Sentimental Education, redux

Toward the end of Flaubert’s uneven but compelling work, we come around at last to that comfortable and well-worn theme, the consolations of age and experience. The older Frederic is somewhat more comfortable with himself, and marginally more attractive to the reader. After a lifetime of being motivated by the wrong sorts of things—money and vanity—Frederic finds that it is, at last, too late to achieve what he wanted, and in that takes a strange kind of relief, making some peace with his conflicted motives.

In the final pages, he and lifelong friend Deslauriers  try to face themselves squarely. “They had both failed, one to realize his dreams of love, the other to fulfill his dreams of power.” (Penguin Classic Edition, p.458).

Frederic, the lover, spent a lifetime pining for Mme. Arnoux, but “‘didn’t steer a straight course,'” as he himself says, always taking the opportunity to devalue the importance of love in favor of some more trivial, short-term aim, tangling himself in relationships with women who flattered and soothed his insecure nature.

The poignancy of his loss is captured in the book’s penultimate chapter, when he and Mme. Arnoux meet for the last time, and we see what is perhaps Flaubert’s central theme in the novel: character is destiny and, character does not, really, ever change.

In this final encounter, with nothing to lose, Frederic, as always, evades the reality of the moment, inwardly put off  by the fading of Arnoux’s physical beauty while outwardly singing her praises yet again. “Frederic, drunk with his own eloquence, began to believe what he was saying.” (p. 454). This is Frederic’s default mode, the sentiment of the book’s title, a self-love that mistakes itself for deep feeling.

Frederic, certainly narcissistic and self-deluding to the end, is perhaps redeemed a bit by a kind of Keatsian obsession with an untarnished ideal that has always been at odds with his “frenzied, rabid lust.” (p. 455). That final meeting does not feel like a love scene, but Frederic conjures up a passionate scene in his mind and tosses the fantasy away, all in an instant, repeating the pattern of his life up until the end. He is restrained by “the fear of being disgusted later. Besides, what a nuisance it would be!” Ah, this is the essential Frederic, precursor to Eliot’s Prufrock (“Would it have been worth it after all”), building his lifetime of regrets up until the very last.

 
And, partly out of prudence, and partly to avoid degrading his ideal, he turned on his heel and started rolling a cigarette.
She gazed at him admiringly.
‘How considerate you are! There’s nobody like you! There’s nobody like you!’ (p. 455)
 

 
Indeed!

Sentimental Education

Flaubert’s novel is truly delightful, so far (p. 84 in the Penguin Classics edition) an extremely trenchant and humorous object lesson on the obsessions and shortsightedness of youth, with the suggestion of a larger theme waiting in the wings. If no larger theme emerges to spoil the pleasure of Flaubert’s masterful telling of Frederic’s story, however, I shall be well pleased.

The book, set in Paris, is steeped in the city, which almost features as a character during some of the more reflective passages. While describing Frederic’s romantic wanderings, Flaubert writes,

 
Behind the Tuileries, the sky turned the color of the roof-slates. The trees in the gardens faded into two great masses, touched with purple. The gas-lamps were lit; and the waters of the Seine, all grey-green, broke up into silvery rags around its bridges.
(p. 28)
 

 
Who would have guessed that “rags” could be used so beautifully and perfectly?

Later, at a nightclub,

 
Frederic and Deslauriers were edging their way along in the midst of the crowd when they saw something
which brought them to a halt. Martinon was getting change from the cloakroom, and with him was a woman of
about fifty, ugly, superbly dressed, and of doubtful social status.
‘That fellow,’ said Dussardier, ‘is not as simple as people think …’ (p. 82)
 

 
Funny. given how Martinon had earlier been typecast as a prig and a prude.

The Professor’s House

Having finished this, my first Cather work, I’ve become a fan. This odd, slight, but highly moving tale draws in, with increasing interiority, like the unwrapping of a set of Russian nesting dolls, on its true subject: its protagonist’s need to cope with a life that has lost its meaning.

