Category Archives: 100 Books of 2011

March 20, 2011 · 11:23 pm

Sense and Sensibility: Most severe, in every particular

       This picture of a grumpy goose has nothing to do with Jane Austen’s first novel, Sense and Sensibility, and everything to do with how I felt reading the predictable plot.

All of the things I like about Jane Austen’s fiction (nuanced character development that complicates the idea of character by playing with the difference between how a character behaves, their focalized p.o.v, and the expectations/reactions of others; and lively satirical jabs at feminine manners/upper class ceremony) were either missing in this text, or buried under fatiguing descriptions of countenances.

The women in the novel, with the exception of our heroine Eleanor, too readily succumb to fainting illnesses, extremity of emotion and consumption. That said, I did like how catty they are to one another, because there’s something oddly reassuring about hearing Austen’s characters think thoughts I, too, share (why must this woman continue to talk about how much she wants babies? why do I have to go to X social event, even though I don’t want to go and my host doesn’t want me to go?). Is it reassuring? Maybe it should be disquieting to find that the comedy of manners continues, largely unchanged, centuries later; yet, I think this is the brilliance of Austen and why so many readers resound in her praise, that is, how precisely she identifies social anxieties. While the particular social concerns shift (I am not, for instance, terribly worried about why so-and-so did not leave me their card, or whether so-and-so will lend me their carriage) the affective response of being slighted, or feeling inadequate, or jealousy, persists. (So, too, do the concerns about finding an attractive and affluent mate…)

Even with her satirical brilliance and canny capture of social anxiety and affect, I didn’t like Sense and Sensibility. And not just because of the extended descriptions of fainting spells, but rather for the narrative style of reporting dialogue (and not simply allowing it to unfold), the too-heavily foreshadowed conclusion that led to a predictable and tedious plot, the conclusion itself, and (this one pains me a little), the perfection of Eleanor. I know I’m meant to just love Eleanor, but I don’t. Instead I felt how keenly I was meant to love Eleanor, how very much I’m to see her level-headedness, her acquiescence to all of life’s misfortunes with grace and humility, as markers of her exceptional character. Instead I felt put off: no character is so good, so giving, so thoughtful. Or rather, if there is someone so wholly selfless and charitable, I don’t want to know her. (Or read her thoughts for 600 pages.) So there.

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March 13, 2011 · 8:36 pm

Twilight: to like, nay, to enjoy?

It is with some reluctance that I write this post about Stephanie Meyer’s Twilight. Reluctant because I’m all to aware that my review of the book must compare with thousands of similar entries, and reluctant because I’d rather not admit my response to the novel. But respond I must.

And so I finished reading Twilight wondering whether it might be possible to enjoy a book and at the same time not like it. My reasons for enjoying it are as simple as they are popular: a fantasy of being rescued, of being loved, and of feeling special. The reasons I did not like it were often times in direct opposition to the reasons I enjoyed it: I felt betrayed by a narrator who simultaneously claimed to want equality with her vampire partner while reveling in her dependence on him; I felt cheated that the apparently quirks of the “unique” narrator were nothing more then well entrenched stereotypes about passive women: poor coordination, fear of blood, fear of needles, poor driving, overwhelmed by emotion, and erratic and unpredictable mood swings. The supposedly mitigating factor of Bella’s apparent agency in wanting to be a vampire, too, is paltry indeed when considered as a decision undertaken with the only goal of securing – forever! – the lover/partner she unequivocally feels is too good for her.

I do find room for qualified praise on this last point: the novel’s consideration of insecurity in (teenage) relationships. Both Edward and Bella grapple with why they are the chosen love object, and both believe that the other doesn’t really “see themselves properly.” Except rather than using these scenes of self-doubt as a place to insist on reevaluations of what defines self-worth, the narrative concludes that it is only in the eyes and assurance of a lover that self-esteem and worth might ever be believed.

In terms of narrative style, the novel’s insistence on describing scenes as if in a movie annoyed me. A novel is not a screenplay. A novel does not require – nor does this reader want! – heavy handed (re: scripted) descriptions of Bella changing in and out of clothes, drying/brushing/flipping her hair. Character is not revealed, or complicated, by decisions to wear sweat pants.

