aspects of literary criticism and theory equally interesting. But the idea, that talking about a book you originally enjoyed reading, can actually ruin your opinion of the book? That always sounds strange to me.
It’s not a feeling I’m familiar with. Then again, I am only in my first year. Who knows how much I might hate William Shakespeare by the end of my studies? It sounds horrible though. I hope it doesn’t happen to me. I want to love books as much as I always have, and just… know more about them.
Razors pain you;
Rivers are damp;
Acids stain you;
And drugs cause cramp.
Guns aren’t lawful;
Nooses give;
Gas smells awful;
You might as well live.
Just a short one, it’s a busy week. Not my favourite Dorothy Parker poem (though I definitely couldn’t tell you which one is my favourite), but a short and amusing one either way. And an easy one to quote!
Oh dear. What can I say? I’m just glad I loaned it from the library and didn’t actually spend money on it. But still, I should’ve looked up some reviews on the internet first. A lesson learned!
As you might have guessed from the title, Pemberley is a sequel to Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice, written by Emma Tennant. It starts when Elizabeth has been married to Mr. Darcy for about a year, but has yet to become pregnant. I never had high expectations for Pemberley, I assumed it would be like ordinary chicklit, except with better characters. Imagine my disappointment when I realised all the characters had severely changed from their Pride and Prejudice days, and had generally become more annoying and stupid, but not in a funny way.
Tennant’s version of Elizabeth, particularly, will frustrate readers to no end, as there seems to be nothing left of the headstrong Lizzie everyone fell in love with. I think the worst part for me was the ‘plot twist’ near the end, involving Bingley. I absolutely adore Charles Bingley, and sometimes think I might even prefer him over Mr. Darcy. This is probably because I have a thing for his constant idiotic smiling in the BBC television series (oh how happy those smiles make me!). So anyway, the novel had some ‘revelations’ about Bingley’s past that were beyond horrifying. Especially because they were completely out of character, if you know even the slightest bit what he’s like.
So Pemberley was severely disappointing, but I haven’t given up on the idea of reading an Austen sequel and actually enjoying it. It wouldn’t have to be a great novel, as mentioned my expectations are low (a lot lower now!), but ‘decent’ would be nice.
My next try will probably be Joan Aiken’s Jane Fairfax: The Secret Story of the Second Heroine in Jane Austen’s Emma. My mother never stops talking about how much she loved The Wolves of Willoughby Chase, a children’s book by the same author, so at least I know Aiken can write.
If you have any suggestions of decent books set in Jane Austen’s universe, please let me know!
For the 24th Weekly Geeks challenge, which is incidentally my first, we are asked to list some fun facts about one of our favourite authors. I chose Astrid Lindgren, the children’s book writer, because I have loved her stories ever since I first started reading. She is most famous for the Pippi Longstocking stories, of course, though my personal favourite has always been Ronia the Robber’s Daughter.
- She grew up in Småland, and based the environment of many of her books on that area.
- When her daughter Karin was ill, she asked Lindgren to tell her a story about Pippi Longstocking, thus creating her mother’s most famous character.
- There are about 40 movies based on her books.
- She received the Right Livelihood Award in 1993 “…For her commitment to justice, non-violence and understanding of minorities as well as her love and caring for nature.”
- 3204 Lindgren, a minor planet was named after her. As were Astrid 1 and 2, two Swedish satellites. Lindgren said that maybe people should call her “Asteroid Lindgren”.
I’m annoyed now. One of the main reasons why I picked Lindgren was because I had this newspaper article with an awesome picture of her in a tree. I wanted to post the photo but I can’t find it anywhere! The article seems to have gone missing, and Google is not being very helpful.
But try to picture an 80-year old lady climbing a tree, it’s a nice mental image anyway.
Just something to play around with. The Guardian is holding a contest, writing your memoirs in six words. It’s based on a recent book where authors do the same. The contest is only for people in the UK, but it’s a fun thing to try either way.
My first one is:
What would be yours?
I know the bottom, she says. I know it with my great tap root;
It is what you fear.
I do not fear it: I have been there.
Is it the sea you hear in me,
Its dissatisfactions?
Or the voice of nothing, that was you madness?
Love is a shadow.
How you lie and cry after it.
Listen: these are its hooves: it has gone off, like a horse.
All night I shall gallup thus, impetuously,
Till your head is a stone, your pillow a little turf,
Echoing, echoing.
Or shall I bring you the sound of poisons?
This is rain now, the big hush.
And this is the fruit of it: tin white, like arsenic.
I have suffered the atrocity of sunsets.
Scorched to the root
My red filaments burn and stand,a hand of wires.
Now I break up in pieces that fly about like clubs.
A wind of such violence
Will tolerate no bystanding: I must shriek.
The moon, also, is merciless: she would drag me
Cruelly, being barren.
Her radiance scathes me. Or perhaps I have caught her.
I let her go. I let her go
Diminished and flat, as after radical surgery.
How your bad dreams possess and endow me.
I am inhabited by a cry.
Nightly it flaps out
Looking, with its hooks, for something to love.
