Great Expectations

Despite my affection for Dickens, I’ve never re-visited the first of his novels that I remember reading: Great Expectations, first encountered under the excellent guidance of Meg Hawley in the ninth grade. After my lengthy streak of American literature, the craving for Victoriana got the better of me one day and I turned to this book.

Great Expectations is unusually focussed for Dickens. Unlike his more expansive novels (e.g., Our Mutual Friend, Bleak House), this book tells a single story. There are few extraneous subplots or character cameos. The only “why is this here?” element, for me, is Orlick. Perhaps just a device to get Pip’s sister out of the way?

For those who got through high school without reading this, it is about a young man named Pip. As a child, Pip has two unusual encounters. In the marshes near his home, he meats an escaped convict, to whom he supplies food. He is also enlisted as a companion for an eccentric and bitter old woman named Miss Havisham.

Later, as a young man, Pip is informed that he has been awarded a very large sum of money by a secret patron. Among the conditions attached to the money is that he not try to identify his benefactor. The idea of tracking down the source of his “expectations” is actually not tempting to Pip, who assumes that it is Miss Havisham. She does nothing to discourage that assumption.

Pip moves to London, where he befriends Herbert Pocket, whom he had met as a child at Miss Havisham’s. Herbert proves himself a true friend to Pip and helps him to learn the manners appropriate to a London gentleman.

After Pip has established himself in London, he is found by Magwich, the previously unnamed convict of his youth. Magwich reveals that it is he, not Miss Havisham, that is the source of Pip’s fortune. Pip, of course, is thunderstruck by the revelation. Not only is he not the heir of a respectable, if creepy, spinster, but he finds himself saddled with the care of an uncouth and extremely illegal escaped convict. Magwich has come to London from Australia purely to see Pip and to take vicarious pleasure in the gentlemanly status of “his boy.”

Magwich is wanted by the authorities, but is also hunted by Compeyson. Compeyson, in a typically Dickensian coincidence, happens to also be the man who jilted Miss Havisham, precipitating her decline into creepiness (not that she seems likely to have been a fun girl otherwise). Although initially horrified by Magwich, Pip develops an affection for him and, with Herbert’s assistance, attempts to help him escape to the continent. Magwich, sadly, is arrested, and dies before his execution. Since Magwich’s funds go to the Crown, Pip is left without his anticipated fortune.

Miss Havisham’s lie of omission regarding Pip’s funding is far from her worst crime. In her bitterness, she adopts a child named Estella (who, in another coincidence, is Magwich’s secret daughter) and raises her to be completely indifferent to love. Miss Havisham engineers for Pip to fall in love with Estella and falsely implies that she has plans for them to share a future together. The old woman’s misanthropy works out exactly as intented, with Pip as miserably infatuated and Estella as indifferent as Miss Havisham could wish. Estella marries a wealthy cad named Drummel. Pip meets her as a widow years later, at the very end of the novel. A revised ending suggests that the two will be together, but the original ending, while depicting a softened Estella, shows no sign of optimism.

Providing a counterpoint to Pip’s relationship (or lack thereof) with Estella is his relationship to his “father” (actually, brother-in-law), Joe Gargery. As Estella cares nothing for Pip, so Pip perpetually neglects Joe. While exhibiting none of Magwich’s “lowness,” Joe is very much of the country and appears ridiculous when visiting London, causing Pip acute and guilty embarrassment. Pip’s tragic ambition causes him to love Estella and look down on Joe, who is by far the better person.

There is, of course, far more to tell. While a direct and taut tale by Dickensian standards, there are the usual minor characters and amusing sidelines. Even these, though, seem to move the novel along in some way or provide additional illumination on some theme. It is a novel with great heart and flawlessly constructed. It deserves its place among it’s author’s masterworks.

Posted in books | Leave a comment

Cloud Atlas

Once again I’ve gone off my reading diet. After it was recommended by multiple friends, I decided to read Cloud Atlas, a 2004 novel by British author David Mitchell. Its status as a novel is questionable, as it is really a collection of six novelettes with interesting, and often puzzling, inter-connections. The stories range in setting from the 19th century to the distant post-apocalyptic future. All but one center geographically around the Pacific Ocean.

