I have not updated in a while, not because I have not been reading, but because I have not been reading in the same way as I was. For the majority of the first volume, I was close reading and annotating the text, letting my handwriting crawl, arachnoid, down the margins and weave long strands across interesting lines in the hope of catching at some analysis or meaning. The enjoyment I took from continuing to read was a devout and scholarly one, less jubilation than satisfaction at a job well-continued. I persevered, and took pleasure in nabbing bits of wit and splatting down my ever-so-clever wads of erudition.
Somewhere between my last post and my current one, I've ceased those practices. The change comes, I now realize, with an actual investment in the story. I've had my fill of academic distance, I suppose, and I've come to just enjoy the novel. Is this a lazy man's escape? Perhaps, but it is also warranted by the fact that I will not look back on Pride and Prejudice as a labor but as a pleasure. So I will likely have few interesting things to say about it from now on, but you, gentle reader, can rest assured that I am won over by the Divine Jane. Those who've known me longest will perhaps be surprised, but I am not too proud to admit that I was wrong to avoid Austen for so long out of a misguided kind of prejudice.
Sunday, January 31, 2010
Saturday, January 9, 2010
P&P Journal: Chapters XV-XX
"An unhappy alternative is before you, Elizabeth. From this day you must be a stranger to one of your parents. Your mother will never see you again if you do not marry Mr. Collins, and I will never see you again if you do."
That's all that needs to be said about these five chapters, and probably about this book. I love Mr. Bennet.
That's all that needs to be said about these five chapters, and probably about this book. I love Mr. Bennet.
Saturday, January 2, 2010
P&P Journal: Chapters IV-XIV
Happy New Year. Here's to hoping 2010 is exciting and full of adventure.
In my first post, I may have seemed somewhat unimpressed by the novel and skeptical of this whole enterprise, but over the ensuing ten chapters I have come around to a greater appreciation for nearly all of the characters. Lizzie is pretty and witty and gay as only the heroine of a musical should be, almost to the point of seeming artificially wonderful - like she's been getting wit-enhancing steroids and endearment therapy - but not entirely, and I find myself enjoying her scenes quite a bit. Darcy is still kind of a jerk, but at least he has a motivation now: he's proud (Oho! I wonder who'll be prejudiced, eh?). Darcy sees himself as residing on a higher plane than the flock of mere mortals who mill about the cuffs of his trousers, and it makes one wonder why Bingley puts up with him at all (except that Bingley is kind of an airhead and probably doesn't get a lot of Darcy's jokes but likes how cool and arch he is).
Bingley's sisters are, as far as I'm concerned, the Siamese cats from "Lady and the Tramp." They are ill-equipped to handle Lizzie, who manages to keep them in check with nonchalance (sprezzatura, in the Castiglione sense?) and I think this is predominantly what attracts Darcy's admiration, whatever he may say about her eyes. Lizzie does with innocence and ease what Darcy has, I suspect, studied and practiced. Lizzie's slight bumpkin roughness - muddy stockings, et al. - only shows her to be so much more naturally (Naturally, in the Rousseau sense?) accomplished and elevated. Untrained and unpolished, she can already match wits with even Darcy, and he must find that positively exhilarating. [Editor's note: There are, in my opinion few things more attractive in a woman than a bantering wit, so perhaps I am injecting my own biases into this account, but... ah, fuck it, this is a blog, not a lit crit article for Wanking-to-the-Victorians Monthly (next month's featured article: Going Gay For Lord Byron); I'm allowed to be biased.]
Disturbing digressions aside, I'm also interested in the kind of authority each character is given. Because the narrator has a clear presence but is not a character, the facts zie (I was tempted to write "she," but I don't want to or get tangled up in the intentional fallacy or gendering the ostensibly ungendered) presents are accepted to be, within the armature of the fiction, truth. Hir (and again...) commentary on the opinions of the characters themselves also sets hir up as an authority figure, and thus it is interesting to see who among the cast is thereby correct. So far, I would venture, the Bingley sisters have been given more credit for correctness than anyone else, and it does make me wonder. There is a deep narrative of social privilege and the authority of wealth/class in this book which I'm sure I will have to tackle in this journal sooner or later.
All in all, I'm very impressed by all of Austen's characters. But Mary especially. I mean, you can hear the crickets chirping in the awkward silence following every stultifying speech she makes, and that's just based on the artful way Austen has constructed her dialogue. Very cool. Oh, and I've recently met Mr. Collins. He makes me want to chuckle and vomit at the same time. In other words, I like him.
