It is a story about understanding people; it is a story about understanding that our perceptions of peopDavid Copperfield is a story about growing up.
It is a story about understanding people; it is a story about understanding that our perceptions of people do not always match the reality of that person. We can idealise them. We can believe in them. We can love them. But that does not necessarily mean they are what we believe them to be or what we want them to be.
In classic Dickensian fashion, this is not a happy story; it is one full of hardship and harsh realisations, but it is also one of growth: it is one about the potential of becoming a better and stronger person despite the inherent pain that comes with this thing called life. We can learn from it.
It is a great story, one full of memorable and interesting characters. Some are awkwardly eccentric and some plain villainous. Here the marvel of Dickens shines through because he can capture people so incredibly well: he is the master of description. The way he writes brings all the quirks and individualism of his characters to life. There are few writers who can do this so well and with such a vast multitude of subjects. Each character is unique because the observation skills of his narrators scrutinise and report in such a detailed manner.
I became quite invested in David’s life. I cared about David. I wanted to see the world do him right after his unfortunate early experiences. And the conclusion was everything the story needed to be. But, for me, that is where it all ends. I do not have anything else positive to say because David Copperfield did not make me think nor did it make me consider anything else beyond the plot level. It gave me everything and it left me nothing to chew over.
Let me try to explain myself a little better. To compare this to Great Expectations, a sweeping story of love and tragedy, it is totally vanilla. That book is intriguing and mysterious. There is an element of the unknown. There are shadows that linger over the writing and it is a story that remains with me many years after reading it. It is that powerful. With David Copperfield, though, I feel like I could quite easily (and happily) forget most of what happened here.
It is a story I enjoyed but that is all, so three stars seems about right here. Tepid is the word that comes to mind when I think about David Copperfield. __________________________________
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The Woman in White promises so much and delivers very little.
The first hundred pages of the book are gripping and intense. Wilkie Collins begins with The Woman in White promises so much and delivers very little.
The first hundred pages of the book are gripping and intense. Wilkie Collins begins with an atmospheric mystery that is exciting and almost haunting. I really wanted to know all the secrets the story had to offer.
So even when the book began to grow a little dull around the middle I carried on reading because I hoped that the dryness would be worth it, my patience was bound to be rewarded. (I was so terribly mistaken.) The big reveal at the end is so ridiculously anti-climactic that I actually laughed. That’s what I had been waiting for all this time?
For a book like this, one that is driven by the plot rather than the characters, it is such a major downfall. The real problem this story had is its pacing. There is simply too much middle where the story just doesn't go anywhere and the characters fret over the same facts but get no closer to understanding what any of it means. I grew bored of the endless speculation and marriage politics. I wanted something to happen beyond the seemingly endless conversation that held no substance.
And the entire situation was agony. It was just so frustrating! It simply did not need to happen whatsoever and was predictable to a fault. When you get into bed with a nasty person it’s hardly surprising that your life turns to shit; yet, for the characters it came as a drastic shock. Wake up! Look at the real world! Surely, surely, nobody would be that stupid?
I gave up caring. It was a relief to finish....more
If anybody’s been following me for a while, they’ll know I have been trudging through this box set for over two years. The rate in which I’ve been reaIf anybody’s been following me for a while, they’ll know I have been trudging through this box set for over two years. The rate in which I’ve been reading them has decreased considerably as time went on. I used to review one a week, but it eventually got the point that is was a struggle to do one a month.
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And now I admit it, I’ve finally thrown in the towel. I managed to read 71/80 of these little books, though I’ve come to the point where the remaining nine just make me feel sad. I don’t want to read them! They are all the ones that I’ve been avoiding and life’s too short to read books that I don’t want to. I’m going to end up giving the majority of them bad reviews anyway. So I’ve decided to leave them, and put the remainder back on my shelf never to be read.
That being said though, there have been some great things in this series. I completed my goal of increasing my literary awareness and finding a few authors I may never have encountered. All in all, there have been many ups and downs. So this review is a summary of my experience, highlighting the three I enjoyed the most.
1. The Night is Darkening Around Me by Emily Bronte - Penguin Little Black Classic- 63
“The night is darkening round me, The wild winds coldly blow; But a tyrant spell has bound me, And I cannot, cannot go.”
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Trapped, that’s what the speaker is: she is completely trapped. But what’s retraining her? Is it some deep corner of her conscience or is it some powerful external force? These lingering questions are reinforced in an obscure way through the poem. Firstly, she is held in place by a binding darkness; secondly, she is weighed down by the surrounding forest, and thirdly she is stuck between the sky and the earth. Something is holding her back. But, what is it? Is it her will or something more ominous?
“The giant trees are bending Their bare boughs weighed with snow; The storm is fast descending, And yet I cannot go."
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As the poem progresses this develops further. Certainly, she speaks of physical restraints; however the poem evokes the distinct feeling that she doesn’t want to go. It’s not a simple case of not being able to go, but a more subtle suggestion that she doesn’t want to go. She is possibly stuck, with a complete lack of freedom, but she doesn’t entirely care as well. It’s almost like she has accepted this situation. It can even be read from the point of view that she is not in these places at all; she is somewhere else entirely: she is where she wants to be, and these monumental forces of nature cannot move her from her sanctuary. Whether this is a sanctuary of the mind, spirit or physical realms one can only speculate. Whichever way this poem is read, one thing remains certain, she doesn’t want to go nor can she go.
“Clouds beyond clouds above me, Wastes beyond wastes below; But nothing drear can move me; I will not, cannot go."
This poem is very open ended; I always love this in a poem. This was my favourite in the edition, but that’s not to say that there aren’t any other good ones in here. There are a lot of fantastic verses. ‘Death’ was also quite good. I do love the Bronte sisters. I need to read more of their works. This was a great collection of poetry, one that I’m likely to revisit.
2. A Cup of Sake Beneath the Cherry Trees by Kenko - Penguin Little Black Classic- 11
What strange folly, to beguile the tedious hours like this all day before my ink stone, jotting down at random the idle thoughts that cross my mind
Well, the first sentence certainly caught my attention because that’s exactly what I do with my book reviews. I sit in front of my notebook, with my pen in hand, and write the first thought that comes into my head in regards to the book. Admittedly, the train of thought is less random, but I still write down what comes to my mind. Later on, I organise it and turn it into a coherent book review. I only wish that Kenko had done something similar because this is a very random collection of thoughts. There is no perceivable ordering or any organisation.
I struggled with this initially because I like things to be categorised and structured. I don’t like mess and books that are all over the place. Indeed, this edition could be read back to front or odd pages first and even numbered pages after. It could even be picked up in the middle. It is, quite literally, the idle and most random thoughts of the author. He ponders all manner of things in here. However, once I got over the lack of coherence in the writings, I did find some wisdom and perhaps even a kindred spirit.
"It is a most wonderful comfort to sit alone beneath a lamp, book spread before you, and commune with someone from the past who you have never met".
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I found myself agreeing with many of the author’s opinions. He is easy to sympathise with and relate to. He was clearly man who appreciated his books, and understood the comfort and joy that can be found within the pages of a worthy tome. He’s observations on how one should live their life are also quite accurate, at least in my opinion. He suggests that wealth should not be the measure of one’s life because it disturbs peace and tranquillity; it only leads to a corrupt mind, and cause other’s to lust over your treasure. I think in principle its sound advice, but not always in practice. Wealth can be accumulated and used benevolently, though that is quite rare. I just think at times, his thoughts sounded similar to my own.