“The Pacific Journal of Adam Ewing” is a Melville-esque account of shipboard life from the viewpoint of an American notary. While not the most gripping of the tales, it gives the author a chance to write some very convincing and entertaining faux-Victorian prose. The story includes the well-worn themes of abusive behavior by ships’ captains and the self-serving practices of missionaries who try to “civilize” native populations.

Far more entertaining is the second story, “Letters from Zedelghem.” The letters are written by Robert Frobisher, a young English composer serving as amanuensis to Vyvyan Ayres, an elder composer, in Belgium. Frobisher is writing to his friend and lover Rufus Sixsmith. The younger man is an unrepentant scoundrel intent on using his employer and his employer’s wife to advance his position within the musical world and to line his pocketbook. In searching through Ayres’s library, Frobisher discovers Ewing’s journal.

After the sparkling wit and humor of “Zedelghem,” “Half-Lives: The First Luisa Rey Mystery” is a bit of a let down. It is the story of a reporter on a quest to uncover corruption and unsafe practices at a California nuclear plant. The writing style is sort of John Grisham: classic airplane novel with minimal characterization and an unlikely, convoluted plot. Rufus Sixsmith, the recipient of the Zedelghem letters, is the elderly engineer who has compiled incriminating evidence against his employer. He, of course, is murdered, and it is our heroine’s job to find the “Sixsmith Report.”

“The Ghastly Ordeal of Timothy Cavendish” is a black humor piece about a publisher who is involuntarily committed to a nursing home. Like the Luisa Rey section (here revealed to be a manuscript received by Mr. Cavendish), this story seems very unlikely, involving a daring escape, a bar-room brawl, and other hijinx that smell of Hollywood.

“An Orison of Sonmi~451″ launches us into a dystopian Korea. “Fabricants,” or cloned humans, make up a working underclass supporting a government “corpocracy” that feels far too realistic. Sonmi~451 (I’m guessing her “model number” is a nod to Bradbury) is a fabricant server at Papa Song’s, a fast food restaurant. She escapes the restaurant and becomes affiliated with Union (i.e., anti-government) activists. We learn of her history as she tells her story to an archivist as a last act before her execution. At one point in the story, she sees a film based on the story of Cavendish.

The centerpiece of the novel is “Sloosha’s Crossin’ an’ Ev’rythin’ After,” which takes place in Hawaii at a time when most of humanity has reverted to a pre-technological way of life following “the Fall.” The protagonist, Zach’ry, and his tribe are visited by Meronym, a woman from one of the few pockets of “Prescients,” those who retain some learning and technology. Together, Zach’ry and Meronym climb to an abandoned observatory and later face a genocidal attack by a neighboring tribe of savages. The story is narrated by Zach’ry in a created patois. Writing in a non-standard dialect, especially a made-up one, is a difficult trick to pull off and can make for a distracted and exhausting reading experience. Here it is sheer poetry, reminding me of Faulkner.

The novel’s stucture is a Russian doll affair in which all of the narratives except “Sloosha’s Crossin’” are interrupted and then returned to in reverse order: ABCDEFE’D'C’B'A’. The effect is that we read the beginning of each story without preconceptions, but by the time we get to the end, we have some context for it. When we read of Cavendish’s outlandish escape from the nursing home, we know that we are reading about a movie being watched in the future by a Korean fast-food worker. When we read about Sonmi~451′s seemingly failed rebellion against corpocracy, we know that she will be deified in the future.

Part of the fun of this novel is to determine the connections between the six narratives. Clearly, there is an element of reincarnation involved between the protagonists of different stories, some being identified by the awkward device of a comet-shaped birthmark. Riddles are also posed regarding the veracity of various stories. Are we to interpret “Sloosha’s Crossin’” as “true,” while “Luisa Rey” is fiction? But if “Luisa” is fiction, what about the link to Sixsmith of “Zedelghem”? Yes, it’s a post-modern, inter-textual muddle, but at least it’s an entertaining one.

