The French Lieutenant's *Yawn*
At some point in almost every episode of Three's Company, Mr. Roper, the cranky landlord, would say something awful about his wife. This would cause a laugh from the "audience" -- and Norman Fell would turn to the camera and do this awful mug. "See!" That mug said. "That's how funny is done!" Only even to my unsophisticated 10-year-old's ears, the line was never all that funny. And I hated that he turned to the camera. I didn't like being taken out of the moment. "You stay on that side of the glass, Norman Fell," I would think, "and I'll stay on mine."
The last time Zach and I went to the Luray Caverns, we talked about how stupid people are. We talk about this even when we aren't at the Luray Caverns, so, to make this germane, what we were talking about specifically is how the tour guides couldn't just let people marvel at the natural wonders -- the way rock and mineral could look like draped fabric; the variety of color; the staggering size -- they had to make the marvels somehow relevant by saying, "And that stalactite? That one looks like Bart Simpson!" [insert astonished audience gasp here, followed by laugh/chuckle/chortle/wince of pain (if you're me)] Or "If you look really closely, you'll see Snoopy! On his dog house! Isn't nature commercial?" [lather, rinse, repeat from above.]
I didn't like The French Lieutenant's Woman because it reminded me too much of Norman Fell's camera mugging and stupid Virginians. I read it against my better judgment, thinking my friend Steve (who recommended it) only had what's best for me in mind. I was also feeling slightly embarrassed about lugging a frickin' vampire book all the way to Staunton when we visited Steve and Jamie a couple of weeks ago, and realized that my list of unfinished Steve books was getting a little long. So I came home, picked it up, and finished it.
The French Lieutenant's Woman's not bad in the way, say, The Da Vinci Code is bad; or in the way the experimental fiction of Ben Marcus is bad; or the way Cormac McCarthy, Anne Proulx, and Don DeLillo are bad; or in the way my vampire book was bad. (And by the way? That vampire book? So bad I couldn't finish it. I found a website called The Book Spoiler, where I was able to read how it ends. Boy am I glad I didn't finish that fucker. But boy, am I even less glad that I started it in the first place.) The French Lieutenant's Woman's bad because it didn't have to be.
"How long ago did you read it?" I asked my friend Steve in an email. "I know I've often suggested novels or movies or songs to people, things that I haven't necessarily heard, seen, or read in 10 or 15 years -- only to find out that had I taken a couple minutes to refresh my memory, I could have saved a friendship. You've spoken highly of it every time it's been mentioned -- and I felt guilty enough about this that I made the effort to go back and rectify my unreading. But I'm not clear on what's so great about the novel."
I can compare it a little to The Name of the Rose -- a novel I still re-read occasionally, even though I think Eco is a fluke of a writer. In The Name of the Rose, if you strip away all the really cool historical research stuff, you're left with a pretty vague and bland mystery. Something that would have filled maybe 100 or so pages. Same thing with The French Lieutenant's Woman: take away all the post-modern, self-referential, "experimental" stuff and you're left with a not very interesting novel. Man leaves fiance for another woman. Trouble ensues. It's a rough draft of a better book by Thomas Hardy. Or Edith Wharton.
I didn't enjoy the post-modern stuff. I hardly ever enjoy post-modern stuff. It's clever -- but that kind of clever doesn't have a long shelf-life. That kind of clever doesn't warrant a re-reading. I would be reading along, just about to lose myself in the story, and there's John Fowles: noted author, breaking in to tell me about the novel I'm reading. "What are you doing here, John Fowles: noted author?" I'd ask. "Well, I'm here to tell you about the novel you're reading," he'd say, giving me a sly wink. "But... but... I know about the novel I'm reading. I know about it because I'm reading it. The way one does. With novels. I mean, thanks for stopping by and all, but I don't think I need your services." "Oh, but you do," he'd counter. "I put a lot of work into researching the Victorian period. Did you know that most authors of that time attributed silent h's to their lower-class characters when that wasn't even the case? Those lower class characters never spoke that way! Can you even believe the calumny?" "I guess not. But, mostly, I don't care, John Fowles: noted author. If it's all the same to you, I'd like to go back to--" "I've got a lot more things to share with you." "I was afraid of that." "Have you got to the part about the computer in her heart? Did you catch that? The computer? In her heart? They didn't even have computers back then -- but there I go, writing about the computer in her heart. I'm brilliant!"
I hated that "computer in her heart" shit. A lot. Because I know what literary hearts do. To have him explain a Victorian way of thinking with a modern equivalent felt too much like being told by a Luray Caverns tour guide that the caverns look a lot like Disneyland. Or that the best use of some of the hollow rock tubes is to play "A Mighty Fortress is Our God." Mostly, though, I wish they wouldn't. Both John Fowles: noted author, and the tour guides.