"What happiness it is to sit in conversation with someone of like mind, warmed by candid discussion of the amusing and fleeting ways of the world……but such a friend is hard to find, and instead you do your best to fit in with whatever the other is saying, feeling deeply alone."
I feel like the author has made many true observations that will ring true in the heart of any bookworm. He understands because, by the sounds of things, he was one once too. I’m very glad I read this, and I do recommend it to those that wish to, as Kenko put it, commune with someone from the past.
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3. The Yellow Wallpaper by Gilman -Penguin Little Black Classic- 42
Here follows the diary of a moronic Victorian husband.
>Three days before treatment:
I’ve got a great idea. My wife is suffering from low mood. So I, being an extremely practical Victorian man, have decided that the best solution for the problem is to restrain her in the house. This is clearly a brilliant idea. Our marriage simply doesn’t restrain her faculties enough.
It makes sense you see. I got the idea from the prestigious Dr. Silas Mitchell. He describing what he calls his "rest cure" for hysterical women, wrote, "I do not permit the patient to sit up or to sew or write or read. The only action allowed is that needed to clean the teeth." At the end of six weeks to two months of such treatment, he says the women would be good as new. So I’m going to try this on my wife. Can you not see the sheer intellect behind the idea? This will solve everything just you wait and see.
>1 day into treatment:
I’ve restricted my wife’s freedom incredibly. I direct her every action for her own safety. She eats what I tell her, when I tell her. And she has to stay in our bedroom all day. This will soon be over; she only has a temporary nervous depression. She babbles on to me about her problems at night. I don’t have time for them. I’m a man you see. So that means respectability and shutting down any sign of emotion. I told her to go to sleep, this will soon be over.
>7 days into treatment:
I caught my wife writing in a journal. What an impetuous woman she is! Does she not understand that these restrictions are for her own safety? I do this because I must have a trophy wife. In public we must be seen as a successful couple with an air of respectability. She can’t be jotting down such nonsense and expressing her thoughts. I told her to stop. She doesn’t need the distraction. She needs to be well again, for my sake.
>14 days into treatment:
My wife has taken a turn for the worse. She barely eats and she just sleeps all day. She says she needs a vocation; she needs something to do to pass the time, and test her intellects. What silly notions. What she clearly needs is more restriction. That’s the only way she will get over her aliment. She keeps talking about the wallpaper, says she wants the room decorated because it feel like a prison. She says it reminds her of bars. I cannot be doing with it, I told her to go to sleep. I’ve got man things to do in the morning.
>30 days into treatment:
My wife has gone mad. I think she will have to be locked away. I entered the room and what I beheld was sheer depravity. Such animalistic behaviour, I passed out. I could not bear the sight. The treatment did not work. I should have restricted her more. She had far too much excitement, locked in the house all day with that extremely entertaining wallpaper. I should have left her in darkness. That would have worked.
Note to self- Tell Dr. Silas Mitchell of this discovery.
The truly scary thing about this story is how real it is. This is the rest cure Victorian women were subjected to, and the journal I wrote here is the ridiculous rationale that drove it. The author of this story was actually administered this “cure.” Her own experienced informed her narrator’s perspective. It’s terrible that something like this had to be written to show how stupid these ideas were. This is a very powerful story, and this was a very stupid husband.
-I’m glad I read through most of them, it’s been fun at times but so many of them weren’t to my taste. It was good to discover what I like though....more
By today’s standard’s The Castle of Otranto is a ridiculous piece of melodrama. However, when it was originally published it was absolute dynamite.
It By today’s standard’s The Castle of Otranto is a ridiculous piece of melodrama. However, when it was originally published it was absolute dynamite.
It had the power to shock and dazzle its earliest of readers. They were innocent and unused to horror; thus, it was utterly compelling for them. Such a thing is comparable to early cinema. Audiences were thrilled by silent movie car chases and actions scenes. If we watch them today they are unexciting and laughable. Truly great literature is timeless. Frankenstein will never stop being brilliant nor will Dracula or Jane Eyre. Unfortunately, The Castle of Otranto is far from great literature. It is too stuck in its era to be considered effective and, structurally speaking, it is dreadful.
There is no set up or beginning per say, but, again, Walpole is not entirely at fault because the novel was still very, very, new at this point. Austen had not yet come along to give it structure and meaning. On the first page of this we are introduced to the characters, their lineages and personalities. On page two one is crushed by an ethereal floating helmet of sorts. It’s like Walpole doesn’t quite know how to pace. Instead he has ideas, idea he cannot wait to blurt out at the first opportunity without first creating any sense of character.
Although I found myself cringing at the plot, laughing at the overdone horror moments and yawning at the resolution, it would be remiss of me to ignore the book’s place in the cannon of horror literature. It was the first ever horror novel, effectively, it is a piece of writing that inspired other more talented writers to go on and produce better works. They took Walpole's themes and ideas and perfected them. For those interested in tracking the development of the horror genre this is certainly and interesting to read.
The best way to approach this is as an academic curiosity, a piece of writing that carries a lot of history and significance, but, ultimately, it isn’t that great to begin with....more
Yes, I am still going- just barely though. I have nine left after this one. It’s been over two years. I will have a party when I finally finish, a booYes, I am still going- just barely though. I have nine left after this one. It’s been over two years. I will have a party when I finally finish, a bookish party involving me and a few books that don’t bore me.
So here I am about to complain about another edition. The point of this collection is to try and tease the reader, to give him/her a taster of a work before trying the whole piece. It may come in the form of a few poems or short story or novella. In truth, there’s not much material in them, but enough for a reader to decide whether they want to read more of this writer or not. I bought this collection to increase my literary knowledge, to get a feel for different genres and literary eras and perhaps find some great texts.
I have found a few, but not many. As time has gone on my enthusiasm for reading this collection has waned, mainly because I mistakenly cherry picked the ones I knew I would like first. What are left are the dull ones I simply don’t want to read. This is one is no exception. The poetry is fairly pleasant to read, but there is absolutely no context. Without any form of introduction, even a paragraph or two would suffice, I have no idea where this sits in relation to the rest of the work. It's like opening a five hundred page book on random page (let’s say 234) and expecting to understand what’s happening. It doesn’t work. This edition doesn’t work, yet another bad egg in the collection.
Penguin Little Black Classic- 76
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The Little Black Classic Collection by penguin looks like it contains lots of hidden gems. I couldn’t help it; they looked so good that I went and bought them all. I shall post a short review after reading each one. No doubt it will take me several months to get through all of them! Hopefully I will find some classic authors, from across the ages, that I may not have come across had I not bought this collection....more
The Three Theban Pays are the absolute pillar stone of ancient Greek drama, and in my opinion they contain two of the best plays ever written: OedipuThe Three Theban Pays are the absolute pillar stone of ancient Greek drama, and in my opinion they contain two of the best plays ever written: Oedipus the King and Antigone.
Oedipus the King- because sometimes life's a real bitch.
