Little Dorrit by Charles Dickens

"If Miss Amy Dorrit will direct her own attention to, and will accept of my poor assistance in, the formation of a surface, Mr. Dorrit will have no further cause of anxiety. May I take this opportunity of remarking, as an instance in point, that it is scarcely delicate to look at vagrants with the attention which I have seen bestowed upon them, by a very dear young friend of mine? They should not be looked at. Nothing disagreeable should ever be looked at. Apart from such a habit standing in the way of that graceful equanimity of surface which is so expressive of good breeding, it hardly seems compatible with refinement of mind. A truly refined mind will seem to be ignorant of the existence of anything that is not perfectly proper, placid, and pleasant."

-Little Dorrit 

Well, this has been a long time coming. Little Dorrit--which clocks in at over 800 pages--is no quick read, that's for sure. And while I'd hoped to become absorbed in the world Dickens created, much as I was with Bleak House, I found Little Dorrit to be mostly a slog.

The titular character in Little Dorrit is a timid seamstress, christened Amy, who has grown up in Marshalsea Prison. Her father is incarcerated as a debtor, and she's spent little time outside of the prison that she considers a home. She does leave Marshalsea to do her sewing work, primarily at the residence of the cold and businesslike Mrs. Clennam. Her simple, sheltered life changes when Mrs. Clennam's son, Arthur, returns home to London after an extended stay in Japan. Arthur takes an interest in her affairs, primarily because he worries that his own family's business might have been one that Mr. Dorrit owed money to so many years ago. This sense of responsibility motivates Arthur to help Amy, though he cannot foresee, of course, just how great the ramifications of his aid will be.

I've mentioned only four characters, but since it's Dickens you can rest assured there are easily fifty--few of them, sadly, are terribly compelling. Arthur is sympathetic, though it's hard to find his patronizing relationship with Amy as romantic as I suspect we are intended to. He calls her Little Dorrit, for one, which I have a hard time getting past--she is a grown woman, after all, even if he's twice her age. Amy herself, unfortunately, is a bit of a drip. She's kind, sure, but she possesses none of the spark that made Esther Summerson, a similarly good-hearted character, much more likable in Bleak House. In short, you know something's wrong with the characters when I didn't even find the (random) French murderer interesting.

That being said, Dickens threw in a couple of good reversals of fortune, so the second half of the book moves along more quickly than the first. Normally I'm not one to gripe about this when it comes to Dickens, but I think the problem is really one of length. Cut down the first half by 200 pages, remove a subplot or five--I think there is an interesting story in there, he just didn't quite tell it. It's why I still plan to see the miniseries at some point--I think that, with some editing, I might like this story a good deal better. Certainly no rush to see it at the moment, though.

Up next: Already finished the third Blue Bloods book, Revelations.

Dracula by Bram Stoker

To-day Harker is out following up his clue, and Art and Quincey are looking after horses. Godalming thinks that it will be well to have horses always in readiness, for when we get the information which we seek there will be no time to lose. We must sterilise all the imported earth between sunrise and sunset; we shall thus catch the Count at his weakest, and without a refuge to fly to. Van Helsing is off to the British Museum looking up some authorities on ancient medicine. The old physicians took account of things which their followers do not accept, and the Professor is searching for witch and demon cures which may be useful to us later.

I sometimes think we must all be mad and that we shall wake to sanity in strait-waistcoats.

-Dracula 

 So, as you may have heard, vampires are pretty popular right now. Charismatic, pale, brooding sorts who can't seem to help loving those human women. They're conflicted about these relationships. They have A History, you see (often a very long one). Sometimes when they go out into the sun, they burn. And sometimes they sparkle.

Dracula, I hate to break it to you, is not one of those sexy, tortured vamps. He has a unibrow. Hair grows on his palms. He reeks. He's kind of gross, you guys.

No matter! Dracula remains a compelling read, even 100-plus years after its initial publication. This marks the third time I've read it, though the last time was in high school, I imagine--I only remembered bits and pieces. I was spurred on to reread by having recently seen the 1992 film adaptation, which seemed quite different from what I did remember. Guess what, I was right.