That protagonist is Professor St. Peter, a history professor at a small college in the midwest. In the first book, “The Family,” St. Peter is introduced, along with the family and friends whom we naively assume provide sufficient meaning to his world, and to the novel. His wife, daughters, sons-in-law, and colleagues are painted with warmth but candid awareness of their limitations, even while the point of view hovers more closely and sympathetically around St. Peter.

The book’s most important character, after the Professor himself, is revealed elliptically and gradually; through dinner table conversation we come to understand that the Professor’s son-in-law, Louie, is daughter Rosamond’s second husband. First husband Tom Outland, a young man of mystery and brilliance, was killed in the World War I. This almost mythical figure, even though absent, gradually assumes ever greater importance throughout the novel, and ultimately overshadows everyone else in the Professor’s world.

By the second book, “Tom Outland’s Story,” all of the family members save St. Peter are off on a trip to Paris, neatly removing them from the novel for its duration. St. Peter, having forsaken his usual scholarship, has decided to edit and annotate Tom Outland’s diary for publication, and it is in St. Peter’s remembrance of the young man’s remarkable story, shared with the reader here, that we come to understand the reason for its importance, and for its centrality in the novel.

Cather uses the literal separation of St. Peter from his family to make a distinction of moral worth: the book turns to St. Peter and his relation to Outland’s story because this is where the true meaning of the novel arises. While the first Book reads like a novel of manners, rooted in the preoccupations of a comfortable family in 1920’s America, as we read on, those early chapters seem trivial and dated in retrospect. Perhaps this is Cather’s aim or perhaps, like St. Peter, she is not really comfortable herself in that claustrophobic world. At any rate, it serves primarily as contrast. In Book Two the writing as well as the story takes on new beauty as it focuses on these two central characters, and on the vistas of the Southwest that provide its setting.

What distinguishes St. Peter and Outland is their relationship to money. Every other character fails Cather’s litmus test on this subject. While she takes pains to paint Louie Marsellus as sympathetic and generous, not the easy mark who usurped Tom’s wife and fortune, and while she makes it clear that Crane, colleague to St. Peter and Outland, has reasonable aspirations to benefitting from Outland’s work, neither can ultimately find a higher value than the monetary. When Roddy, Outland’s partner in the discovery of ancient relics in the southwest, sells them out for $4,000, unbeknownst to Outland, we understand the qualitative difference between the two men. Roddy is not an evil man, but he is a materialist.

 
Rodney explained that he knew I cared about the things and was proud of them, but he’d always supposed I meant to ‘realize’ on them, just as he did, and that it would come to money in the end. ‘Everything does,’ he added.
 

 
Ultimately Outland gives up trying to explain to Roddy what the relics meant to him, irrespective of their monetary worth. Cather gives us to understand that Outland’s legacy has assumed something of the relation to St. Peter that the relics had for Outland: the monetization of Outland’s invention, while reasonable enough in the light of day, in some sense devalues the man by putting a price on his work, and all who benefit from that, himself included, lose favor in St. Peter’s eyes.

The novel’s final section, entitled “The Professor,” is remarkable for its understanding of loss. St. Peter’s attempts to prepare for his family’s return force him to face the disjunction between the social creation that he has become during years of adulthood and the more essential self with which he is now connecting.

 
The Professor knew, of course, that adolescence grafted a new creature onto the original one, and that the complexion of a man’s life was largely determined by how well or ill his original self and his nature as modified by sex rubbed on together.
 

Earlier, in recounting his youth, St. Peter said he “must marry at once.” Now, we understand his dilemma. Whether because of the urgency of sexual desire, or perhaps an unplanned pregnancy, he had married hastily but hopefully. Now, he faces the heavy consequences:

 
Falling [out of love] for him seemed to mean falling out of all domestic and social relations, out of his place in the human family.
 

In part because he realizes that none of his relationships can meet the high bar set by his friendship with Outland, St. Peter seems to be confronting loss without hope.