Fate is unavoidable in ancient Greek Tragedy. Trying to avoid it will only lead to it, and doing nothing will lead you there too. So if a God tells you that you will die at the hands of your son, and that he will then go on to steal your wife, you’d best do nothing because it’s going to happen anyway. Any preventative action you take will only lead to the same ending. So, you’re pretty much screwed. You might as well lie down and accept it. The God's are mean.
But, nope, if you’re like the King of Thebes you’ll leave your infant son for dead instead.
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Poor Oedipus. He really didn’t have much chance in life. He could do nothing to intervene with his own destiny, mainly because his tragic flaw is his lack of awareness about his true origins. He hears a rumour of the prophecy told to his farther, so he endeavours to stay away from him. But, in doing so he is pushed ever closer to his real farther. That’s the problem with being abandoned at birth; you just don’t know who is who in the world! There’s some irony in this somewhere.
Indeed, it suggests that no free will exists at all because any exertions of the supposed free will lead to the predetermined fate. So every action has been accounted for already. The intended audience may have been aware of these powers but Oedipus and his farther were hapless in their wake. They had to both learn the hard way. Oedipus had to recognise it, and in the process he shattered his life: it made him tear out his very eyes. Now that’s real grief. There’s no wonder Aristotle made this his model for the perfect play because this is masterful.
Aristotle’s theory can be used to assist the reader in understanding how the plot contributes to the tragedy. I couldn’t have read tragedy without it. The tragedy is created, in part, by the complexity of its plot which leads towards the catharsis. According to Aristotle’s Poetics the complexity of the plot is established through reversal, recognition and suffering. A simple plot will only establish one of these; therefore, it will have a limited catharsis. The reversal (peritpeteia) is the change of a state of affairs to its opposite, such as the reversal of Oedipus’ identity. The recognition (anaghorsis) is achieved through the acquiring of knowledge, like the knowledge Oedipus gains of his birth. Aristotle argues that an effective plot has its anaghorisis bound up with the peritpeteia. This is because it, “carries with it pity or fear” such as these following lines:
"O god- All come true, all busting to light! O light- now let me look my last on you! I stand revealed at last-” (Lines 1305-9)
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I hope I didn’t lose anyone or bore them to death with my summary of Poetics. The structure is the key; it is everything in delivering the plot. If, in the cathartic moment, the action can evoke suffering through a combination of a reversal of circumstances during a brutally stark recognition, then the ultimate delivery of pity and fear will be achieved. Such is the case with Oedipus. Oedipus’s hamartia, his tragic flaw at the core of his being, is his ignorance, and when the veil is lifted he realises the tragedy of the situation; he realises all too late that fate is unshakable and unconquerable.
He has unknowingly committed incest with his mother and murdered his farther, so, like I said, life is a real bitch.
Oedipus at Colonus
Oedipus has been cursed by fate. After unwittingly killing his farther and marrying his own mother, he was cast out of his own land: he was banished by fate. He is now blind, old and has but only one wish: death.
His sister-daughters (children born of incest with his mother) wish to help in this but his son-brothers want him to return to the land of Thebes alive and well. They have heard a new prophecy concerning his fate, and they have grown to fear it. However, as readers of Oedipus the King learnt, trying to change fate only leads to destiny changing the path; ultimately, the destination will always remain the same: there is no escape. Oedipus is resigned to let the wind take him wherever it may go. He has learnt that he has no power. His past remerges, a dangerous past that the world considers criminal. It is one he tried to avoid, but, again, he could never escape from it. King Creon, Oedipus’ taciturn brother in law is especially angry at Oedipus for the death of Jocasta hurt him severely. It's very easy to judge others in such a situation, but as Oedipus retorts:
"One thing, answer me just one thing. If, here and now, a man strode up to kill you, you, you self-righteous --- what would you do? investigate whether the murderer were your farther or deal with him straight off? Well I know, as you love your life, you’d pay the killer back, not hunt around for justification. "
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As a sequel to Oedipus the King and a prequel to Antigone this play is very much the middle of The Three Theban Plays. Oddly, it seems to be read far less than the other two plays, which I think is a bit of a shame. Granted, it lacks the autonomy of the others, but it is just as important in understanding the trilogy. And this is the crux of the play; it is Oedipus’ moment to defend himself, and give voice to his actions which he was not responsible for. At the same time, the plot foreshadows and leads straight into Antigone and explains much about King Creon's choices.
In terms of action- I speak of the technical connotations of the word as defined by Aristotle in Poetics- the play is lacking. There is very little in the way of tragic elements. It was only performed after Sophocles’ death when the glory days of Athens had set. The play was a reminder to its audiences of what had been lost, Oedipus served as a reminder of an age gone by, one that would never return. Reading the play today, I see the same sense of departure. This line for example as spoke by the Chorus:
“Then it’s the end of Athens, Athens is no more!"
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I love reading Ancient Greek drama; it is so well crafted; it is straightforward yet complex; it is sophisticated yet bold and bloody. Sort of odd really when considering the fact that all deaths were off stage, but you still get the idea from it. I’d love see some modern reproductions of it live.
Antigone
Antigone is a real heroine; she stands up for what she believes in. She was faced with a strong dilemma. The law of man, the word of her uncle the king, demands that her brother's body remains unburied in the open with no funeral rights, to be savaged by animals. For King Creon, this is a symbolic justice for a traitor and a rebel, but the laws of the God’s, and the ruling of Antigone’s own mind, demands that she gives him libations (death rights) that all men deserve. She buries the body and faces the consequences of the crime.
Creon: And still you had the gall to break this law?
Antigone: Of course I did. It wasn't Zeus, not in the least, who made this proclamation-not to me Nor did that justice, dwelling with the gods beneath the earth, ordain such laws for men. Nor did I think your edict had such force that you, a mere mortal, could override the gods.
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So, like I said she’s a heroine, for standing up against tyranny, but she isn’t the play’s tragic hero: it’s clearly King Creon. Who has the right of this situation? It is easy to brand Creon a tyrant, though to do so overlooks the reasoning behind his actions. In punishing Antigone’s dead brother, her rebellious dead brother, he is sending a political message to those that threaten the peace of Thebes. In reality he is being an effective, albeit harsh, ruler. When his niece breaks his law, he has no choice but to punish her as he would any man. He couldn’t allow her to be an exception to the rule, to do so would be to undermine the law of the land and his politics: it would be to make him a hypocrite. But, to sentence her to death, that’s a little extreme.
Thus, Sophocles presents a beautifully conflicted situation. There is no longer a discernible sense of right or wrong, only a thin line of morality that separates a tyrant from a man of justice. And his conviction only gets worse; he refuses to hear what his son and the city (the chorus) think about the situation. He only sees his narrow-minded sense of justice, and ignores the effects it will have on his loved ones. He has no doubts about his actions, and demonstrates the questionable nature of a cold approach to kingship. The laws of man are not always right. Something Creon simply cannot perceive. To his mind, he is morally right, a man of good character and a king of honour. Is this not the most dangerous of leaders?
Creon: I will take her down some wild, desolate path never trod by men, and wall her up alive in a rocky vault, and set out short rations, just the measure piety demands to keep the entire city free of defilement. There let her pray to the one god she worships: Death—who knows?—may just reprieveher from death. Or she may learn at last, better late than never, what a waste of breath it is to worship Death.