In my first post, I may have seemed somewhat unimpressed by the novel and skeptical of this whole enterprise, but over the ensuing ten chapters I have come around to a greater appreciation for nearly all of the characters. Lizzie is pretty and witty and gay as only the heroine of a musical should be, almost to the point of seeming artificially wonderful - like she's been getting wit-enhancing steroids and endearment therapy - but not entirely, and I find myself enjoying her scenes quite a bit. Darcy is still kind of a jerk, but at least he has a motivation now: he's proud (Oho! I wonder who'll be prejudiced, eh?). Darcy sees himself as residing on a higher plane than the flock of mere mortals who mill about the cuffs of his trousers, and it makes one wonder why Bingley puts up with him at all (except that Bingley is kind of an airhead and probably doesn't get a lot of Darcy's jokes but likes how cool and arch he is).
Bingley's sisters are, as far as I'm concerned, the Siamese cats from "Lady and the Tramp." They are ill-equipped to handle Lizzie, who manages to keep them in check with nonchalance (sprezzatura, in the Castiglione sense?) and I think this is predominantly what attracts Darcy's admiration, whatever he may say about her eyes. Lizzie does with innocence and ease what Darcy has, I suspect, studied and practiced. Lizzie's slight bumpkin roughness - muddy stockings, et al. - only shows her to be so much more naturally (Naturally, in the Rousseau sense?) accomplished and elevated. Untrained and unpolished, she can already match wits with even Darcy, and he must find that positively exhilarating. [Editor's note: There are, in my opinion few things more attractive in a woman than a bantering wit, so perhaps I am injecting my own biases into this account, but... ah, fuck it, this is a blog, not a lit crit article for Wanking-to-the-Victorians Monthly (next month's featured article: Going Gay For Lord Byron); I'm allowed to be biased.]
Disturbing digressions aside, I'm also interested in the kind of authority each character is given. Because the narrator has a clear presence but is not a character, the facts zie (I was tempted to write "she," but I don't want to or get tangled up in the intentional fallacy or gendering the ostensibly ungendered) presents are accepted to be, within the armature of the fiction, truth. Hir (and again...) commentary on the opinions of the characters themselves also sets hir up as an authority figure, and thus it is interesting to see who among the cast is thereby correct. So far, I would venture, the Bingley sisters have been given more credit for correctness than anyone else, and it does make me wonder. There is a deep narrative of social privilege and the authority of wealth/class in this book which I'm sure I will have to tackle in this journal sooner or later.
All in all, I'm very impressed by all of Austen's characters. But Mary especially. I mean, you can hear the crickets chirping in the awkward silence following every stultifying speech she makes, and that's just based on the artful way Austen has constructed her dialogue. Very cool. Oh, and I've recently met Mr. Collins. He makes me want to chuckle and vomit at the same time. In other words, I like him.
Friday, December 25, 2009
P&P Journal: Chapters I-III
Well, here's to keeping promises. And punctuality. I mean, damn, I'm pretty punctual, what with this being the first post just a couple hours after I started this little project.
Just don't get used to it. It's still entirely possible I'm going to give up on this crazy idea and flee to a new life with the cunning yet gregarious sewer-folk of Ulan Bator. And by "crazy idea," I mean "medical school."
Anyway, what's say we get proud and prejudiced, eh? I'm going to needlessly gender this just for your especial delight. Yes, you know who you are, and yes, I'm doing this because it is ALL YOUR FAULT.
First impressions about the men:
Mr. Bennett - A splendid dude. Rarely have I wanted to say "Oh snap!" after every one of a character's lines, but Mr. Bennett is pretty darn sarcastic - by which I mean, awesome. Plus, always has his nose in a book, and I get that. I do feel genuinely sorry for him that he has to put up with Mrs. Bennett.
Mr. Bingley - I keep picturing him as Paul Bettany for some reason.
Mr. Darcy - Edward Cullen. If he's a brooding dick through this whole book, I'm gonna shove a Book of Mormon down my throat and hope I choke to death.
First impressions about the women:
Yeah, I haven't the foggiest. I know Lizzie is supposed to be the protagonist, but I don't know anything about her yet. Mrs. Bennett stopped being endearingly fussy around page 2 and is now just irritating. Again, I feel sorry for her husband.
Also, does anyone else think it's odd that the prettiest daughter's name is Jane? Y'know, just like the author? Just saying.
Just don't get used to it. It's still entirely possible I'm going to give up on this crazy idea and flee to a new life with the cunning yet gregarious sewer-folk of Ulan Bator. And by "crazy idea," I mean "medical school."
Anyway, what's say we get proud and prejudiced, eh? I'm going to needlessly gender this just for your especial delight. Yes, you know who you are, and yes, I'm doing this because it is ALL YOUR FAULT.