 
Perhaps the mistake was merely in an attitude of mind. He had never learned to live without delight. And he would have to learn to, just as, in a Prohibition country, he supposed he would have to learn to live without sherry. Theoretically he knew that life is possible, may be even pleasant, without joy, without passionate griefs. But it had never occurred to him that he might have to live like that.
 

The Idiot

I’ve been struggling through Dostoyevsky’s 700+ page work for a while now, and for a long time it felt like an onerous chore; I thought I was only reading it because Carrie and I had an agreement that our mutual book, once begun, must be completed! But, somewhere after the beginning of Part Three, about 400 pages in, the book has taken hold of me like a kind of fever. There’s an insatiable, existentially questing, inimitably Russian aspect to the book that makes me want to immerse myself in it. What is it about? Who knows! I’m sure it has some kind of intricately plotted structure, but I don’t have any 10,000 foot view, at least not yet. I’m not reading for story in any traditional way, and part of what has delayed my appreciation of the novel is my slowness in learning how to read it. The book rewards patience; it is truly a destination itself, not, as with most novels, a book one scurries through in pursuit of an outcome.

For, whether as a result of Dostoyevsky’s scrambled writing process (the novel was written for serial publication, and created in the midst of tumultuous life events, including the death of his daughter, and his own fits of obsessive gambling), or deliberately, the novel has the digressive quality of a Tristram Shandy, and, like many novels that wander, it is often the asides that prove most engaging and thought-provoking, in this case those in which the characters anecdotally reinforce Dostoyevsky’s central theme, which I must agree with A.S. Byatt (as stated her helpful Guardian review of the Penguin Classic edition) to be “the imminence and immanence of death.”

I’ve also spent an inordinate amount of time trying to keep track of the characters, who are many, and who each have several names. It seems truly an arbitrary choice whether they are called by one name on one page, and a different name on the following page.

But the payoff is in Dostoyevsky’s profound and complex vision, and it is the voice of Ippolit that resonates for me. The prince (aka “the idiot”) is still as much of a cipher to me as he is to the other characters (probably as a result of his unnatural goodness, the quality noted by Byatt), but Ippolit’s words have the rich imperative quality of the dying man that he is. Railing against the dead in life, those who move about as in a fog of habit and rationalizations, Ippolit says “‘If he’s alive, then everything should be within his power.” And, rhetorically, “‘Whose fault is it that he doesn’t understand that?'” (p. 459, Penguin Classics edition). A footnote to one of Ippolit’s speeches references Thoughts by Mickhail Lermontov. I found Meditations … is it the same? The words leap out at me …

 
And life oppresses us, a flat road without meaning, 
An alien feast where we have dined.
T’ward good and evil shamefully uncaring
 

Uncomfortable existential thoughts follow: if one is not as agitated as Ippolit, is one truly alive? And, is reading a novel about someone like Ippolit merely a comfortable proxy for being that alive?

And finally Dostoyevsky leads me to authors I haven’t thought to read for many years: Victor Hugo (“The Final Day of a Condemned Man”), Lermontov, Gogol (“Nevsky Prospect,” Dead Souls).

Too Much to Read … Too Much to Write

After beginning to read fiction again (there was a long hiatus), I’m overwhelmed by the possibilities. First, Wendy Lesser in Why I Read: The Serious Pleasure of Books gave me a homework assignment that will last a lifetime. Don’t get me wrong; I’m not complaining! Hers is a marvelous and eye-opening introduction to what are for me new vistas of literature. Nick Hornby’s Ten Years in the Tub is a compilation of columns from The Believer magazine; each column notes Books Bought and Books Read, and puts this reader more at ease about my literary shortcomings in part due to Hornby’s own self-deprecating style, along with the fact that the Books Bought list is generally quite a bit longer than Books Read.