In the book, intrepid young law clerk Jonathan Harker ventures to Transylvania to help close a real estate deal with the mysterious Count Dracula. Things go from bad (Wolves. Lots of wolves.) to worse (The count slithering down the side of his castle, for one, which just doesn't bode well at all). As Jonathan fights to escape, we also meet some of the people he's left behind: his fiancee, Mina Murray, for one; Mina's friend Lucy Westernra, and Lucy's three suitors, which include Dr. John Seward, head of a local asylum. Mina is concerned over Jonathan's continued absence; Lucy puzzles over her own sleepwalking; and Dr. Seward recounts his interactions with patient Renfield, who has a theory about absorbing life from insects. Their story is told through their diary entries, which begin to weave together into the story of the damage wrought by a very old monster. He starts so small, this monster. Just those two, tiny ragged holes on Lucy's neck...

I'll admit, it can be frustrating as a modern reader that the gang doesn't catch on to things a little more quickly. We're so well-versed in vampire lore today--even a child knows about the holes in the neck, the stake and the garlic--that you really have to step back and try to imagine what it would be like to hear about vampires for the first time--in a situation in which you are actually dealing with one, no less, not just listening to old folk tales.  Even with the narrative bumpiness that can result from their ignorance, Dracula remains a creepy, engaging story. It's also incredibly cinematic, which makes the lack of a faithful film adaptation all the more frustrating. Heck, sexy Dracula up a bit, sharpen Mina's character to make her a slightly anachronistic badass--I'd be fine with that. Just don't, say, paint Dracula as an epic love story between the titular vampire and Mina, the seeming reincarnation of his true love from many centuries earlier. I mean, wha? (Francis Ford Coppola's ears are burning, I reckon.) I hold out hope that one day someone will see the dramatic potential of this story on its own, without ridiculous romantic embellishments. Until then, the book can stand for itself. 

Up next: Had Mockingjay. Read Mockingjay. Will review Mockingjay forthwith. 

North and South by Elizabeth Gaskell

"One more word. You look as if you thought it tainted you to be loved by me. You cannot avoid it. Nay, I if I would, cannot cleanse you from it. But I would not, if I could. I have never loved any woman before: my life has been too busy, my thoughts too much absorbed with other things. Now I love, and will love. But do not be afraid of too much expression on my part."

-North and South

I hope it does not spoil things to reveal that the preceding passage comes at the end of a botched proposal of marriage. If you're not familiar with the story of North and South*, I'm not sure how to better describe it except Pride and Prejudice (with its own famous trainwreck of a proposal) by way of Dickens. Now, Gaskell's prose is not as lively as Austen's, nor as rich as that of Dickens. (I don't want to oversell it.) But the comparison is inevitable: North and South could just as easily be entitled Pride and Prejudice: Industrial Edition.

Margaret Hale is representing the South. She's from the countryside, and unexpectedly finds herself relocating to the factory town of Milton after her father, a curate, suffers a crisis of faith. Milton is smoky, loud, and populated with a very different sort of people than Margaret is used to (and not just because of their delightful accents). Then she meets Mr. Thornton.

Mr. Thornton (representing the North, in case that was unclear) is the wealthy and well-respected proprietor of a local cotton factory. He and Margaret clash early and often. Margaret, still narrow-minded in her views of trade, does not consider him to be a gentleman. And Mr. Thornton thinks her far too (wait for it) proud. But, interestingly, the bulk of their argument revolves around labor issues. Okay, maybe that doesn't sound interesting. But the fact that their issues revolve around a matter of substance is what puts North and South apart from so many of the common "opposites attract" stories.

The other threads of the novel aren't quite as engaging. Margaret begins to form a tentative friendship with a sickly former-factory girl, whose constant refrain about her imminent journey to Holy Jerusalem is wearying, although not necessarily inaccurate. Margaret also deals with her surprisingly needy parents and with the case of her wayward brother, who has been accused of mutiny. The latter storyline is broached with perhaps one of the most ham-fisted instances of exposition I've ever read, to wit:

"Poor Frederick," thought she, sighing. "Oh! if Frederick had but been a clergyman, instead of going into the navy, and being lost to us all! I wish I knew all about it. I never understood it from Aunt Shaw; I only knew he could not come back to England because of that terrible affair."

So yes, it's a bit dated in terms of phrasing and language. For some reason I only very rarely get that impression from Dickens, although he and Gaskell were contemporaries. (According to my edition of the book, Dickens thought North and South was "[an] admirable story...full of character and power.") Of course, Dickens is rather short on grand romance.