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And this is what makes him the play’s tragic hero. His hamartia, his tragic flaw in Aristotle terms, is his severe lack of judgement, and his inability to perceive the wrongness of his decree. The reversal, recognition and suffering come in the form of the priest Tiresias, an old wise man who speaks to the Gods. He tells Creon what will happen if he persists down his current path, and after much resistance, Creon finally relents his folly. But it is far too late. The blood has already been shed. Tragedy has already struck, death has already struck: Creon is left in tatters. It is the hardest of lessons to learn.
So what do we learn from this? Greek tragedy was didactical in purpose; it was used as a learning tool, a means of imparting wisdom to the audience. What is Sophocles message? For me it’s quite simple: open your eyes and your heart. Never presume that you are right and an absolute morale authority. For Creon, his realisation came too late. The result was a sacrifice he will never forget, Antigone's death, and the one most readers seem to sympathise with. But I implore you to look further into the play, and consider the full role of Creon. To overlook him is to overlook the point of the work:
“All men make mistakes, but a good man yields when he knows his course is wrong, and repairs the evil. The only crime is pride.”
This play is a spectacular piece of work, though I think reading the other two plays helps to elucidate its greatness. For me, this book is one everybody should read at least once in their lifetime....more
Pushing the boundaries of what acceptable literature can actually be, Lolita is very much a piece of art.
For many years I kept hearing about this booPushing the boundaries of what acceptable literature can actually be, Lolita is very much a piece of art.
For many years I kept hearing about this book, the content sounding disturbing and perhaps even slightly fascinating. It’s a book that’s central theme is one of the darkest elements of mankind: paedophilia. And although such a thing is beyond revolting, it is used to tell the tale of a very lost and very lonely man. Humbert is a man to be pitied, pitied because he actually exists.
A child in a man’s body, unable to move on from what was to him the most perfect memory; Humbert’s obsession with youth takes on the form of paedophilia: he becomes attracted to this idea of purity and develops strong sexual feelings towards it. Humbert knows he is a monster, but he just doesn’t care. To him his feelings are perfectly justifiable, natural even. He has an incredibly distorted view of the world; thus, we see the world through the eyes of an extremely unreliable narrator. Perhaps unreliable is the wrong word. He reports what he sees with utmost honesty; however, his perceptions of these experiences are, well, just wrong.
As a character study, he is a very worthy subject. In the wake of Freudian psychoanalysis, Nabokov’s novel is aware of the rising field of psychology. Humbert is a walking contradiction. He is at times unbelievably arrogant, and at other times he is timid and weak; he is passive yet manipulative; he derides nothing from life other than a person sense of sexual gratification: it’s all he lives for. He has an exceedingly narrow range of interests; he scrutinises everything and remembers the most minor of details. He is charming, but at other times completely socially awkward. I think it wouldn’t be too far a thing to suggest that there are elements of Autism within his personality. He is obsessive about things, about his work and “his” Lolita. Ironically, at one point, he expresses succinct knowledge of Freud and at another he demonstrates complete ignorance towards Freud’s psychosexual stages of development. So who exactly is this Humbert?
Humbert is lost; he is lost in life, and he is lost within himself: he is hopeless, looking for any sense of light in his life. Unfortunately, this projection of desperation takes on the form of a child. He falls in love with Lolita, and what she represents to him. But of course it’s not real love; Lolita is just a sexual object to him not a person. So what follows is a story of a man who has convinced himself that his actions are perfectly justified. When he takes a twelve year old child in his arms; it is perfectly fine to his mind because she comes willing. Never mind the fact that he has crafted a situation so that she responds to his advances. She is vulnerable and completely alone in the world; she has no one to turn to in her moment of grief, and the snake is ready to lunge.
Nabokov describes some truly disturbing scenes, though he does so with eloquence bordering on the genius. Sounds odd, considering what I have just described. The content of the book is vile, Humbert is vile, but in a fictionalised world we have to look beyond that. The world is seen through the eyes of Humbert, so everything we see is what he sees and what he experiences. Nabokov uses free-indirect style to narrate some harrowing scenes, the content is vile but the language is beautiful. Again, this is what Humbert experiences. As troubling as this book may be, I argue that this has very strong place in the literary world. Nabokov explores the mind of a sexual predator and I think as readers we can learn a great deal in the process. We can see how the psychological make up of such an individual is formed and we can see what they think and they feel. To understand such a man is the first step towards stopping him and recognising this behaviour in other men.
As a reviewer, I find it of vital importance to read the reviews of others. There’s a quote on the back of my book from one such review; it says, and I quote “There’s no funnier monster in modern literature than poor, doomed Humbert Humbert.” I cannot quite describe how angry that quote makes me. There is nothing funny about Lolita.This book is terribly serious in content, and Humbert is not a man to be laughed at. What we have is a deeply disturbed individual, one confused and drifting through life, cold and utterly broken inside, and he is about to ruin the life of a young girl.
I don’t laugh at this book, I weep at its brilliance.
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I am at an impasse with this collection. This is the seventieth edition I’ve read and reviewed so far. This means I have only ten left, only ten untilI am at an impasse with this collection. This is the seventieth edition I’ve read and reviewed so far. This means I have only ten left, only ten until I complete the challenge I set out for myself almost two years ago now. Instead of reading them in numbered order, I cherry picked the ones I liked the sound of; thus, the ones that are left are almost certainly going to be ones I dislike. I might get a few surprises, but so far it is not looking promising. I keep putting off reading them. I think I need to just dedicate a day to where I just push through them all and then bombard goodreads with my reviews for a few days.
In reality though, I will probably continue to review one a month. The last few have been quite painful to read, and this was no exception. For what it’s worth, I did agree with a few of Ruskin’s points in here but as a piece of writing it is lifeless. Where is the wit? Where is the genius of Oscar Wilde? This was meant to be a lecture; it was meant to be spoken aloud and not simply read off of the page, so some of the power behind the rhetoric is lost. Though, that being said, I don’t think I could sit through this speech. I’d leave the room or fall asleep across the desk.
I did try looking for an audio version but I didn’t have any luck. I wasn’t overly disappointed in my failure to locate one. It probably saved me an hour or two of my life. Here’s to hoping the remaining ten are better than this piece of boring prose!
Penguin Little Black Classic- 06
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The Little Black Classic Collection by penguin looks like it contains lots of hidden gems. I couldn’t help it; they looked so good that I went and bought them all. I shall post a short review after reading each one. No doubt it will take me several months to get through all of them! Hopefully I will find some classic authors, from across the ages, that I may not have come across had I not bought this collection....more
I read this a few months ago now, and I drastically undervalued its brilliance. I’m writing an essay on racial encounter in the modernist movement forI read this a few months ago now, and I drastically undervalued its brilliance. I’m writing an essay on racial encounter in the modernist movement for university, so I’ve been picking this book apart during my second and third readings of it.
During the course of it, I’ve noticed something equally as important. Racial encounter is at the centre of this book, but it is not the heart of it. Indeed, repressed sexual desire and love are what drive the narrative forward. But love isn’t easily recognisable to our narrator Irene Redfield. She’s in love with a woman, and she doesn’t quite know it yet. Her feelings for Clare Kendry switch back and forth between lust and hatred; she hates how this woman has a pull over her, an irresistible force of attraction that she cannot shy away from.
