Category: Jane Austen

Posted on

Jane, Annotated

At first I was less than charmed by the idea. An annotated edition of “Pride and Prejudice”? Could be interesting, yes, but this was one of my favorite books. Did I want to read it with 2000 footnotes? Did I want this additional voice intruding on my private time with Elizabeth Bennett? The answer, as it turns out, is yes. I kept an open mind on this, and now, dear reader, I must tell you how much I am enjoying this. The book, officially, is “Pride and Prejudice: An Annotated Edition,” edited by Patricia Meyer Spacks and published by Harvard University Press.

First of all, the book is physically beautiful. An e-book is all well and good in its place, but this is not the place. This is a large, heavy book with paper that affords noticeable tactile pleasure. There are wonderful illustrations, from the familiar watercolor of Jane painted by her sister Cassandra, to a wonderful drawing “A Gentleman’s Art Gallery” that shows what a room at Pemberley might have looked like, to a group of illustrations done for the book in 1894, including a priceless one in which the unbearable Mr. Collins is recoiling at the thought of–horrors!–reading a novel. One of my favorites is the poster from the movie version with Greer Garson and Laurence Olivier, that looks like the cover of a paperback bodice-ripper.

The footnotes, rather than getting in the way, are like having a knowledgeable companion on the sofa next to you, pointing out all the good bits. I had the pleasure of hearing Patricia Spacks talk about the book, and her warm voice is exactly what I hear as I read about various kinds of coaches the characters rode in, the relative levels of social standing of the characters, or what quadrille is. A chatty aside may dish about how Mr. Collins looks at women and furniture alike as objects awaiting his approval or disapproval.

Maybe a gift for the Austen fan in your life?

Posted on

The body of work

So I told you how impressed I was with “The Great Man“ a novel by Kate Christensen. Well, I am about 50 pages into another of her novels, “Jeremy Thrane,” and I don’t think I’ll be reading much further. It’s understandable that a writer’s body of work would not necessarily be all at the same level. Understandable, but disappointing.

It’s the same feeling I had when, after reading Ian McEwan’s “Atonement” or Colm Toibin’s “The Master.” How many writers produce book after book of unfailingly high quality? There’s a reason Jane Austen and John Updike and their ilk actually have, well, such a small “ilk.” What they accomplished, book after book, is extraordinary. They just made it look easy.

Part of the disappointment comes from meeting an author for the first time in a book you’ve heard or read good things about. Then, when you want to read more–the atavistic Bobbsey Twins/Hardy Boys/Nancy Drew impulse–maybe what you’re left with are the earlier novels in which literary gifts were being gradually honed. Maybe it’s our impatience to discover the next new wonderful read coupled with the writer’s impatience to be the next brilliant young star. Didn’t writers used to have the luxury of a long, steady apprenticeship out of the spotlight, away from all but private expectations? Maybe writers need to have some unpublished work stashed away in desk drawers.

But I’m also thinking that I need an attitude adjustment. First comes savoring the books that are truly wonderful, giving myself to them slowly and completely without rushing to the end and looking for more. That there may not be more does not diminish what there is.

And second comes discovering a different pleasure: following the development of a gifted writer, reading his or her work chronologically and enjoying watching the gift unfold. How many of us, after all, would want to be judged on our early efforts in anything? Maybe it is not a question of disappointment that a particular writer has not produced more wonderful work but rather, gratitude that he or she produced the one wonderful thing we have in front of us right now.

Posted on

A tale of two endings

First of all, I had a “Wuthering Heights” problem just because I had never read it. No, really, never read it, I have to confess, though I had read and reread its cousin, “Jane Eyre,” many times. My friend Susan and I had coincidentally just finished rereading “Middlemarch” and were thinking about reading something else together.

“’Wuthering Heights’,” I said. “I hate “’Wuthering Heights’,” she said. But, being the person she is, she agreed to go along with me. Now I know what she meant.

I had not gone far into the fresh hell that is Emily Bronte’s great work when I noticed that I hated, if not the book itself, then every character. Ok, not Lockwood. Lockwood’s not really a hate-able character.

So for the past week my bookmark has remained at a page just short of the end. I’m not sure why I am so reluctant to be done with it. That’s more like the way I sometimes am with books I love. Like the one I galloped through while avoiding Heathcliff, et. al.–“Persuasion,” Jane Austen’s final and posthumously-published novel.

It is a particular triumph, don’t you think, to have written a novel that is still a page-turner 193 years later. I recently saw an exhibit of Jane’s letters at the Morgan Library and Museum in New York and was charmed by how closely her snarky comments to her correspondents echoed the ever-so-gently snarky observations of her heroines. Reminded me of Alice Roosevelt Longworth’s comment, “If you have nothing nice to say, then come sit by me!”

I couldn’t put it down. Until I got close enough to the end so that I knew Anne would be reunited with her love (it’s not a spoiler if the book is almost 200 years old, is it?) and her silly sisters would grow a little wiser and all manner of things would be well. Though not so much for Mr. Elliot and Mrs. Clay, whom we despise, right?

But at that point I stopped for a while, trying to stave off the wrenching moment of parting from the wonderful world of Jane. I even considered going back to Heathcliff. But it felt impossible to veer from “Persuasion’s” privately guarded emotional turmoils to the heavy lifting of sturm und drang on the moors. So I finished it and loved every delicious sentence.

In the intro to the edition I read, Margaret Drabble calls “Persuasion” a “novel of second chances” and what’s not to love about that? Especially at this time of year, when we look forward to January’s illusion of a clean slate.

Now I know what’s waiting for me. A hot and cold dose of human flaws and passions. I’ll read it and I’ll be glad I did. I know, I know. I’ll finish “Wuthering Heights” tomorrow.