Reading Pride and Prejudice with an Adult Brain

(Note: I’m going to assume that you’ve read Pride and Prejudice. If you haven’t, go do it. I’ll wait.)

Our brains don’t stop developing when we turn eighteen. The rest of our bodies have mainly matured to adulthood by then, but our brains don’t reach adulthood until we are twenty five or so. I thought of that a lot when I first started rereading Pride and Prejudice. The last time I read it, I had an adolescent brain.

It has been twenty six years since I last read Pride and Prejudice, and I find myself constantly wondering as I read it again, “What could I possibly have gotten out of this last time I read this? I was such a child.” I’m sure I got a lot out of it, but it feels like I must have been deaf to a lot that Austen does in the novel. It’s the old puzzle of when we finally arrive and become our true selves. It feels like we are now our true selves, but in ten years, or twenty six, we will look back and think that we were babes in the woods, complete innocents who were incapable of deeply understanding complex issues and layered works of literature.

The Democracy of Reading

There couldn’t have been a better book to begin my 50 at 50 Project, where I read fifty books recommended to me by fifty different people, than The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society, by Mary Ann Shaffer and Annie Barrows. My goals for the 50 at 50 Project are to read books that I wouldn’t have otherwise, and to engage people in a conversation about books that they enjoy, and both of these goals are major themes in TGLAPPPS.

My wife and I met at a book group, which started as a group of people talking almost exclusively about books, and grew to incorporate more social elements, including food and friendship. Reading and talking about challenging books was a great way to get past the small talk and really know how and what people thought. In fact, we got to know each other very deeply, but skipped right past some of the biographical details that often seem essential. One person had been attending the group for over a year before we ever learned that she had a daughter. I remember telling people, after I’d been a part of the group for a couple of years, “I don’t even know for sure how many children John has, but I know what he would say in response to this passage from Nietzsche.”

Tolstoy, Beethoven, and Why I Write about What I Read

I think I’ve read Tolstoy's “The Kreutzer Sonata” before, but I have only the vaguest memory of the arc of the story. In fact, I’m about halfway through a second reading, and I’m amazed and ashamed at how little it resonates with me at all. I’ve been at it for a few days, and still haven’t gotten to the part of the story that I would have described a week ago if I’d been called upon to describe the story. A week ago, I would have summarized the story by saying that a married man gets jealous when his wife plays Beethoven’s Kreutzer Sonata (a piece for violin and piano) with someone else, and that the man’s jealousy is unfounded.

Tilting at Windmills: My Quixotic Quest

Several years ago, never mind how many, I came across an academic who claimed that Don Quixote was one of the few works that really stood up to multiple readings throughout life. In fact, the scholar claimed that Don Quixote required multiple readings. Specifically, he recommended that everyone read Don Quixote at least three times, once as a young adult, once in middle age, and once in old age.

I’ve thought a lot about this recommendation in the intervening years. In fact, the idea of books that warrant and reward multiple readings has shaped the way I think about literature, and I’ve created my own short list of books that could reward multiple readings every twenty years or so. I’ve identified six works that I found especially meaningful and rewarding when I first read them in my twenties. Those six are the Bible, “Oedipus Rex”, “King Lear”, Don Quixote, Moby Dick, and The Brothers Karamazov. Now, as I approach the end of my forties, I find myself revisiting that list, and rereading works that I read in my twenties. I have a couple of years left in my 40’s, and a couple more works to finish: Don Quixote and The Brothers Karamazov.

So, for the next several weeks, I’ll be spending time with Don Quixote, as part of my Quixotic quest to revisit some rewarding literature, and to live like literature can have an impact on one’s life.

Beautiful Dystopia: The Giver, by Lois Lowry

I read The Giver, by Lois Lowry sometime back in the 90’s, and again just this week, and my perception and appreciation of the book have definitely changed. Perhaps it’s just age, and experience. Sometimes I feel like I’ve lived most of my life in a fog. I wish I’d kept notes about my initial reaction to the book. What kept me from enjoying it last time the way that I did this time? If I wasn’t old enough to really appreciate it in the 90’s, how can young adults appreciate it? I’m sure there are plenty of thoughtful, sensitive young adults who can appreciate a book like The Giver, but I apparently wasn’t one of them.

