the id, the ego, & the single misfiring brain cell

first impressions

I. Love. It.

I listened to the first five chapters on my walk today. It's not unlike reading Shakespeare (or seeing/hearing it performed) in that the verbiage, to our modern sensibilities, seems unusual and the sentences needlessly complex. I daresay one may not passively listen to (or read, natch) Eliot and glean anything more than the shallowest idea of a plotline, if one even understands that much.

But it's smart. Within the word jungles are nestled clever observations, opinions, and snide comments worthy of your attention. Of course, such attitudes are invariably couched in the dulcet tones of a lady.

Consider this pronouncement concerning one of Gwendolyn's neighbors, to whom she paid a social call:

Several conditions had met in the Lady of Quetcham which to the reasoners in that neighborhood seemed to have an essential connection with each other. It was occasionally recalled that she had been the heiress of a fortune gained by some moist or dry business in the city, in order fully to account for her having a squat figure, a harsh parrot-like voice, and a systematically high head-dress; and since these points made her externally rather ridiculous, it appeared to many only natural that she should have what are called literary tendencies. A little comparison would have shown that all these points are to be found apart; daughters of aldermen being often well-grown and well-featured, pretty women having sometimes harsh or husky voices, and the production of feeble literature being found compatible with the most diverse forms of physique, masculine as well as feminine.

This slap to Eliot's contemporaries resounds even now.

I am reminded not a little of Jane Austen. I may have mentioned that I had never had occasion to read her until I picked up a pocket-sized copy of Pride and Prejudice when I was in Iraq. I took it for two reasons (not necessarily in this order): I'd heard of it and thought that since it is a classic, I should read it; and it fit nicely into my cargo pocket. Had it not been for the ongoing Code Reds, during which I was stuck in a corner/in a shelter/on a floor with nothing to do but watch my fingernails grow and wonder if this would be the point at which I'd cease to be an atheist, I seriously doubt I'd have finished the book, or even gotten through half of it.

Frankly, I despised the characters. They are all aristocratic, scheming, shallow, bored women who were inexpressibly full of themselves. Even when they aren't shallow, necessarily, their behavior is.

Thank heavens for all those Code Reds, because I became an admirer of Jane Austen when I realized that she didn't like her characters, either. The narrator's voice is ambiguously admiring and forgiving and gently--almost imperceptibly--sarcastic. Austen mocks them all. But she is, without fail, a lady in her deportment regarding them. Always.

I can't help but think of Jane Austen, for some reason, in Eliot's handling of her better-than-you protagonist. Gwendolyn is a spoiled aristocratic girl who fancies herself well-educated and clever, and worthy of everyone's deference and admiration. Here's an interesting social event, where she has just performed, upon request, an aria. She is confident in the music, as well as her performance of it. She finishes, and almost everyone says her performance is charming.

But Herr Klesmer stood like a statue—if a statue can be imagined in spectacles; at least, he was as mute as a statue. Gwendolen was pressed to keep her seat and double the general pleasure, and she did not wish to refuse; but before resolving to do so, she moved a little toward Herr Klesmer, saying with a look of smiling appeal, "It would be too cruel to a great musician. You cannot like to hear poor amateur singing."

"No, truly; but that makes nothing," said Herr Klesmer, suddenly speaking in an odious German fashion with staccato endings, quite unobservable in him before, and apparently depending on a change of mood, as Irishmen resume their strongest brogue when they are fervid or quarrelsome. "That makes nothing. It is always acceptable to see you sing."

Was there ever so unexpected an assertion of superiority? at least before the late Teutonic conquest? Gwendolen colored deeply, but, with her usual presence of mind, did not show an ungraceful resentment by moving away immediately; and Miss Arrowpoint, who had been near enough to overhear (and also to observe that Herr Klesmer's mode of looking at Gwendolen was more conspicuously admiring than was quite consistent with good taste), now with the utmost tact and kindness came close to her and said—

"Imagine what I have to go through with this professor! He can hardly tolerate anything we English do in music. We can only put up with his severity, and make use of it to find out the worst that can be said of us. It is a little comfort to know that; and one can bear it when every one else is admiring."

"I should be very much obliged to him for telling me the worst," said Gwendolen, recovering herself. "I dare say I have been extremely ill taught, in addition to having no talent—only liking for music." This was very well expressed considering that it had never entered her mind before.

See what I mean?

Is there any place for such writing in our modern world?

(By the way, a plug for the reader here: her name is Nadia May. She is, as the best readers are, an actress. She gives the narrator the subtle attitude Eliot implies, and alters voices and accents for each character--sometimes, these changes are almost imperceptible, but like a truly talented actress, each character she plays has its own idioaccent.

Beautiful. If you can listen to her read this book, you should.)

d