And it’s ruining her life; thus, the completely open end of the book. She wants to destroy such an object of power, but I don’t think she really ever stopped to consider what the object actually meant to her. Her marriage is cold and loveless; she doesn’t know what love is, so when she experiences it she doesn’t recognise it or understand it. There are so many passages I could quote here. I have them marked down in my edition. There’s so many suggestions of it, some subtle musings and others plain lust. It’s worth reading the book with this relationship in mind.
But, anyway, issues of race and postcolonialisms are what I’ve been really looking into. More and more I seem to be referencing the ideas of Franz Fannon’s Black Skins White Masks whenever I review a book like this. It’s so ridiculously apt and summarising the situation. Fannon’s arguments suggest that the black man has been indoctrinated with this idea that he is inferior. Who he is, and where he comes from, is inferior. Therefore, he is forced to adhere to this model of what is superior. And at this time that was the foolish notion of elite white culture. The black man then pretends to be white; he speaks like a white man, he dresses like him and acts like him: he tries to be him, rather than establishing his own sense of identity.
So what is the concept of Passing? Essentially, it is where people of black heritage, who are very white, can pass of as completely white. For example, you may have had a black grandfather or great grandfather who has intermingled with white culture and has watered down his blood. So the result is a child who is what 1920s American society would still deem a “Negro” but to all appearances is not one. The individual is left with two choices: own their heritage, and embrace it, or pretend to be something else.
“It’s funny about passing. We disapprove of it and at the same time condone it. It excites our contempt and yet we rather admire it. We shy away from it with an odd kind of revulsion, but we protect it.”
And this book captures both sides. To be a Negro here is to be a second class citizen, nobody wants the stigma attached with that, so they distance themselves from the label as much as possible. Even if it means marring a racist bigot of a husband who has no idea his own wife is actually descended form black heritage. Some embrace who they are and are proud of it. The psychological framework that has built the prior example is understandable. Nobody would want to be in such a situation, though the truly brave are those that resist it and stand up for who they are. Those that ignore the societal pressures, as they should, are the ones that help make change and social progress.
This is an interesting novella, it captures an element of the postcolonial legacy I was unaware of previously, and it has suggestions of homosexual desire which really is highly characteristic of some of the literature of the period. It's really worth a read....more
I wouldn’t want to be a Golem, and I wouldn’t want to see one either. Doing so seems to lead to a high degree of delusion. Well, an unreliable narratiI wouldn’t want to be a Golem, and I wouldn’t want to see one either. Doing so seems to lead to a high degree of delusion. Well, an unreliable narration at the very least. I feel like everything the narrator says and does is questionable, and everything he says is doubtful. It’s impossible to say how much of this actually happened, and how much of it was in the narrator’s mind. Obscure density is all we are left with.
”I hoped they would change their shape as I looked at them, allowing me to assume some optical delusion has been the cause of the fear that was paralysing me.”
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And that’s exactly it. At the end of the novel he appears to wake up from a dream, but, again, that in itself is highly doubtful. He has spent the entirety of the process in another man’s body, but the events he dreamt about apparently happened in a not so distant past. So how do we identify reality and the fantastic? What divides them? Absolutely nothing. Meyrink intertwines the two resulting in one massive headache of a novel. I’m just not sure what to believe. The narrator could be insane; this would explain the questionable nature of the events and the undertones of the macabre. He could have just had one nightmarish dream and then decided to get on with his life. But what if it did happen? It leaves me with mind numbing questions in the same way that Kafka’s Trial did. Simply put, we will never have our answers.
The setting of the novel is like a haunted ghetto. The spirit of the citizens is bleak and morose. Perrath, our protagonist, is in a real dark place. He has no control over the events in his life as he descends even further into this abyss of despair. He has no real sense of freedom or expression of individual will. In part, this can be seen as an allegory for the First World War. The people are subjugated and forced into unpleasant circumstances as the horror of death tears through Europe.
Certainly, there are parallels. But no reading is conclusive. For me, the best aspect of this story is its dream like feel. I don’t think an overall interpretation can be applied to the work. Nothing fits it perfectly or defines it. H.P Lovecraft, the man who wrote some of the strangest short stories in existence, called it weird. From him, that’s a rather large compliment. It would have the same effect as Charlotte Bronte praising the work of a minor author for its feminist aspects. So this isn’t an easy book to read. It is, indeed, a very weird book. It should be approached with caution. If you go into this expecting a linear framework you will be drastically disappointed. This book has a nightmarish quality, after reading it you’re not entirely sure what any of it means. But that’s not necessarily a bad thing. This one will haunt me for a while. ...more
Zeus is such a tyrant; he just wanted to keep all that power to himself. So when the noble hearted Prometheus gave a little bit of it to man, Zeus wasZeus is such a tyrant; he just wanted to keep all that power to himself. So when the noble hearted Prometheus gave a little bit of it to man, Zeus was rather angry; thus, he punishes Prometheus rather severely: he is chained to rock where an eagle eats his liver, only for it to grow back overnight for the next day’s feed. This is perpetually repeated.
But what of Prometheus’s reasons. Why did he give man fire?
He did it because he saw that man needed it. It wasn’t the simple reckless theft as Zeus would have it be: it was benevolence. Prometheus is a titan, a race of giants of incredible size that possess great strength; however, they have little intellect. Prometheus is the exception to the rule. He saw in man a smaller version of himself; he realised that salvation resided in improving one’s intellect, like his own did, so he gave them a tool in which they could use to develop. Does he sound like a bad guy? No. He doesn’t. His only crime was disobedience. His fate eternal torture:
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Prometheus is, naturally, quite annoyed at the entire situation. He has spent years in service to this new God; he helped him win his dominion. This is how he is repaved? He knows that Zeus will never relent, so he turns to prophecy to construe the tyrant’s fall. He speaks to the chorus and to various demi-gods to make his plans known. He is very much the victim in this play. He only ever wanted to help mankind, but in doing so he accidently threatened the position and authority of the Gods. Not a thing to be taken for granted by those in power.
"Then beneath the earth those hidden blessings for man, bronze, iron, silver and gold—who can claim to have discovered before me? No one, I am sure, who wants to speak to the purpose. In one short sentence understand it all: every art of mankind comes from Prometheus.
So the situation becomes morally complex. Although his actions were intended to be kind, he very much overstepped a boundary. Man has prospered with his gift, but it wasn’t Prometheus’s to give. Perhaps the Gods were withholding it for a reason beyond their own preservation. Man has developed medicine and trade form fire, but he has also developed war and conquest. He has become more productive, more dangerous. Zeus could simply have taken fire back from man, though he has a point to make in his actions. He wants Prometheus to see his “mistake” and live with the consequences. Isn’t Zeus just lovely?