The Redemption of Sara Louise Bradshaw: Jacob Have I Loved, by Katherine Paterson

At this time of the year, I often find myself drawn to children’s books, or young adult books, probably for multiple reasons. I often feel that I have challenged myself in the books I’ve read during the rest of the year, and I’m looking for something a little less demanding. Perhaps in the chaos of the holiday season, I need something short and simple. There’s another reason I gravitate toward Newbery Award winners when the weather turns cold, to be honest. I’m also looking for books that I can read quickly, so I can boost the number of books that I’ve read during the year.

Isn't It Good...Norwegian Folktales

A book of Norwegian fairy tales, East of the Sun and West of the Moon and Other Tales, was mentioned in The Paideia Program by Mortimer Adler, which is how I first became aware of it. I found my way to The Paideia Program through reading most of what I could by Adler back in the 1980’s, and became infatuated with his proposal for reforming education long before I had children of my own.

East of the Sun and West of the Moon and Other Tales is a collection of folk tales, gathered by P.C. Asbjornsen and Jorben E. Moe, who were the Norwegian Brothers Grimm, apparently, as they collected folk tales from Norway, and put what were mainly oral stories into a written form. Some of the stories are very familiar, but some are very unusual. As a good Midwestern boy of German heritage, my fairy tales tended to be straight out of the Brothers Grimm, so this was the first time I’d heard some of these Norwegian tales.

Why I Can't Like the Ginger Man

I tried. Really, I did. I tried to like the Ginger Man, both the book by J.P. Donleavy, and the main character, Sebastian Dangerfield, but it is just not possible for me.

Early in the book, we get to see Dangerfield at his worst. His relationship with his wife and child is neglectful at best, and abusive at worst. In fact, the abuse is extravagant, both physically and emotionally.

We aren’t given much of a honeymoon period with Dangerfield. Early in the book, we are exposed to the worst of his character. Here’s a passage from page 21, when his wife returns from a trip out of town to find Dangerfield passed out drunk amid the wreckage of their home.

Second Guessing the Modern Library

The time I’ve spent with Sebastian Dangerfield has been tumultuous. I almost feel like one of the people that Dangerfield uses and abuses. He certainly plays on the sympathies and prejudices of the other characters in Ginger Man, and he even does the same with his readers.

Dangerfield, who has been joyfully running from one scheme to another, has been looking forward to an inheritance when his wealthy father dies. However, his wealthy father apparently knows his progeny too well, and the stipulations placed on the inheritance at his death are grievous. I was almost disappointed to hear that we as readers were in for more of the same that we’ve been exposed to during the first ninety percent of the book, when Dangerfield learns that his father has dies and left him a fortune that is locked up in trust until Sebastian turns forty seven. (Ironically, the exact age I am right now.)

Sympathy for the Devil

As I have spent more time with the novel, I am getting more of an appreciation for Donleavy’s Ginger Man, and am coming to terms with Sebastian Dangerfield, the reprehensible main character. Here’s what I can say about my experience reading the book so far. (After all, the blog’s subtitle is “My response to what I’m reading”, so my goal isn’t to necessarily give a review of a book, but more of a reaction to it.)

The novel is written untraditionally. I do not know if it would be considered “stream of consciousness”, but if it’s not technically that style of writing, it is reminiscent of it. At times, it is told in first person, but most of the time it is from a limited third person narrator’s voice, with access to what the main character is thinking and feeling. Even more pronounced than the movement between voice is the frequent use of sentence fragments. Here is an example from the opening paragraphs:

I'm Really Not a Prude, But ...

I came across Ginger Man, by J.P. Donleavy, on the Modern Library’s list of the 100 Best English Language Novels of the Twentieth Century. I was not familiar with it previously, and have not encountered many who are familiar with it since. At this point, about a fourth of the way through it, I doubt that I will be recommending it.

The main character, Sebastian Dangerfield, is a roguish anti-hero along the lines of Shakespeare’s Falstaff, though without Falstaff’s brilliance and charisma. Of course, it’s hardly fair to compare Donleavy to Shakespeare. It’s hardly fair to compare anyone to Shakespeare, and to fault a character for falling short of one of the most brilliant characters in literature is especially out of line.