Christening the site

Would that I could generate the easy, spontaneous bursts of prose that characterize the natural blogger. I’ve recently enjoyed Kate Christensen’s blog, which seems like something dashed off, almost as an escape from “real” writing. I’ve come to be a fan of her prose, especially her autobiography, Blue Plate Special. The interweaving of recipes with recollection seems unforced, providing a sort of grounding when memories are raw, and a counterpoint in style of writing that keeps the book light.

Day 62–August 20 Mt. Vernon, OR

Setting off tired, as had been the case of late, I took the shortcut of which I’d been informed, cutting through some little-traveled countryside. Don from Kentucky had told me that there was only one serious pass to be conquered going this way (and avoiding Dooley Mt.), but I counted at least four good climbs on the route, the last of which, Dixie Mt., resulted in a beautiful downhill ride into Prairie City.

The top of the mountain was piney and pretty, like the Oregon I had remembered from Boy Scout days. Recently we’ve had not only nice days but warm ones, and I rode shirtless for the first time in many statees during my post-lunch jaunt from Prairie City to John Day.

I called Mother from John Day, and bought a bicycling hat with a Coors logo for $6 at the decent bike shop there. The fellow also adjusted my seat so that I was it was no longer endangering my manhood.

A few miles farther on I found the Clyde Halliday campground, where the mother of a family invited me to share their camping spot for free. It would have only cost me 50 cents anyway, but 50 cents saved is 50 cents earned!

I went into Mt. Vernon proper to call Arthur’s mom and tell her that I’ll likely be to the coast by Sunday night. She said I sounded “lousy,” asked if I had a cold, and said Art might not be able to make it until Monday. We agreed that I would go to the post office in Reedsport on Sunday and, if Art wasn’t there, I would call his mom again.

Day 61–August 19 Baker City, OR

It was clear that the machines were conspiring against me in this particular laundromat in Baker City. I had wasted two dimes on a dryer which previously worked. Then the Coke machine, apparently out of cups, spewed orange drink all over the floor.

I had arrived in Baker City about 3:30 p.m., completely blown away. I couldn’t recall any time during the trip when I had felt so exhausted after 30 miles of riding. I had climbed to my mail stop at Halfway (actually only about a quarter of the day’s ride), where I got a letter from Jenny. She included a clipping about how to ship a bicycle, a timely reminder.

Then, it was downhill to Rockland. Then, nothing but uphill for the last 40 miles into Baker City, all of it into a steady headwind.

I didn’t expect to find it so difficult to get motivated over these last days, they have been the most difficult so far. I figure I have about 450 miles to go.

Oregon thus far looks a lot like Wyoming. I’m looking forward to the more temperate rain-forested western half of the state.

Day 60–August 18 near Copperfield, OR

I just made it into Oregon, spending the night camped somewhere along the Snake River (the border between the two states) near Copperfield.

Feeling none too peppy in the a.m., starting out, I covered the 30 or so miles into Cambridge by about noon where, questing for a place to eat, I saw another bike parked in front of the local cafe. Yet another Bostonian proved to be the rider. I never got his name, but learned that he had started from the Oregon coast and hoped to get to the Virginia coast by mid-October. He was pretty green; I had to show him how to use his pump! He was also riding a Fuji Royale, but it seemed like a rather small size for his 5′ 8” frame …only 21”. I hope for his sake that his legs don’t get a little cramped a long time before he hits the East Coast. He didn’t remember having met Jeff, which means he probably didn’t; Jeff is hard to forget.

After members of the Bikecentennial group caught up with me in Cambridge, I hurriedly left town. It was a long hard pull uphill for a while, but then a lot of downhill. As I wended my way along a narrow road beside the Snake River, I suddenly became aware that I was in the infamous Hell’s Canyon until I saw a sign to that effect. They’ve set up a lot of free campgrounds along the rive, perhaps a concession to conservationists bitching about all the dead fish in the river.

The entrance into Oregon was unspectacular, unmarked, and when I reached it I was ready to call it a day, but was forced to ride 11 more miles to find a campground. I got there just before the rain did. Football player, son, and Gramps returned to their tents next door and used the rain delay as an opportunity to pepper me with questions.