I love how Aeschylus has banded this situation together. He plays on the audience’s sympathy for his hero, but he also shows the danger he possesses. As ever, with Ancient Greek drama the morale dilemma is the driving force of the plot. I’d love to see this performed; it’s a true shame the rest of the trilogy didn’t survive, but that’s where we look to Percy Shelley’s interpretation of the second play Prometheus Unbound. And wonder at the power of the poet’s ability to take Aeschylus’s source material and make it so completely his own without destroying it. ...more
HA! Penguin really tried to jazz this one up with their incredibly misleading blurb:
“Demonic horrors and spirits dreamt up by the most exuberant, invHA! Penguin really tried to jazz this one up with their incredibly misleading blurb:
“Demonic horrors and spirits dreamt up by the most exuberant, inventive prose writer of Elizabethan England”
Sounds quite cool doesn’t it? It’s a shame it’s so falsifying to the actual work. Despite the fact that this has nothing to do with horror or spirits, I find it slightly biased when a book publisher says something as strong as this. How could anyone actually make such a claim? Has the publisher read every single last prose writer of Elizabethan England? I doubt it. It’s nothing but marketing. A few of the blurbs in this lot have been dramatized, but none more so than this one.
So I was rather disappointed when I read an overly worded piece of prose that tried to teach me how the devil can sneak into everyman’s life. Yawn. Penguin you can do much better- I could name so many more important works of literature you could have put in this edition's place! (waves fist in the air)
Penguin Little Black Classic- 54
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The Little Black Classic Collection by penguin looks like it contains lots of hidden gems. I couldn’t help it; they looked so good that I went and bought them all. I shall post a short review after reading each one. No doubt it will take me several months to get through all of them! Hopefully I will find some classic authors, from across the ages, that I may not have come across had I not bought this collection. ...more
“I shall discuss these things without pre-established order, and according to the mood of the moment…….”
Andre Breton doesn’t give a fuck; he doesn“I shall discuss these things without pre-established order, and according to the mood of the moment…….”
Andre Breton doesn’t give a fuck; he doesn’t care about you; he doesn’t care about me: he doesn't care about his reader.
He only cares about his Nadja. This book was written for her.
But what is Nadja? The physical Nadja in the novel is a woman dealing intense emotional and psychological problems; she captures the gaze of the narrator and his heart. She becomes his muse, his artistic inspiration. His desire for her is incredible. But does she actually exist? This book is deeply abstract. Breton wrote the manifesto for the surrealist art movement, and some of these ideas are deeply thematic in here.
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It feels strangely surreal, hard to define and obscure. The structure mirrors this idea. This is Breton’s book, and he is going to write it how he wants to. He’s not going to follow any rules; he’s not going to create any sense of structure: he’s just going to produce a random piece of writing that exists because it exists. And he’s going to shove some pictures in it too because why not? This sense of nonchalance matches Nadja’s attitude towards life, and the randomness of the images captures her shifting moods and unpredictability. The book is Nadja, and the woman he meets is also Nadja. She is no longer an individual- a person with a past and a history- but an object, an object of artistic power. She resides in this dreamscape.
The idea of the character Nadja, this ideal, is elusive; yet, for a moment the narrator seems to capture her love. She is the embodiment of the surrealist artist movement, an entity that defies convention; she has her own reasons, but they are beyond the conceptions of others. She is an altogether different creature with her strange visions, her air of eccentricity, rapid changes in mood and, perhaps one might term them, delusions. The love the narrator harbours her is nothing short of pure; he sees this being, this woman of undefinable constructs, and is enamoured.
“Beauty will be convulsive or will not be at all.”
Life is random. It has intervals and occurrences that disrupt the flow of your day: it doesn’t follow a perfect construction of organisation. Breton replicates some of these ideas here, but I just don’t think he does it very well. His interludes don’t hold much. There’s an odd bit about cocaine and several autobiographical bits at the start before the novel even gets going. But, again, there’s just not much too them. The real power is with his Nadja.
Because of the fragmented nature of the work, and its general brevity, key elements were remained vague to the point of minimalistic effect. The idea of the dreamscape, the surrealist romance, made this even stronger. But is that a good thing? For me this lacks any real dramatic effect; it never really delivers these ideas. The writing is also rather poor, but perhaps it’s the translation that hinders its effectiveness. The prose does not flow well; it has lots of mechanical aspects such as numerous stops and starts making it feel disjointed. This really hinders the impact of certain important passages: it reduces them. So this creates a novel that had the power to grasp literary greatness, but it just missed it by a very small stretch of the hand. It was ever so close.
Despite its failed potential, this is a novel I am so glad I read. This idea of Nadja is not one I will quickly forget……….. ...more
I’ve spent the last year of my life researching this poem, and I’ve read it no less than twenty times. It may not sound like a lot, but with nine cantI’ve spent the last year of my life researching this poem, and I’ve read it no less than twenty times. It may not sound like a lot, but with nine cantos, thousands of lines, six essays attached to it along with notes, it’s taken up a lot of my reading time. Of course, I’m not complaining. It’s a beautiful piece of writing. It’s been so much fun to write my dissertation on it.
So what’s it all about? Essentially, Shelley relays his philosophy for life; he explains how he thinks man should live, and how man should embrace what he defines as nature. And within the poem, and its essays, this sense of nature is defined as vegetarianism. This is a central theme, one that unifies his anti-establishment ideas, agnosticism and environmental outlook. Shelley gives a vision at the end of the poem, one where man and animal live in a sense of peace and harmony; it is a world of interspecies equality and ecological sustainably. It is one where mankind respects the natural world and walks among it: it's a utopian future.
Here’s one of the main sections:
“And man, once fleeting o'er the transient scene Swift as an unremembered vision, stands Immortal upon earth; no longer now He slays the lamb that looks him in the face, And horribly devours his mangled flesh, Which, still avenging Nature’s broken law, Kindled all putrid humors in his frame, All evil passions and all vain belief, Hatred, despair and loathing in his mind, The germs of misery, death, disease and crime. No longer now the wingèd habitants, That in the woods their sweet lives sing away, Flee from the form of man; but gather round, And prune their sunny feathers on the hands Which little children stretch in friendly sport Towards these dreadless partners of their play. All things are void of terror; man has lost His terrible prerogative, and stands An equal amidst equals; happiness And science dawn, though late, upon the earth; Peace cheers the mind, health renovates the frame; Disease and pleasure cease to mingle here, Reason and passion cease to combat there; Whilst each unfettered o'er the earth extend Their all-subduing energies, and wield The sceptre of a vast dominion there; Whilst every shape and mode of matter lends Its force to the omnipotence of mind, Which from its dark mine drags the gem of truth To decorate its paradise of peace." (Canto VIII, Lines 219-238).
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[image] (-A green paradise of peace?)
Now I found this incredibly fascinating when I was reading it. Two hundred years ago this poet produced this radical argument; this argument for change. And it really is “out there.” The Romantic generation called for revolution and a change in politics of the day, but none are quite as far left and extreme as the arguments here. The arguments are not limited to the human world, but extend into the non-human. So I had to write my dissertation on it. I had to try and understand what gave birth to these ideas, and what the full implications of them were. I also wanted to look into the legacy of these arguments. As extreme as these suggestions for change may seem, they are not entirely exclusive to this one man. These arguments do, indeed, linger on to the present day.