I have really struggled with this book so far. I don’t think of myself as someone who needs to like the main character in order to enjoy the book. Take Cormac McCarthy’s The Road, for example. The main character there isn’t particularly likeable, but my reaction to that book wasn’t as visceral or negative as what I’m experiencing reading Ginger Man. Or, the other book that has come to mind several times while reading Donleavy’s work is A Fan’s Notes, by Frederick Exley, where the main character is living a half-life of alcoholism and deception. Or, even Wuthering Heights, where Heathcliff and Catherine are not likeable in the least, but Bronte’s tale of passion is less distasteful to me than Ginger Man has been so far.

Why Read Moby-Dick?

There are very few books that reward multiple readings in life, and Moby-Dick is one of them. I first read it in my twenties, and absolutely loved it. Now, twenty years later, I have accumulated more of the joys and bruises of life, and have more sympathy with and understanding of the narrator, and more appreciation for Melville’s poetry and humor.

Even in the chapters that feel digressive, where Melville distracts us with details of whale anatomy or the mechanics of whaling, Melville still cannot refrain from making the most mundane item into a philosophical discourse. It is like listening to a spectacularly good conversationalist. For example, here is a quote from Chapter 60: “The Line”, which is ostensibly about the rope attached to the harpoon.

“All men live enveloped in whale-lines. All are born with halters round their necks; but it is only when caught in the swift, sudden turn of death, that mortals realize the silent, subtle, every-present perils of life. And if you be a philosopher, though seated in a whale-boat, you would not at heart feel one whit more of terror, than though seated before your evening fire with a poker, and not a harpoon, by your side.”

That kind of writing can drive some readers crazy, but I think the key is to embrace it. The key is to not try to race through the story. Melville lingers in the telling. He’s clearly in no hurry to tell us the bare facts. He first needs to prepare us, both intellectually and emotionally, for the real impact of the story.

From the very first paragraph, Melville makes it clear that his narrator is in no hurry. If we are going to listen to this story, we need to know something about the kind of person that the narrator is, and to recognize ourselves in him. He’s someone who has clearly felt that quiet desperation of which Thoreau speaks. Who knows if Thoreau did not articulate the phrase after reading Moby-Dick?

That nameless restlessness and dissatisfaction that plagues the narrator is something with which we can all identify. In the first paragraph, Ishmael, as he asks us to call him, clearly states that his life is not what he wants, and he is willing to engage in a sea voyage as a desperate act to maintain his sanity. I found myself referencing that paragraph more than once over the years since I first read it. In fact, I probably think of it every November, as it prominently references the “damp, drizzly November in my soul.” That November can happen at any time of the year, but it’s usually toward the end of the year that I cast my eye back on where I have been, and turn it hopefully to the future.

Read the first paragraph of Moby-Dick. Savor the cadence, and the way Melville beautifully describes the human condition, right there on page one. I will definitely be reading this again, when I have gathered more joys and bruises.

Wuthering Heights

The realization that it has been almost exactly twenty years since I first read Wuthering Heights was a cruel one. I am now old enough to simply forget if an event took place ten or twenty years ago. Perhaps that’s why I find myself compelled to journal or blog about the books that speak to me. I can revisit my notes to refresh my ailing memory, without needing to resort to pulling entire college reading lists off my bookshelves.

I originally read Wuthering Heights without being required by a college professor or high school teacher, which is regrettable. While the narrative isn’t difficult to follow, it is difficult to know how to respond to the main characters, Heathcliff and Catherine. The connection shared by Heathcliff and Catherine often causes Wuthering Heights to be described as one of the most romantic English novels, but this book is not your mother’s romance novel.

In fact, the dark tone set by the novel, in which all of nature seems to echo the tumultuous relationship of the main characters, has proven a real attraction to Japanese readers, who flock to the moors of England in large enough numbers to require some remote road signs to be printed in English and Japanese.

My reaction to Heathcliff was apparently more ambivalent than that of his Japanese fans. Heathcliff’s passion for Catherine seems to require an active hatred for the rest of mankind. His only pleasure seems to be in planning the torment of those around him, and I find myself too easily echoing the sentiments of the less imaginative characters in their condemnation of Catherine and Heathcliff’s actions.

Still, Bronte has created two unforgettable characters in Cathy and Heathcliff, and her affection for them is contagious. You won’t forget them, but you may forget precisely how long it has been since you first encountered them.