So yes, I enjoyed Twilight as a pornographic fantasy of rescue from helplessness. I did not, however, like it as a novel. Like erotic literature of other, less public though no less popular kinds, it suffers from poor character development, problematic politics and explicitly filmic narration.

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March 12, 2011 · 6:41 pm

Animal Farm: Best (yet) history of the Russian revolution

                                       I’ve only read a few histories of Russia. N. suggested the category “Books set in Moscow,” but I find Russian everythings (history, literature) daunting and intimidating, and so I’ve done my best to avoid finding out how little I know by avoiding reading anything too Russian (notable exception: City of Thieves, which is really, really, awesome). If I had known all I needed to do to understand the Russian revolution was to read Animal Farm I might not have spent so many years in self-imposed ignorance.

In any case, after reading (well, listening to) Animal Farm I feel I have a grasp on the main players and events of the Revolution. I appreciate the extent to which propaganda was used (have I already forgotten the book I read earlier this year about propaganda? what was it? set when Trotsky dies? Sigh.) to lead the “masses,” and the ultimate capitulation of communist/socialist/marxist ideals. That said, I do not have any better understanding of the differences among communism, socialism, marxism. I did not appreciate the representation of the animal masses (the sheep, the dogs, the ducks, the people) as unthinking and blithely following orders.

As for the classification of this book as a book with “non-human protagonists,” I feel somewhat reluctant to class it as such. This book has human protagonists, who happen to be pigs/horses/ducks. The only non-human character is the cat (unnamed) who behaves as a cat ought to: with a total disregard for the expectations and desires of others.

I do have a much better appreciate for why this book makes such frequent appearance on high school curricula: it perfectly demonstrates allegory and symbolism. That it does a poor job of characterization is probably an effect of the allegorical focus. What I mean is, I wonder whether a straightforward allegory can have interesting and complex characters if the whole point is to replicate/represent real events in symbolic/narrative terms? Maybe?

All said and done I feel braver in approaching Russian history because now I’ll picture dueling pigs and subservient horses and all will make perfect sense.

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March 10, 2011 · 10:03 pm

Paris 1919: Excellent

               Even if I wasn’t predisposed to an enjoyment of WWI history, I suspect I’d have enjoyed Margaret MacMillian’s (epic 500 page) account of the drafting of the Treaty of Versailles in Paris 1919. Elegant sentences and a keen sense of characterization make this history intensely readable. A decision to withhold judgment on the particular historical characters lends it credibility, in that no one person or country is blamed; rather, the combined effect of a complicated and contingent set of treaties, weak characters (either too ambitious or too reticent), illnesses, and miscommunications, resulted in a treaty that, as MacMillan argues, cannot on its own be blamed for anything (re: not for WWII), but must be recognized in historical hindsight (and by many at the time) as an abject failure in a project of promoting peace.

I particularly enjoyed the characterization of the members of the Supreme Council (aptly named, I suppose): Wilson, Clemenceau, Orlando and Lloyd George. Each received ample introduction, which allowed the later discussion of their mistakes, and subsequent political downfalls, to read as poignant. The measured attention to the contradictory enforcement of “self-determination” as dependent on political and economic expedients for those with political power, and the arrogance and self-righteousness of the policy makers, came with an appropriate connection to circumstances in the present that resonated, without badgering.

The organization of the book is excellent. Characters, countries and their different aims and outcomes, geographic determinations and overlaps, unfold according to geography, but also read as seamlessly plotted, such that a subsequent chapter relies on necessary information introduced in a former. That said, there are a few occasions where I wondered whether an editor might have missed a line where information is given twice — perhaps a later section written independently without regard for the chapter that came earlier? or perhaps a purposeful reminder to the reader of what appears to be a rather insignificant point? I’m not sure, and it probably doesn’t matter, as these infrequent repetitions take nothing away from the well crafted plot.

If you’re at all interested in imperialism, border-making, diplomacy, or Europe in the inter-war period I cannot recommend this book enough. Should you find European history to be the least engaging, you will be – without overstatement, I think – riveted at many points by this account. Perchance you dislike history books, Europeans, witty asides, and sarcastic comments about historical attire and comportment, you best look elsewhere.

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