Steve is also on me to finish Bartleby the Scrivener. I love Steve; but I may have to kill him.
The last time Zach and I went to the Luray Caverns, we talked about how stupid people are. We talk about this even when we aren't at the Luray Caverns, so, to make this germane, what we were talking about specifically is how the tour guides couldn't just let people marvel at the natural wonders -- the way rock and mineral could look like draped fabric; the variety of color; the staggering size -- they had to make the marvels somehow relevant by saying, "And that stalactite? That one looks like Bart Simpson!" [insert astonished audience gasp here, followed by laugh/chuckle/chortle/wince of pain (if you're me)] Or "If you look really closely, you'll see Snoopy! On his dog house! Isn't nature commercial?" [lather, rinse, repeat from above.]
I didn't like The French Lieutenant's Woman because it reminded me too much of Norman Fell's camera mugging and stupid Virginians. I read it against my better judgment, thinking my friend Steve (who recommended it) only had what's best for me in mind. I was also feeling slightly embarrassed about lugging a frickin' vampire book all the way to Staunton when we visited Steve and Jamie a couple of weeks ago, and realized that my list of unfinished Steve books was getting a little long. So I came home, picked it up, and finished it.
The French Lieutenant's Woman's not bad in the way, say, The Da Vinci Code is bad; or in the way the experimental fiction of Ben Marcus is bad; or the way Cormac McCarthy, Anne Proulx, and Don DeLillo are bad; or in the way my vampire book was bad. (And by the way? That vampire book? So bad I couldn't finish it. I found a website called The Book Spoiler, where I was able to read how it ends. Boy am I glad I didn't finish that fucker. But boy, am I even less glad that I started it in the first place.) The French Lieutenant's Woman's bad because it didn't have to be.
"How long ago did you read it?" I asked my friend Steve in an email. "I know I've often suggested novels or movies or songs to people, things that I haven't necessarily heard, seen, or read in 10 or 15 years -- only to find out that had I taken a couple minutes to refresh my memory, I could have saved a friendship. You've spoken highly of it every time it's been mentioned -- and I felt guilty enough about this that I made the effort to go back and rectify my unreading. But I'm not clear on what's so great about the novel."
I can compare it a little to The Name of the Rose -- a novel I still re-read occasionally, even though I think Eco is a fluke of a writer. In The Name of the Rose, if you strip away all the really cool historical research stuff, you're left with a pretty vague and bland mystery. Something that would have filled maybe 100 or so pages. Same thing with The French Lieutenant's Woman: take away all the post-modern, self-referential, "experimental" stuff and you're left with a not very interesting novel. Man leaves fiance for another woman. Trouble ensues. It's a rough draft of a better book by Thomas Hardy. Or Edith Wharton.
I didn't enjoy the post-modern stuff. I hardly ever enjoy post-modern stuff. It's clever -- but that kind of clever doesn't have a long shelf-life. That kind of clever doesn't warrant a re-reading. I would be reading along, just about to lose myself in the story, and there's John Fowles: noted author, breaking in to tell me about the novel I'm reading. "What are you doing here, John Fowles: noted author?" I'd ask. "Well, I'm here to tell you about the novel you're reading," he'd say, giving me a sly wink. "But... but... I know about the novel I'm reading. I know about it because I'm reading it. The way one does. With novels. I mean, thanks for stopping by and all, but I don't think I need your services." "Oh, but you do," he'd counter. "I put a lot of work into researching the Victorian period. Did you know that most authors of that time attributed silent h's to their lower-class characters when that wasn't even the case? Those lower class characters never spoke that way! Can you even believe the calumny?" "I guess not. But, mostly, I don't care, John Fowles: noted author. If it's all the same to you, I'd like to go back to--" "I've got a lot more things to share with you." "I was afraid of that." "Have you got to the part about the computer in her heart? Did you catch that? The computer? In her heart? They didn't even have computers back then -- but there I go, writing about the computer in her heart. I'm brilliant!"
I hated that "computer in her heart" shit. A lot. Because I know what literary hearts do. To have him explain a Victorian way of thinking with a modern equivalent felt too much like being told by a Luray Caverns tour guide that the caverns look a lot like Disneyland. Or that the best use of some of the hollow rock tubes is to play "A Mighty Fortress is Our God." Mostly, though, I wish they wouldn't. Both John Fowles: noted author, and the tour guides.
Steve is also on me to finish Bartleby the Scrivener. I love Steve; but I may have to kill him.
posted by Mike at 8:46 AM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home