They are in different forms, of course, and most of the idealistic qualities are gone, but elements of them can be seen in modern day Green parties, environmentalist movements and even animal rights organisations. Though, strictly speaking, these are typically modern constructs. What I wanted to explore, and perhaps try to understand, is how Shelley came about these ideas. They are unique amongst his generation, and have almost been shaped by his eclectic reading tastes. He read everything from Plato to Godwin, from scientific papers through to political pamphlets. And his arguments would go on to influence Ghandi, George Bernard Shaw and Robert Browning.
There is a fair bit of scholarship on Shelley’s diet, though not as much as there should be. I’ve really enjoyed writing on this topic, and the further I’ve got into it the more I’ve realised that there is so much more to be done on this. Within my writing, I’ve attempted to capture Shelley’s argument and to understand its implications- perhaps beyond the context in which he wrote them. But that’s only within the limitations of this poem and its essays. I’d love to research this across his body of writing and perhaps even Romanticism as a whole. There were many other influential vegetarians in the era, that’s for sure. (Time will tell, but this could be a possible basis for my PhD research.)
Some readers would likely contest my claims about this work, but that’s what my dissertation is about: to argue for this reading. I’ve written it all up now, and I have two weeks left to edit it and to try and make it as strong as possible. Here’s to hoping I get the grades I need!
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“His soul was swooning into some new world, fantastic, dim, uncertain as under sea, traversed by cloudy shapes and beings. A world, a glimmer or a “His soul was swooning into some new world, fantastic, dim, uncertain as under sea, traversed by cloudy shapes and beings. A world, a glimmer or a flower? Glimmering and trembling, trembling and unfolding, a breaking light, an opening flower, it spread in endless succession to itself, breaking in full crimson and unfolding and fading to palest rose, leaf by leaf and wave of light by wave of light, flooding all the heavens with its soft flushes, every flush deeper than the other.”
Thus awareness is born, awareness of oneself as the shackles of society are thrown down. Stephen realises that he does not want to be what everyone else has deemed him to be; he wants to be his own man; he wants to embrace his own desires and live the life he wants: he wants to be free.
And who can blame him? It’s his life so he may as well live it a way that will cause him some degree of satisfaction. Please note, I deliberately avoided the word “happy” because Stephen isn’t happy; he realises that such a state is fickle: it will always fade with time. So in this process he assesses his own individuality and slowly begins to define his emerging sense of self. To invoke a cliché, Stephen goes on a journey of self-discovery; however, the extent of which goes far beyond the typical discourse: this is about the soul of his art.
“What is that beauty which the artist struggles to express…..”
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Is this not the entire crux of the work? Stephen struggles, and overcomes, the fight to be his true self in the confines of Irish society, and, by extension, Joyce struggles to produce his art in the confines of traditional narrative expectation: he cannot write his masterpiece by following the rules. The beauty he wishes to express will have to take a new form.
So, this becomes a natural precursor to Ulysses. I view this novel as an experiment; it is Joyce dipping his toe into the pool of experimental realism before he dives in head first with his next work. He plays with his writing; he tests it all for the purpose of exploring how far he can push the limits of storytelling: he prepares himself and his reader for his next work. To call this book autobiographical is to invoke the understatement of the year. As Stephen loses his virginity and the binds of social constraints, Joyce breaks free of all sense of artistic conformity. As Stephen explores his growing sexual appetite without any care for the conventional modes of Catholic morality that imbedded Irish culture, Joyce begins to stand up on his own two feet, erect and proud; he is ready to throw his writing into the world.
Life is full of missed opportunities and hard decisions. Sometimes it’s difficult to know what to actually do. Dubliners creates an image of an everLife is full of missed opportunities and hard decisions. Sometimes it’s difficult to know what to actually do. Dubliners creates an image of an ever movie city, of an ever moving exchange of people who experience the reality of life. And that’s the whole point: realism. Not everything goes well, not everything is perfectly constructed. Life is random and unpredictable. If we’re not careful it may escape from us entirely.
There are two types of stories in Dubliners. The first, and by far the most effective, are those associated with despair, nihilism and death. The second type deals with more ordinary aspects of modern life, the representation of the city and social exchanges. As a collection they provide an image of dark, murky city struggling to cope with the problems associated with rapid urbanisation. The stories do not intertwine, but you are left with the impression that they are not that far from each other: their proximity feels close as you read further into each one.
The true mastery of Joyce’s writing reveals itself in what he doesn’t say, the subtle suggestions, the lingering questions, as each story closes without any sense of full resolution. And, again, is this not true of real life? In narrative tradition there is a structured beginning, middle and end, but in the reality of existence it doesn’t quite work this way. Life carries on. It doesn’t have a form of narrative closure, a convenient wrapping up of plot, after each wound we take in life. It carries on. We carry on. And for the Dubliners isolation carries on.
“He could not feel her near him in the darkness nor hear her voice touch his ear. He waited for some minutes listening. He could hear nothing: the night was perfectly silent. He listened again: perfectly silent. He felt that he was alone.”
Society, with all its restrictive constructs, is one nasty piece of work.
It comes with so many silly rules, so many silly expectations. Those of sociSociety, with all its restrictive constructs, is one nasty piece of work.
It comes with so many silly rules, so many silly expectations. Those of social station and wealth must be seen to marry someone of the same “worth” regardless of the feelings involved; they must be seen to marry someone on their level of class structure. But what of love? What of passion? Should it be quenched because of these all-encompassing silly constructs?
Austen doesn’t think so.
Enter Darcy, a man who is royally pissed off; he has fallen in love with someone considered far beneath him, to declare his love for her is to step outside the realms of his supposed pedigree: it is a form of social death. So he is a man torn in two. At the route of things, he is a product of his society; consequently, he is affected by its values. Although he hates it all the same; thus, the long sullen silences, the seemingly moody and arrogant exchanges with Elizabeth. But it’s all the expression of a man struggling to deal with the raging tempest of emotions that have taken hold of his mind: his being.
“In vain have I struggled. It will not do. My feelings will not be repressed. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you.”
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Indeed, Austen slowly reveals the dangers of false perception as she gradually peels away the mask of this stoic pillar of aristocracy, and underneath blossoms a misunderstood and sensitive soul. So the romance plot is born. Elizabeth eventually loses her prejudice and sees through Darcy’s false pride. Darcy loses his integrated construct of prejudice and ignores the pride of his relatives. As ever with Austen, the title of the work is suggestive of the main motifs; she’s never subtle as its all ways clear which way her razor sharp sarcasm is pointed.
So love conquers all. Austen was a strong advocate of social mobility, and often it’s based upon love in her works. But she only believes in real love. She’s not interested in fleeting moments of heat and sexual lust; she portrays true and lasting romantic attachments, relationships that are strong and real. For her, such things transcend class boundaries, wealth and intelligence. Love is love. It doesn’t matter who it is with as long as it is real; hence, Austen becomes a critique of society and its customs that prevent these relationships from being realised. She knows how stupid it is, and she loves to poke fun of her caricatures of the old stilted class of her era: the ones that resist her ideas.
Is this the best Austen?
I did really enjoy this book, and I have given it five stars, but it’s not as good as her other works. For me it lacks the moral growth of Northanger Abbey and Emma.It lacks the conciseness of Persuasion. The emphasis on the injustice of romance has made it popular, though I do strongly believe that the love in Persuasion is stronger than it is here. That endures rejection, separation, war and decades; yet, it still lingers. I love Austen, and I have loved each one of her books I’ve read so far in different ways. I hope to continue to do so. This is the fourth Austen I’ve given five stars, I can easily celebrate her as one of my favourite writers.