In my previous post, I alluded to the fact that Mr. Thornton is possibly more swoonworthy than the much more famous Mr. Darcy. Naturally, it's a matter of taste. I think Mr. Thornton's biggest asset is that he's a self-made man. He's very capable, and he's eager to better himself (he takes classics lessons with Mr. Hale). Not that Darcy isn't accomplished...but what does he do all day? In addition, we as readers actually spend more time with Mr. Thornton, and get a better sense of his feelings. Some people are a bit leery of angst (and after Twilight, I well understood that feeling), but really, how can you argue with passages like this:

[Mr. Thorton] turned round to his mother; his face was very gray and grim. "Yes, mother. I do believe he is her lover." When he had spoken, he turned round again; he writhed himself about, like one in bodily pain. He leant his face against his hand.

Ah, jealousy (he's mistaken, of course). I don't remember Darcy writhing around, feeling the pain of his love. That's pretty intense.

Mr. Thornton is somewhat different in the miniseries, which stars Daniela Denby-Ashe and Richard Armitage. I'm not planning on doing a separate post on it, as I haven't seen it recently enough - I actually watched it before I read the book the first time. I did rewatch the first episode, though, and was struck with how, uh, violent** Mr. Thornton is in the miniseries. It's a bit of a leap from the book's Thornton, who prides himself in keeping his emotions in check (writhing aside). Other than that, I would say that in most regards the miniseries is more enjoyable than the book. The ending is changed substantially for the better, and some of the gloom of the book (people die off fairly regularly) is toned down.

Up next: I'm going to try The Burnt Orange Heresy by Charles Willeford, which is favorite of my dad's.

*Like many classics, North and South has an utterly dull cover in pretty much every edition. Thus I substituted another miniseries picture, which I find more aesthetically pleasing.

**Perhaps I shouldn't find the violent turn of the miniseries surprising. After all, very shortly thereafter Mr. Thorton grew out his hair, traveled back in time, and happily spent his days as the evil henchman of the Sheriff of Nottingham.

Bleak House by Charles Dickens

"In the wicked days, my dears, of King Charles the First - I mean, of course, in the wicked days of the rebels who leagued themselves against that excellent King - Sir Morbury Dedlock was the owner of Chesney Wold. Whether there was any account of a ghost in the family before those days, I can't say. I should think it very likely indeed."

Mrs. Rouncewell holds this opinion, because she considers that a family of such antiquity and importance has a right to a ghost. She regards a ghost as one of the privileges of the upper classes; a genteel distinction to which common people have no claim.

-Bleak House

It's hard to know where to begin with Bleak House, to even choose a proper quotation to illustrate it. As I was reading, I tried to remember page numbers of particularly good passages, but I've ended up with more than I need. (As opposed to times when I've halfheartedly leafed through a book to find anything worth quoting.) I may sneak another quotation in at the end.

Bleak House is the story of a young woman. No, a ludicrously complicated court case. A woman troubled by a ghost. A man troubled by the east wind. Marriage. Death. Love. Spontaneous combustion.

Let's start with the young woman. Her name is Esther Summerson. When we first meet her, she tells us of her childhood: born out of wedlock and raised by a staunchly religious woman, a combination that turns out about as well as you might expect. Fortunately for Esther, provisions are made for her after the death of her guardian, and they eventually lead her to the home of John Jarndyce.

Mr. Jarndyce is warm and kind, almost absurdly modest about taking Esther in to live as a companion to an orphaned young cousin of his, Ada Clare. Mr. Jarndyce, Ada, and their other cousin, Richard Carstone, are also embroiled in Jarndyce and Jarndyce, a lawsuit over a contested will, the complexity and duration of which has left it a joke in the eyes of the law. Mr. Jarndyce, however, takes it seriously enough to try to avoid it entirely: Jarndyce and Jarndyce has been the ruin of many a man.

What of that woman who hears a ghostly footfall outside her bedroom window? That would be Lady Dedlock. She's beautiful and haughty, the talk of all society. She doesn't care much for that, or for anything, really. So it comes as quite a surprise when she swoons at the sight of some legal papers (she is also a party in Jarndyce and Jarndyce, naturally) in the possession of her husband's lawyer, the relentless and sinister Mr. Tulkinghorn. What could cause a lady of such renowned composure to give way like that, the reader may wonder. Mr. Tulkinghorn wants to know as well, and his investigation sets into a motion a chain of events that even he could not anticipate.

I could do plot summary for ages, trying to set up some of the dozens of characters that populate Bleak House, but I'm going to move on. I've always enjoyed Dickens, but it wasn't until last summer that I picked up Bleak House. I'd been put off by the name, I suppose. Sounded like a bit of a bummer.

