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.