I am terrified by this dark thing
That sleeps in me;
All day I feel its soft, feathery turnings, its malignity.
Clouds pass and disperse.
Are those the faces of love, those pale irretrievables?
Is it for such I agitate my heart?
I am incapable of more knowledge.
What is this, this face
So murderous in its strangle of branches?–
Its snaky acids kiss.
It petrifies the will. These are the isolate, slow faults
That kill, that kill, that kill.
I’m thinking I might post a poem every Thursday from now. I recently found out Sylvia Plath’s daughter, Frieda Hughes, is also a poet, and am curious to read some of her work.
This morning I started in Noodlot, a novel by the Dutch writer Louis Couperus. Barely fifty pages into it however, I had to interrupt my reading for a class that was in fact about that very same book. I was actually planning to start in Noodlot earlier and finish it in time for the class, but for several reasons I had to postpone it to read Bint (see previous post).
So after hearing three of my fellow students talk about the book I am reading for an hour, I pretty much know everything there is to know about Noodlot. Both the story line and a more complex analysis.
The question is: has this affected my eagerness to read the novel? I don’t think it has. Sure, I am a bit sad I won’t get to find out how it ends through actual reading, but I still want to experience the story and characters myself. And maybe because of hearing their analysis, I will be able to form a more informed opinion.
Does knowing the ending ruin a novel for you? Not for me. Obviously it will often take some of the fun out of the book, but in the end, a good novel remains a good novel.
Today I will write about a Dutch book I recently read, Bint. You might question why I am bothering reviewing this book in English, since it has not been translated. The answer is simple: I want to. The alternative (breaking the continuity and writing in Dutch) seemed even more ridiculous. I do hope it will some day be translated, Bint definitely deserves it. But since the novel has been out for 74 years now, it is rather futile to hope.
Written in 1934, it follows the ideals of a German art movement called New Objectivity. This was a reaction to expressionism, against superfluous word use and sentimental writing. Bordewijk writes similar to a lawyer, using short and businesslike sentences. The idea of objectivity is obviously very important: distance is always kept, between the author and the story and between the different characters.
Bint is usually called the novel of ‘discipline’. It takes place in a school and is named after its principal, who has introduced his own system. Written from the viewpoint of De Bree, a substitute teacher who follows Bint’s learnings right from the start and bullies his classes into perfect obedience. When a student threatens to kill himself if they fail him, all Bint says is: “There’s no reason to save someone who has announced suicide.” The tragedy of the story is in the fact that Bint himself can’t handle the ruthless society he has created, and quits. The teachers however, continue his dictatorial doctrine without him.
You might think a novel written in such a cold style would be boring, but Bordewijk manages to be incredibly creative while staying true to his ideals. First of all, there is the names. Bordewijk is famous for the original and strange names his characters have, an example of which is ‘Whimpysinger’. There is also the strongly dehumanized way in which he portrays his characters. Using vivid imagery he writes about them as if they are creatures, wild animals.
While probably (hopefully!) not being a novel you can relate to, Bint is incredibly compelling, and interesting in such a unique way. I recommend it to anyone who speaks Dutch, and maybe someday to just ‘anyone’.
As childhoods go, Gerald Durrell had a very happy one. He was lucky enough to spend five years on an idyllic island of long summers, small villages and exotic animals: the Greek Corfu. He wrote three full books and a few short stories on the subject, of which ‘My Family and Other Animals’ is without doubt the most famous.
‘Birds, Beasts and Relatives’ is what you might call a sequel, though it isn’t really. The book features stories that had been left out, that according to his family in the prologue were ’some of the best ones’. Gerald Durrell spent plenty of hours in the wild, discovering new animals and studying them. More often than not, taking a few home with him, driving his family crazy with the zoo they were forced to live in. Though his siblings and mother were also quite eccentric, getting involved in the oddest incidents. Such as his sister Margo’s introduction to spiritualism and his brother Leslie’s court case, from which I’ll share an excerpt.
I asked eagerly whether, if Leslie was condemned, he would be sent to Vido, the convict settlement on a small island that lay in the sparkling sea half a mile or so from town.
‘No, no, dear,’ said Mother, getting increasingly flustered. ‘Leslie won’t be sent to Vido.’
I felt this was rather a pity. I already had one convict friend, serving a sentence for the murder of his wife, who lived on Vido. He was a ‘trusty’ and so had been allowed to build his own boat and row home for the week-ends. He had given me a monstrous black-backed gull which tyrannized all my pets and the family. I felt that, exciting though it was to have a real murderer as a friend, it would have been better to have Leslie incarcerated on Vido so that he too could come home for the week-ends. To have a convict brother would, I felt, be rather exotic.
Durrell’s Corfu trilogy is perfect for readers interested in the animal kingdom, human eccentricities and especially those childhood years of fascination and discovery. For an introduction to the world of Corfu during the Durrell years I would still recommend ‘My Family and Other Animals’, it has better narration and gives a more complete feeling. But for those among you who have finished that and aren’t ready to say goodbye to Corfu yet, ‘Birds, Beasts and Relatives’ is a fine extra read.