Bleak House is actually the name of Mr. Jarndyce's home, though there's no explanation as to how he (or his family) came to choose such an inhospitable name. You could probably also argue that the title could refer less literally to some of the less pleasant abodes we see in the novel. However, I just want to assure you that it's not 800 pages of misery. There are sad passages, without question, but there are also hopeful ones, even funny ones.

I absolutely fell in love with Bleak House last summer, and watched the wonderful miniseries shortly thereafter. Bleak House basically goes against a lot of what I've posted about summer reading, and it's certainly pretty heavy for your beach bag, but talk about storytelling. I think the reason I felt the impetus to reread it this summer was that it's just so good that I knew it would transport me away from what was otherwise a somewhat stressful time.

Speaking of good, I want to get in a few more words about Esther Summerson, as she is our heroine. I love Esther. She is absolutely good without being overly perfect or one-dimensional. Yes, everyone who meets her, loves her - but you can't help but see why*. Esther is not just passively good, she's actively good, and I think that makes all the difference. She will take in a sick urchin off the streets because it's the right thing to do, even if she endangers herself in doing so. She will travel to reason with Richard when he continues along his misguided path further and further into the snarled workings of Jarndyce and Jarndyce. And towards the close of the novel, she will make another, far more harrowing journey to seek out someone she loves.

What am I leaving out? The amusing declarations and legalese of Mr. Guppy, as well as his hilarious mother. The Growlery. That elderly child, Harold Skimpole. Mr. Smallweed and his brimstone magpie of a wife. Yes, at this point I'm just putting in all the Dickensian phrasing that I find memorable.

"It was a troubled dream?" said Richard, clasping both my guardian's hands eagerly.
"Nothing more, Rick; nothing more."
"And you, being a good man, can pass it as such, and forgive and pity the dreamer, and be lenient and encouraging when he wakes?"
"Indeed I can. What am I but another dreamer, Rick?"
"I will begin the world!" said Richard, with a light in his eyes.

Oh, Dickens. I'm not sure, but I'm going to put this out there: Bleak House might be my favorite novel, ever. How's that for a recommendation?

Up next: Well, I actually finished Bleak House a few days ago, but I hadn't had enough time to write. So, in the meantime, I've already finished up the 2nd Sookie Stackhouse book, and I expect to be back to write about that shortly. My next move after that is undecided - I have a lot of choices, hooray.

*Apparently you can. After posting this, I finally read the introduction to my edition of Bleak House, and found that many people do not share my opinion of Esther. To which I say: whatever. I think it's refreshing to have a woman who is good and earnest, not to mention resilient. I'm so tired of jaded characters.

Pride and Prejudice and Zombies by Jane Austen and Seth Grahame-Smith

It is a truth universally acknowledged that a zombie in possession of brains must be in want of more brains.

-Pride and Prejudice and Zombies

I am not a zombie person. I know there are some people who really geek out over them, but the only pop culture zombie exposure I can recall is my viewing of Shaun of the Dead (which I enjoyed, but also probably would have benefited from a greater zombie love on my part). Oh, and I believe there was an episode of The X-Files as well.

However, I am definitely a Pride and Prejudice person. I couldn't put down the book the first time I read it, in high school. I own the acclaimed miniseries and even enjoyed, to a lesser extent, the more recent film version (minus the awful ending).

When I first heard about Pride and Prejudice and Zombies, I was intrigued - despite my lack of interest in zombies in other situations, I couldn't fight the amusing possibilities of such incongruity. The premise is simple (the title pretty much says it all, no?): it's everything you remember from Pride and Prejudice, with the addition of a plague of "manky dreadfuls" terrorizing the country. Elizabeth Bennet, already one of literature's most independent-minded heroines, is a natural fit as an accomplished warrior defending England against the undead. Mr. Darcy, naturally, is quite an able warrior himself. Their romance plays out much as it always has, except with more mentions of succulent brains. There are also ninjas involved.

This book could have been just a clever concept that lost steam quickly, but I thought it turned out quite well. I was entertained throughout, although I did wince a bit at some of the additions (must Elizabeth relish the idea of holding a still-beating heart so?). I also found that Grahame-Smith was able to establish the premise to such an extent that it flowed rather well, which made his occasional crude jokes a bit confusing: Elizabeth tying modesty strings around her dress when standing on her head = appropriate; Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy sharing knowing looks during sexual innuendo = inappropriate. Or perhaps that's just me. It's just a small point, really - overall, it was quite fun.