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You can connect with me on social media via My Linktree. __________________________________...more
I really don’t buy the irony. Here is a play by a very young Shakespeare trying to appeal to the masses; here is a play that purposely appeals to the I really don’t buy the irony. Here is a play by a very young Shakespeare trying to appeal to the masses; here is a play that purposely appeals to the misogynistic beliefs of its early audiences, and I really don’t like it.
This is what should have happened at the end:
Katherine:
I’m a Shrew; I’m a woman who stands up For herself and for her sisters alike I have a voice; I will not be tamed by Men who think themselves overlords!
Instead we have a rather meek speech in which a broken woman who has been deprived of sleep and food agrees to live under her husband’s thumb. Some may call this the comedy element, but I just can’t see it in that light. I didn’t find anything funny about the situation. Thankfully, Shakespeare learnt to do much better. ...more
I’ve been getting negligent in my reviews of these as of late. Only fourteen left to go! I’ve been reading through this lot for almost two years! I wiI’ve been getting negligent in my reviews of these as of late. Only fourteen left to go! I’ve been reading through this lot for almost two years! I will get through all eighty eventually, just wait and see. I’ll post a spectacular update celebrating the occasion. There might even be cake involved.
Well, anyway, on to the book in hand; it’s not a very good one, numbered amongst the lowest in my estimation in the collection. It’s hard to believe that this was actually written by Robert Louis Stevenson. I mean the man’s a literary genius. The Strange Case of Doctor Jekyll and Mr Hyde is a phenomenal piece of literature. This, well, this was just dreadful. And not in the good sense of Victorian horror either; it’s not dreadfully spooky or dreadfully gothic: it’s just plain dreadful.
Why? Well it barely feels gothic. Yes you have some of the basic tropes, a dark castles and location, but there is no atmosphere in the writing. There is no level of intensity or expectation of what’s around the next corner. Instead we have a case of instant love. I’m not overly opposed to this because sometimes it does work when it’s handled well. Here, though, it just felt forced. There was no real emotion driving it. Where was the lonely longing that would force someone to love instantly? Where was the desperation and the sense of isolation? Nowhere.
Robert Louis Stevenson can write much better than this.
Penguin Little Black Classic- 19
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The Little Black Classic Collection by penguin looks like it contains alot of hidden gems. I couldn’t help it; they looked so good that I went and bought them all. I shall post a short review after reading each one. No doubt it will take me several months to get through all of them! Hopefully I will find some classic authors, from across the ages, that I may not have come across had I not bought this collection. ...more
Revisiting this during a global pandemic seems rather unnerving because this is a book in which the entirety of humanity dies after succumbing to plagRevisiting this during a global pandemic seems rather unnerving because this is a book in which the entirety of humanity dies after succumbing to plague.
And the more I read it the more I take from it. This is my third time round. The first was for enjoyment and the second two were for research purposes. I'm currently writing a PhD chapter on this along with Frankenstein and Matilda.
What draws me to this literary era, beyond that of any other, are the depictions of nature. The natural world is depicted as sublime, though there is also a strong focus on man discovering his/her own nature and his/her place in the natural world. The Shelley(s) were concerned particularly with diet and the effects of it on man's character. They believed eating vegetables (opposed to animals) made us better on a spiritual and ethical level and that the world could be reformed as a result.
And I find this ideology truly fascinating.
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(Original Review)
Mary Shelley loved her husband; she adored his poetical voice and he admired her intellect: theirs was a marriage of minds. So it’s not overly surprising that in her later work she spent a good part of it paying homage to her late partner.
The novel begins with a wretched youth, Lionel, utterly distraught at the injustice that is his life. He is poor, uneducated and desperate. Lionel wants revenge on what he perceives as the cause of his problems; however, when the said problem appears his life is turned around. It is a man, a noble and a landowner. When Lionel sees the man his anger at the tyranny of the world is quenched in an instant, such is the power of this individual. He embodies nobility and goodness: he is the romantic hero. He teaches Lionel to read and how to understand poetry: he teaches him how to live and how to open up his heart. Lionel is transformed by this experience; he develops true moral awareness and imagination. Poetry rejuvenates his character; it teaches him natural Shelleyan values. This man is Mary Shelley’s ode to her husband; he is called Adrian, and he is Percy Shelley incarnate. He becomes the only hope for the future of mankind, his philosophy is it’s only balm:
”I read or listened to Adrian; and his discourse, whether it concerned his love or his theories for the improvement of man, alike entranced me. Sometimes my lawless mood would return, my love of peril, my resistance to authority; but this was in his absence; under the mild sway of his dear eyes, I was obedient and good as a boy of five years old, who does his mother's bidding.”
But, first, another must try his hand at saving the world form the oncoming apocalypse. Enter Lord George Byron in the form of Adrian’s friend Raymond. Domination, manipulation and power are what his personality evokes. Adrian becomes quickly ill after their encounter. Raymond strives to be good; he strives to do the right thing but passion, in the Byronic sense is far too strong. He is a lover and user. He is poison and tonic. He is quick to change his mind, and is prone to rash and erratic behaviour; thus, he quickly falls in love and runs away from his dream of ruling in harmony. The wind ever changes his mind and his sexual interest. With this man a relationship would only end one way. Lionel later becomes his friend and is trapped between the influences of each.
As the novel progresses and the apocalypse comes ever closer, the world becomes darker. Raymond’s (Byron’s) ideas prove ineffective and he exits centre stage. A plague wrecks the world, one caused by man’s unnatural state. The population of the world decreases to mere thousands and eventually hundreds. And who does humanity look to in its most dire hour of need? Who do they look to as the last hope of mankind? Adrian (Percy Shelley) of course, and he comes. He does his best to teach mankind how to be itself again; he tries to bring back the tatters of civilisation, thought the unnaturalness of man has seeped into the very fabric of his being; it is in his soul: it is in his heart. The pure words of the vegetarian were heeded too late.
“Adrian welcomed us on our arrival. He was all animation; you could no longer trace in his look of health, the suffering valetudinarian; from his smile and sprightly tones you could not guess that he was about to lead forth from their native country, the numbered remnant of the English nation, into the tenantless realms of the south, there to die, one by one, till the LAST MAN should remain in a voiceless, empty world.”
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And here’s where Mary Shelley voice comes through. The Last Man may refer to our narrator Lionel. But I think the meaning goes much deeper than this. Granted, he is the final witness of humanity’s fate. But there is more to consider. When Mary wrote this novel all of the major Romantics were dead. The young Romantics, Shelley, Keats and Byron, had all died tragically young. Some of the old Romantics like Wordsworth and Coleridge were still kicking around, but their glory days had gone. Byron saw to that. The point is Mary is the last of the generation. Her peers were dead, her friends were dead, and her lover was dead. This is their eulogy; this is a writer lamenting the loss of the greats of her literary generation; this is a writer who was forced to carry on living after her soul mate had perished.
Mary Shelley is The Last Man.
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Sean Barrs
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