Thematically, the commonality that seems most apparent is betrayal. Ewing is poisoned by a man whom he considers a friend. Frobisher realizes too late that he is not the great strategist he imagined and that Ayers has used him, not the other way around. Sonmi~451 realizes (but chooses not to care) that her miraculous ascent from Papa Song’s was orchestrated by the very corpocracy that she seems to have been fighting. In “Sloosha’s Crossin’” we have a counter-example in which Meronym seems to finally put her trust in the right person, since Zach’ry is strong enough to fight the temptations of “Ol’ Georgie.”

I notice that in the course of this summary, I’ve mentioned Faulkner, Melville, and Ray Bradbury, so maybe I haven’t strayed as far from my American reading plan as I thought.

Posted in books | Leave a comment

Tom Sawyer

In the pantheon of Southern literature, the names of Twain and Faulkner stand matched for first place. Thanks to an enjoyable high school experience with As I Lay Dying and an excellent honors seminar on Faulkner as an undergrad, I have a pretty decent familiarity with that Southern luminary. Having less first-hand experience with Twain, I’ve tended to consider his works less “serious.” Faulkner, I thought, was the Michelangelo of The Last Judgment, while Twain was more akin to Norman Rockwell.
Continue reading

Posted in americana, books | Leave a comment

Moby Dick

One can hardly undertake a program of American literature without confronting Moby Dick, the quintessential Great American Novel. Perhaps due to its daunting size, or to a dimly remembered aversion to Billy Budd in high school, I have always put off this novel until another day, shamefully admitting with Laurie Anderson, “Moby Dick? Never read it.”
Continue reading

Posted in americana, books | Leave a comment

Autobiography of Benjamin Franklin

Last summer, I read The Whole Five Feet by Christopher R. Beha, an account of that author’s journey through the Harvard Classics. I was struck by the fact that the first work in that series was Benjamin Franklin’s autobiography, so it seemed a natural choice for my year of Americana.
Continue reading

Posted in americana, books | Leave a comment

Solar

As previously noted, my reading plan for 2010 consists of a steady diet of classic Americana. Nevertheless, I could not resist the temptation presented by a new novel from Ian McEwan. While I don’t read a great deal of contemporary fiction, McEwan is one of the few living authors that I really get excited about. Atonement is my favorite. On Chesil Beach (2007) failed to thrill me, but I was nevertheless eager to sample his latest offering.
Continue reading

Posted in books | Leave a comment

The Ambassadors

“Of course I move among miracles. It was all phantasmagoric.”

This statement by protagonist Lambert Strether sums up the experience of reading The Ambassadors by Henry James. The book is a bundle of contradictions: simple in plot yet endlessly complex in execution, expansive yet strictly circumscribed, a comedy and tragedy at the same time.
Continue reading

Posted in americana, books | Leave a comment

The Country of the Pointed Firs

I had never heard of Sarah Orne Jewett until my friend Brian included her novella The Country of the Pointed Firs on his impromptu list of recommended American works. I don’t think that this work has attained anything close to canonical status, but nevertheless I found it the most enjoyable of my recent American readings.
Continue reading

Posted in americana, books | Leave a comment

The Last of the Mohicans

I’m afraid that my foray into American literature is not off to an auspicious start. I have been defeated by James Fenimore Cooper’s The Last of the Mohicans. It isn’t a terribly long book, and I expected to have the fortitude to read it, but I have to admit defeat. I can only read a few pages at a time before I invent an excuse to do something, anything, else.
Continue reading

Posted in americana, books | Leave a comment

Mosses from an Old Manse

I’ve been thinking lately about how little I know about the literature of my own country. Of course I read Huckleberry Finn, Billy Budd, and a few others in high school, and I took a seminar on Faulkner in college, but in recent years I have focused almost exclusively on Brit lit. So I’ve decided to spend some time with American literature this year. With the help of a colleague who specialized in that area, I compiled a (no doubt over-ambitious) reading list.
Continue reading

Posted in americana, books | Leave a comment