Next up: Well, I'm a bit behind as I was out of town for the weekend. (I know, the horror.) I read the 4th Percy Jackson book, so I will try to review that in the next day or so. I have a few choices for my next read, so perhaps it will be a surprise...well, until the Percy Jackson review at least.

The Return of the Native by Thomas Hardy

Hello, reader. I've decided to ever-so-tentatively dip my toe in the pool of blogging. My aim is to review, however briefly, books that I read. Perhaps it might inspire someone to pick up a book; otherwise, I'm perfectly happy to have this as my own record of what I've read. So, without further ado...

"Well, as my views changed my course became very depressing. I found that I was trying to be like people who had hardly anything in common with myself. I was endeavouring to put off one sort of life for another sort of life, which was not any better than the life I had known before. It was simply different."
- Clym Yeobright, The Return of the Native

There's a moment in the film The History Boys (yes, book blog, I realize I'm already getting off track) in which one character expresses the wonder of reading something written long ago that speaks directly to you, likening it to a hand coming up through the page to grasp your own. I felt something akin to that upon reading Clym's words above, as sometimes I feel I am living in a world that is so different from where I grew up, and outwardly "better" perhaps (much like Paris is for Clym), yet in some respects not so.

But perhaps I'm getting ahead of myself. The Return of the Native is Hardy (cue groan), one of the more intimidating writers, not for his language (which is often quite engaging, even amusing), but more for his themes - misery on the heath doesn't exactly inspire one to run down to the library. And that's unfortunate, because if you can get past the fact that things aren't exactly rosy in Hardy's world, there's a lot to be said for it.

The titular native is the previously-quoted Clym Yeobright, a clever and industrious young man who has become dissatisfied with his lot as a diamond merchant in Paris, and has decided to return to his home in rural England to teach. His resolve to do so, despite his mother's protests, is strengthened when he meets the bewitching Eustacia Vye. Eustacia longs to escape the heath for somewhere more cosmopolitan (you can already see how this is going to be a problem, yes?). In addition, there is a bit of a love pentagon brewing that also involves a handsome innkeeper, Clym's timid cousin, and the local reddleman (who sells dye for marking sheep). Things go...not so well, as you might have guessed.

I first read Hardy the summer before my senior year in high school: Tess of the d'Urbervilles. I was not looking forward to it, and was surprised to find that it wasn't half-bad. Earlier this year, I read The Mayor of Casterbridge after watching a wonderful television adaptation starring Rome actors Ciaran Hinds, James Purefoy, and Polly Walker. I didn't like Native quite so much as the latter, but it certainly has a lot of fine points. The characters are well drawn, for one. There is not a villain among them, yet selfishness, simple mistakes, and, of course, fate contrive to allow some terrible events to transpire. The plot is not predictable, but always plausible, and although I felt the end to perhaps be a bit much, I can't say it wasn't a pageturner by that point.

Aha, now I'm beginning to discern how it could be difficult to write this blog: I could go off in many directions at this point. I could warn that you may be tempted to roll your eyes at Eustacia's theatrics, or speculate upon the accuracy of casting in the tv movie (another Rome alum, Ray Stevenson, as Clym; Clive Owen as his rival Wildeve), or praise Hardy for his excellent character names (they're uniformly snazzy, yes? I guess after a hard day cutting furze, heath dwellers came home and got pretty creative in the baby name department). I guess I'll settle for mentioning all of these things and elaborating on none; a bit of a cop-out, but it is my first post.

I guess it boils down to this: should you read it? I will say, I don't think you (the generalized you, that is) should be put off by the author. The first 20 pages are a bit of a slog, but after that it's not a difficult read, and you get the pleasure in enjoying the work of someone who really knew how to use words beautifully. If you're doubtful, it may be worth giving the movie a go first (if you don't mind spoilers) - I can't vouch for its quality, having not yet seen it, but this approach worked really well for Mayor. You'll have a streamlined narrative in your head before you read, which should make everything quite easy to follow, and you'll be able to relish all of the details that inevitably were cut to allow a decent running time.

Next up: I've been simultaneously reading Native and rereading childhood favorite The Westing Game, so I may finish that up next; I also have the non-fiction book Red Tails in Love sitting on my shelf.