that wasn’t so bad afterall

As I entered the lecture theatre on Friday night I was surprised to see that there were so many people in attendance. The last time I attended a Richards reading, the theatre was perhaps half to three quarters full, but for the reading/interview session in promotion of his new book “God Is” there was barely a set left in the house. My girlfriend and I struggled to find a place to sit, eventually hopping over two older ladies in the back row on the right-hand side, and nabbing the final two free seats together, tucked away in the back corner. What is it that doubles attendance for the same author for a very similar event in a span of less than two years? I had read a piece about the book in the Telegraph Journal a few months back, but find it hard to believe that an article in the newspaper could spark so much interest. As I looked around at the conservatively dressed, decidedly older crowd, I couldn’t help feel that the popularity of this reading had something to do with the book’s religious focus.

The reading and interview were fine, Richards explained that he felt compelled to write about his faith because of public figures such as author/journalist Christopher Hitchens, who is an outspoken critic of faith. The interesting thing about Richards is that he comes from an English background. This is interesting because his arguments pertaining to spirituality are often rooted in references from books, or often from films. Although Richards’ discussion of intrinsic goodness in human beings is interesting; I found it a little annoying that he referenced so many books and movies. If “God Is” is about the strengths of spirituality in humans, shouldn’t the author reference the amazing actions of people who actually lived, rather than these fictional characters? Regardless, I was relieved that Richards did not use the book as an outlet to argue the strengths of any particular religious beliefs, and instead spoke on the notion and nature  of spirituality.

I wonder what I’m getting myself into.

I wonder what I’m getting myself into.Tonight I attend the interview with David Adams Richards as part of the Lorenzo Reading Series. My girlfriend and I attended a reading he gave on campus a few years ago and had a wonderful time. To hear Richards read from his works, giving the characters the proper colloquialisms and dialects, really aids in bringing his stories to life. But his new book, God Is, is quite different from anything I’ve read from Richards in the past. For one thing, it’s non-fiction. Secondly, its described on the book jacket as “a subtly argued, highly personal polemic” where “David Adams Richards insists that the presence of God cannot be denied.” As a life-long atheist, I wonder what I’m getting myself into.
Did you ever have one of those moments when you learned too much about one of your favorite artists? For instance, I remember when I found out that one of my favorite musicians, Beck, was a (GASP!) scientologist. Now, I believe to each their own, especially when it comes to faith, but I have to admit that listening to Beck right after I found out he was a scientologist felt weird. I wasn’t judging him(well not intentionally), but it was really hard to think of him in the previous light.
Don’t get me wrong, context is great. And personally the proper contextualization can make me appreciate any type of art. If the real-life story behind a work of art is compelling, then usually the art is too, at least that’s been my experience.
However, I must admit I’m a little torn. Richards is an educated and well-respected man. If he is coming on campus to argue Christian faith, then I think I may have a problem with that. Do we really need another person to argue for Christian faith, especially at an academic institution of all places? I wonder what I’m getting myself into.

The Terror?

I have to admit, before I began reading Radcliffe’s “The Mysteries of Udolpho,” I did the cursory Wikipedia check. These days I use Wikipedia before I absorb anything, really. If my girlfriend tells me about a movie she wants to see, I wiki it. If there a cultural reference on The Simpsons or the Daily Show that I don’t understand, I wiki it. If there’s a new record by a band I’m interested in I wiki it just for the release date. In short, I wiki everything. Here is an excerpt from the plot introduction portion of the Wikipedia summery. “The Mysteries of Udolpho is a quintessential Gothic romance, replete with incidents of physical and psychological terror.” Now, to me, terror is a powerful word. I’ve never been that much into the Gothic in literature or even in popular culture (I must plead ignorance when it comes to that clip showed in class this week, while I’m familiar with what both Twilight and Buffy are, I’ve never seen a moment of either), but I have some ideas of what is meant by the Gothic, and I don’t throw around terms like terror.
What I found in “The Mysteries of Udolpho,” was not exactly what I had expected. Rather than descriptions of the supernatural there are far more descriptions of how the characters feel internally, no matter how mundane or minute. When two characters so much as glance at one another, Radcliffe produces a paragraph or more of unspoken internal impressions. In addition to this, Radcliffe also goes on about the landscape quite a bit, and the descriptions seem anything but Gothic to me. We talked a bit in class about the conventions of the Gothic, and how everything in “The Mysteries of Udolpho” is explained by things other than the supernatural, but I can’t help feeling that there’s something else going on in this novel other than the Gothic. If anything it seems more like a romantic adventure novel to me. Where is the terror?

recollection and anticipation fill up almost all our moments

As Matt pointed out in class on Tuesday, while reading The History of Rasselas, Prince of Abissinia, it was difficult not to be reminded of philosophical texts, specifically Plato’s Socratic Dialogues. Like Socrates, Rasselas is devoted to understanding the human condition thorough engaging in an often intense dialogue with every character he comes into contact with, resulting in pages and pages of purely conversational, dialogic composition. Certainly this is a different sort of writing than we’ve been accustomed to reading in the Prose Narrative course, (unlike the first person form of Crusoe, the mostly epistolary form of Pamela and its parodies, and the fairly dialogue-less Fantomina) so it’s a nice change of pace.

