Reading: Shirley (con't some more)
One hundred and fifty pages. Still no sign of Shirley.
The novel has been slow going. Some of that is the novel's fault. It hasn't gripped me in the way both Jane Eyre and Villette (the best book Brontë ever wrote, and yeah, I will challenge you to a thumb war over that one) did. The writing is very good; she's a clear and skilled writer (which I'm sure she's relieved to hear: "Thank god a gay college drop out with periodic acne and the wardrobe of an evacuee thinks I'm a good writer. Now I can stay dead in peace.") unlike, say, Mary Elizabeth Braddon who overwrites and overtells her stories when not belaboring them with plot twists even Helen Keller would see coming from 10 miles off in the fog.
Some of it's my fault, though. I'm still working on this book thing, and the first chapter I wrote, well it turns out that's actually not the first chapter and I'm writing the book too much like a short story and Navin said during our writing group, "Dude, you have, like, 6 flashbacks running in here -- this isn't Memento." So now I have to write a new chapter 1 to replace the old chapter 1, and the figure out how much from what I've already written is going to stay and how much of it needs to be shown the door.
But back to Brontë.
So, what you've got is, you've got your Robert Moore who's just French enough to piss everyone off in the novel even though he's not a true, full-blooded Frenchman. He has grand ambitions of a fully mechanized textile mill; unfortunately, these grand ambitions come at a time when England is suffering some pretty dramatic economic upheavals. Napoleon has been naughty, and the English levy sanctions against the French which really only serve to shoot themselves in the foot. The French are all, "Whatevs, bitches: we're going to Russia."
Caroline Helstone, niece of the sort of frightening and French-intolerant Mr. Helstone, has herself a little bit of a kissing-cousins crush on Robert Moore, only he's told her no. Told her no, of course, while giving her mixed signals which means every three or so pages I mutter, "Shut up, Robert Moore." Rob, turns out, is not in a position to marry; he's too busy trying to keep disgruntled Luddites from breaking apart his textile mill so, okay, I can see how that is important; but maybe you could dial it back to 11 with the Caroline flirting so she's not so confused about things and can make her Jew-baskets. That's right: Jew-baskets. Because the 1800s were a kinder, gentler time for anti-Semitism.
As I've said before, the novel reads a lot like Middlemarch. In the past Charlotte Brontë novels I've read, the narrative focuses on a main protagonist. In Shirley, the narrative is instead looking more at a community, and how they're weathering these early days of change. One of the reasons for Brontë to do this might be because there's still no sign of Shirley. Like, she meant to write all about Shirley, but Shirley kept calling in sick or something.
There's a scene I just read where Char is giving us a glimpse into the Yorke family, where she sort of telescopes the lives of some of the children. It's a very affective (effective?) moment in the novel, especially when Brontë reveals that one of these characters dies young:
"Mr. Yorke, if a magic mirror were now held before you, and if therein were shown you your two daughters as they will be twenty years from this night, what would you think? The magic mirror is here: you shall learn their destinies - and first that of your little life, Jessy.
Do you know this place? No, you never saw it; but you recognise the nature of these trees, this foliage - the cypress, the willow, the yew. Stone crosses like these are not unfamiliar to you, nor are these dim garlands of everlasting flowers. Here is the place - green sod and a gray marble headstone. Jessy sleeps below. She lived through an April day; much loved was she, much loving. She often, in her brief life, shed tears, she had frequent sorrows; she smiled between, gladdening whatever saw her. Her death was tranquil and happy in Rose's guardian arms, for Rose had been her stay and defence through many trials. The dying and the watching English girls were at that hour alone in a foreign country, and the soil of that country gave Jessy a grave."
The novel has been slow going. Some of that is the novel's fault. It hasn't gripped me in the way both Jane Eyre and Villette (the best book Brontë ever wrote, and yeah, I will challenge you to a thumb war over that one) did. The writing is very good; she's a clear and skilled writer (which I'm sure she's relieved to hear: "Thank god a gay college drop out with periodic acne and the wardrobe of an evacuee thinks I'm a good writer. Now I can stay dead in peace.") unlike, say, Mary Elizabeth Braddon who overwrites and overtells her stories when not belaboring them with plot twists even Helen Keller would see coming from 10 miles off in the fog.
Some of it's my fault, though. I'm still working on this book thing, and the first chapter I wrote, well it turns out that's actually not the first chapter and I'm writing the book too much like a short story and Navin said during our writing group, "Dude, you have, like, 6 flashbacks running in here -- this isn't Memento." So now I have to write a new chapter 1 to replace the old chapter 1, and the figure out how much from what I've already written is going to stay and how much of it needs to be shown the door.
But back to Brontë.
So, what you've got is, you've got your Robert Moore who's just French enough to piss everyone off in the novel even though he's not a true, full-blooded Frenchman. He has grand ambitions of a fully mechanized textile mill; unfortunately, these grand ambitions come at a time when England is suffering some pretty dramatic economic upheavals. Napoleon has been naughty, and the English levy sanctions against the French which really only serve to shoot themselves in the foot. The French are all, "Whatevs, bitches: we're going to Russia."
Caroline Helstone, niece of the sort of frightening and French-intolerant Mr. Helstone, has herself a little bit of a kissing-cousins crush on Robert Moore, only he's told her no. Told her no, of course, while giving her mixed signals which means every three or so pages I mutter, "Shut up, Robert Moore." Rob, turns out, is not in a position to marry; he's too busy trying to keep disgruntled Luddites from breaking apart his textile mill so, okay, I can see how that is important; but maybe you could dial it back to 11 with the Caroline flirting so she's not so confused about things and can make her Jew-baskets. That's right: Jew-baskets. Because the 1800s were a kinder, gentler time for anti-Semitism.
As I've said before, the novel reads a lot like Middlemarch. In the past Charlotte Brontë novels I've read, the narrative focuses on a main protagonist. In Shirley, the narrative is instead looking more at a community, and how they're weathering these early days of change. One of the reasons for Brontë to do this might be because there's still no sign of Shirley. Like, she meant to write all about Shirley, but Shirley kept calling in sick or something.
There's a scene I just read where Char is giving us a glimpse into the Yorke family, where she sort of telescopes the lives of some of the children. It's a very affective (effective?) moment in the novel, especially when Brontë reveals that one of these characters dies young:
"Mr. Yorke, if a magic mirror were now held before you, and if therein were shown you your two daughters as they will be twenty years from this night, what would you think? The magic mirror is here: you shall learn their destinies - and first that of your little life, Jessy.
Do you know this place? No, you never saw it; but you recognise the nature of these trees, this foliage - the cypress, the willow, the yew. Stone crosses like these are not unfamiliar to you, nor are these dim garlands of everlasting flowers. Here is the place - green sod and a gray marble headstone. Jessy sleeps below. She lived through an April day; much loved was she, much loving. She often, in her brief life, shed tears, she had frequent sorrows; she smiled between, gladdening whatever saw her. Her death was tranquil and happy in Rose's guardian arms, for Rose had been her stay and defence through many trials. The dying and the watching English girls were at that hour alone in a foreign country, and the soil of that country gave Jessy a grave."
posted by Mike at 10:21 AM
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