I retreated to my tent. As I lay there, the rain subsiding, another cyclist appeared. He was, I learned, Don, from Kentucky. He rode a Trek bearing front and rear panniers, wore jeans with Avocet bike shoes, and had just ridden 120 miles. He started in California, and is headed for Missoula. He had a tough exterior, but was a sweet guy. I was interested to learn that his dad made rocking chairs for a living.

At this point, Football and co. got more interested and invited us over to their campfire for beers. Don did most of the talking, more from discomfort than because of any natural garrulousness, it appeared to me, and we retired at 11:30.

Day 59–August 17 Campground @14 miles north of Council, ID (Payette National Forest)

A sample expenses list from a day on the road:

  • food: apple, orange, sardines, bread, chewing tobacco $2.50
  • cheeseburger, salad and pie a la mode at cafe $3.25
  • lodging $2,00
  • Total $7.75

It’s interesting that I grouped chewing tobacco with food. I definitely considered it a staple; it’s narcotic effects helped to power me along over many long and boring miles.

I took part in a photo session this morning with Greg Siples, one of the Bikecentennial group overseers at White Bird. He was one of the cartographers for the B.C. map set, and has personally accomplished many feats of derring-do on a bike, including a trip from Alaska to the tip of Sourth America.

Greg, joined me, snapping photos of me and the scenery, as I rode up out of the Salmon River Gorge at 7 a.m. today, the sunlight peeking over the tops of those weird grass-covered mounds that are common to the area, but unlike anything I’ve seen elsewhere. They are so sculptural and organic-looking, almost animate, certainly sensuous.

There was little traffic on the way into Riggins, 30 miles down the road, but I was hating the Sunday riding, just like I have every week of this trip. There’s only more left. I don’t quite what this feeling is about. Sundays are lonelier somehow. Most stores aren’t closed on Sunday, so the problem isn’t the absence of commerce. I wonder if Sundays feel lonelier in the U.S. than they do in other countries. That’s the kind of question that only Walkder Percy and I seem to have an interest in.

Before I entered Riggins, the time zone changed again, back to Mountain, so I lost that hour I’d gained going over Lolo Pass.

One annoying aspect of the B.C. route is the way it takes one so far north (to Missoula) before heading south again to enter Oregon. I’m almost finished with the southward backtracking, but I’ve paid the price. As ever, on this second half of the trip, it’s been the winds, not the mountains, that have been the more challenging. Today I fought wind almost continuously, but especially from Riggins onward. How maddening. Most of it was uphill too.

North of New Meadows runs the 45th parallel, marking the half-way point between the equator and the North Pole, or so said the sign I passed.

The campground was nice, but it cost $2. In my opinion, that was $2 too much for a National Forest campgrounds.

At the end of the day, I, about to complete two months of this epic voyage, and on the verge of entering my tenth and final state, I reflected on states past. The states from Kansas onward left marks on my mind in ways that Virginia, Kentucky, and Missouri did not.

Kansas — I kept hearing a haunting melody and seeing a storm-torn sky, infinite in size, raging over the gently-swaying fields of wheat. It’s a dull, sun-scorched land, yet generous, still something like the soul of America and, at night, awesome, with a horizon to horizon sky like a tear in the curtain separating us from the beyond. Distances are too far to even bother with, and the imprecision of man’s calculations brings him up short agains the force of the land’s inhuman size and scope.

Colorado — Ah, the Rockies! Sunny days in pure, thin air, and Coors beer all around. This is the new American, the mountain man reborn as Fitness Man.

Wyoming — Butte me no buttes, skeletons in Bell helmets notwithstanding, the moon can be a beautiful place. The Tetons are beyond words, and Yellowstone is too majestic to be diminished by even the most annoying tourists.

Idaho was harder to summarize. But it was beautiful for sure .. and wild.

Tomorrow I’m off and running into Oregon.