To be perfectly honest, the dialogic nature of The History of Rasselas, Prince of Abissinia, as well as the exotic oriental setting (that doesn’t really come into play all that much once the main characters are introduced) sets this novel apart from many of the 18^th Century works that I’ve had the opportunity to read. The one aspect of the novel that does seem to jive with the sensibilities of 18^th Century prose is the personality of the Prince. When we meet Rasselas he is depressed, unmoved by the great wealth his family possesses. The only thing that can move Rasselas is the thought of venturing out of the palace to see the suffering of the world so that he may appreciate happiness. This noble, perhaps even slightly heroic, venture is representative of the role of males in literature during the Romantic Period.

Poor Richardson?

 

In Anti- Pamela and Shamela, Haywood and Fielding dissect Pamela to mock and question the (supposed) virtue of Richardson’s protagonist, and present what could be interpreted as more realistic versions of Pamela.  While Pamela appears to be nothing but virtuous throughout Richardson’s entire novel, Haywood and Fielding both take the opinion that Pamela is much more aware of the other characters’ perceptions of her than is we are lead to believe. And certainly, it can be difficult to attain an accurate portrayal of a character if you are only equipped with letter penned by the character herself, so it seems quite natural to question this, at times, unbelievably sweet and innocent character.

Both Haywood and Fielding are so capable of lampooning Richardson’s admittedly preposterous world that it’s easy for the reader to forget that in reality the career of a flesh and blood artist is being mocked mercilessly for the entire world to see.  The epistolary form of Pamela is mocked ad nauseum in both satires to great effect, such as when Shamela is aware of the absurdity of her writings in the present tense.  But upon reading Shamela I was given the impression that Fielding’s work is more centered upon the anger toward Richardson than Pamela. I particularly enjoyed the very short piece at the beginning before the actual story, where the editor supposedly writes a letter to himself. As the footnotes tell us, Pamela originally contained letters of praise for the novel at the beginning of the work, and although blurbs are common place on commercial books, at the time Richardson received much criticism for the inclusion of such letters. And evidently, as I heard in class, there was a bit of a rivalry between the two writers.

Just for fun, here’s an article about some famous feuds between authors.

http://latimesblogs.latimes.com/jacketcopy/2009/07/fighting-words-five-classic-literary-feuds.html

And I thought I didn’t enjoy “Pamela”

I’ve never been so incensed after reading a work of literature that I felt the urge to pick up the pen in retaliation, so perhaps I have trouble identifying with Eliza Haywood and her motivations behind writing Anti-Pamela. It’s true, I didn’t thoroughly enjoy Pamela myself, but when I wrote about the novel in my blog, the language I used wasn’t nearly as vicious and merciless as the diction found in Anti-Pamela.

A reoccurring theme in this course seems to be the authors urge to discuss issues that loom largely in the collective public consciousness. As novels were still in an infantile stage of development, the idea of a book becoming a widely read “hit,” regardless of whether it was a critical success, must have been exciting for all writers. The public consciousness is something that we take for granted today. It’s understood that average people have at least a passing understanding of important cultural figures and works, and we expect media to produce instant responses, whether in the form of a review in a news paper or in a sketch on Saturday Night Live. What amazes is me is that in 18th Century London this urge to respond to facets of the popular culture also exists, and the response remains relatively quick even given the limited resources which offer the ability of mass communication. However, as I discovered with my Daniel Defoe presentation earlier this semester, writers were incessant in the critic and analysis of everything in the public consciousness in the form pamphlets, articles, or in the case of Anti-Pamela, fully formed novels.

And as we discussed in class this week, I do believe that Anti–Pamela does stand up as a novel regardless of whether or not the reader is aware of Pamela. Not only is the character of Syrena fully formed, but the plot is different enough from Pamela that Haywood’s work is much more than mere parody, it is a reimagining of the novel with the protagonist being replaced with what Haywood feels is a more realistic girl.

how long can this thing can go on???!!

In class Tuesday October 13^th we spoke a bit about the epistolary novel form and the visible advantages and disadvantages of the form within Pamela. The most interesting aspect to me is how the form allows for the author to give the reader the impression that they are actively involved in the story. In the case of Pamela, the letters become a tangible, physical object to both the reader and the fictional characters within the work.

Pamela’s letters, which at first act as the sole portal the reader possesses to observe the story, become central to the plot of the novel. The reader develops a sense of competition with Mr. B as the character attempts to get his hands on Pamela’s letters which the reader has been poring over since the beginning of the novel.  Certainly there is an element of voyeurism involved in the viewing young Pamela’s personal letters whether the reader, or Mr. B, is aware of it or not. In this way the epistolary form gives the reader the impression that they are reading something personal that perhaps is none of their business, which only acts to engage the reader even further! Clever!

I found Pamela similar to Robinson Crusoe in narrative form. While it may be difficult to mull through the often repetitive, daily tasks of these narrators over an extended period of their lives (especially in Pamela given the present tense presentation and the absence of any semblance of adventure), these forms nevertheless act to give a certain authenticity to the lives of these fictional characters.   But I must say, personally, the first person present tense of Pamela did seem to draw out the protagonist’s life to a yawn-inducing degree. It brought back memories of reading Wuthering Heights in Grade 11, and wondering just how long can this thing can go on???!! But regardless of this, it’s still fascinating to follow the baby steps in development of narrative prose to the form it has become today. And for this reason, Pamela was a worthwhile read.

the least romanitic reading of the text

In class Tuesday there seemed to be consensus that in the end Fantomina was dealt an unfair hand. This sentiment rings true in the blogs as well, with the author of http://stevericketts2.wordpress.com/ finding the ending “depressing”, the author of http://novelbeginnings.wordpress.com/ was “disappointed” by the story and http://mellissa3205.wordpress.com/ was just plain “dumbfounded.” And while I do agree wholeheartedly that Fantomina contained one of the most unfulfilling endings I’ve ever encountered, am I the only one that finds Fantomina’s actions throughout the story really nasty? From what I can tell Fantomina is, for lack of a better term, a sociopath. If you find my assessment harsh then check out this Profile of the Sociopath and judge for yourself.

http://www.mcafee.cc/Bin/sb.html

Superficial charm? Check. Manipulative and conning? Check. Pathological lying? Check.  Need for stimulation? Quadruple check! Promiscuous Sexual Behaviour/Infidelity? Don’t even get me started. While this might constitute the least romantic reading of the text possible, I can’t help but wonder, what is a suitable ending for a story about a rich, young, female sociopath in 18^th Century Europe?

I suppose the reader is provoked to (and certainly a modern audience is conditioned to) expect that Fantomina and Beauplasir would end up together and happy somehow in the end, but let’s be a little more realistic for a moment. Regardless of Beauplasir’s behaviour, which is admittedly pretty disgusting, Fantomina deceived, misled and trapped a complete stranger with seemingly no regard for his or her personal well-being. Creepy.

I’m glad this sort of romantic deception is a thing of the past.

http://www.mauryshow.com/

New Historicism and Crusoe’s Faith

In class, upon discussing whether or not Crusoe’s faith was genuine, some classmates pointed to Crusoe’s treatment of Xury and Friday as evidence of the protagonist’s arrogance and slothfulness. While it may be true that Crusoe often treated Xury as one would a slave, and Friday as one would a savage, it is unfair to allow these incidences to define Crusoe’s personal faith. Personally, I feel these insensitivities are more reflective of the 18^th Century English society from which Crusoe was spawned rather than any personal convictions, and to hold Crusoe’s responsible for the sins of the many is an unfair distraction and teaches us very little about the character of Crusoe.

In the 1980’s literary critic Stephen Greenblatt came up with New Historicism, a new way of examining literature which aims to contextualize all works as well as delving into them analytically. The aim of this movement was to counter the tendency, jumpstarted by the New Critics, to examine literature solely at face-value without any outside sources (i.e. social contextualization, author’s biography, inspirations of the work, ect…). You can read all about the New Historicism movement here:

http://www-english.tamu.edu/pers/fac/myers/historicism.html

My point is that certain aspects of Crusoe’s character can be explained through examination of the society which created him. Certainly, as Hayley explained with her presentation on Tuesday, Crusoe’s work ethic is certainly coincides with what the Protestant movement of the era, and I would suggest that this work ethic is deep seeded in Crusoe’s personality. And certainly it’s difficult to blame Crusoe for finding God in times of hardship, as the testing of one’s faith in difficult is a well-known aspect of Christianity.

Not a Single Luxury

Beneath the adventure and physical fight for survival in Robinson Crusoe is a personal mental struggle against feelings of regret, shame and inadequacy. And while Defoe certainly does deliver the kind of nautical escapades and exotic descriptions of mysterious faraway lands that were expected by audiences in the early 18^th Century, Defoe also provokes his readers into considering more individual struggles such as the nature of ambition. It is Crusoe’s lack of ambition that so disappoints his parents (and himself) and convinces Crusoe that a disastrous life at sea is the only admirable option. After a few nasty misadventures, Crusoe finally manages to settle into a quiet and profitable life of farming. Before too long however Crusoe, still fuelled by feeling of shame and personal inadequacy, chooses to throw it all away on a foolish sea expedition even though his seafaring up to that point had not exactly been a smashing success.

Robinson Crusoe is the story of a man who gets tied up in a life of great adventure not because he was necessarily looking for it, but rather because he is searching for approval. The first person narrative style allows for Defoe to engage in constant foreshadowing throughout the first third of the novel and permits the reader a view of the mental struggle that existed long before Crusoe’s life of forced solitude.