First impressions about the men:
Mr. Bennett - A splendid dude. Rarely have I wanted to say "Oh snap!" after every one of a character's lines, but Mr. Bennett is pretty darn sarcastic - by which I mean, awesome. Plus, always has his nose in a book, and I get that. I do feel genuinely sorry for him that he has to put up with Mrs. Bennett.
Mr. Bingley - I keep picturing him as Paul Bettany for some reason.
Mr. Darcy - Edward Cullen. If he's a brooding dick through this whole book, I'm gonna shove a Book of Mormon down my throat and hope I choke to death.
First impressions about the women:
Yeah, I haven't the foggiest. I know Lizzie is supposed to be the protagonist, but I don't know anything about her yet. Mrs. Bennett stopped being endearingly fussy around page 2 and is now just irritating. Again, I feel sorry for her husband.
Also, does anyone else think it's odd that the prettiest daughter's name is Jane? Y'know, just like the author? Just saying.
It is a truth universally acknowledged
All right you animals, congratulations. You picked #2. Well goddamn done.
A serial literary journal? I know that it was maybe a bit vague as descriptions go, but does that sound to you like the sort of thing that's going to be even remotely pleasant to read or write? Maybe if you're the kind of person who hammers tent spikes up his nose for fun and profit, or thinks pissing on the third rail sounds like a Sunday afternoon well spent. Not to imply that this will be thrilling or harrowing in any sense. Oh, no no no.
I suppose, in a cosmic sense, we've all gotten just what we deserve. Or, at least, we will once I start yammering incoherently about Jane Austen's Pride and Prejudice. Yes, you read that right. I'm finally going to have to read Pride and Prejudice. Thanks so much. Assholes. As a reward for your kindness, I'm going to be blogging about it too. So tune in here each week to check on the progress of my brutish, flailing assault upon a Victorian literary masterpiece.
I'm going to try and approach this task with minimal (wait for it...) prejudice. My only point of contact with the work so far has been seeing the recent Keira Knightley vehicle, which I promptly expunged from my brain within five minutes of the credits rolling. So put away your pitchforks and your criterion-collection copies of that BBC behemoth I know is lurking out there in the subfuscous thickets of Taste and Culture. Here in my little glen of ignorance, I will approach the work as but a fawn new-begotten, the dew of parturition still damp upon my quavering legs, a momentary paragon of innocence, without preconception.
I can't believe you picked #2.
Granted, #4 would have been worse.
And as for those of you who chose #5 - which was many if not all of you - go fondle a badger.
A serial literary journal? I know that it was maybe a bit vague as descriptions go, but does that sound to you like the sort of thing that's going to be even remotely pleasant to read or write? Maybe if you're the kind of person who hammers tent spikes up his nose for fun and profit, or thinks pissing on the third rail sounds like a Sunday afternoon well spent. Not to imply that this will be thrilling or harrowing in any sense. Oh, no no no.
I suppose, in a cosmic sense, we've all gotten just what we deserve. Or, at least, we will once I start yammering incoherently about Jane Austen's Pride and Prejudice. Yes, you read that right. I'm finally going to have to read Pride and Prejudice. Thanks so much. Assholes. As a reward for your kindness, I'm going to be blogging about it too. So tune in here each week to check on the progress of my brutish, flailing assault upon a Victorian literary masterpiece.
I'm going to try and approach this task with minimal (wait for it...) prejudice. My only point of contact with the work so far has been seeing the recent Keira Knightley vehicle, which I promptly expunged from my brain within five minutes of the credits rolling. So put away your pitchforks and your criterion-collection copies of that BBC behemoth I know is lurking out there in the subfuscous thickets of Taste and Culture. Here in my little glen of ignorance, I will approach the work as but a fawn new-begotten, the dew of parturition still damp upon my quavering legs, a momentary paragon of innocence, without preconception.
I can't believe you picked #2.
Granted, #4 would have been worse.
And as for those of you who chose #5 - which was many if not all of you - go fondle a badger.
Monday, December 21, 2009
Vote or die
I'm trying something experimental: blogging by democracy. You, fearless reader, get to have a hand in deciding what I'm going to write next. Just post a comment below with the number of your choice by Christmas Eve (December 24). I will tally the votes and then make a semi-arbitrary decision that may or may not correlate with your collective wishes. Think of me as the Electoral College.
Now, in keeping with the overarching character of this blog (i.e. the bland, lukewarm gruel of mediocrity), the candidates have been cast in particularly uninteresting terms. This is on purpose. Some of them may, in fact, turn out to be more savory than you imagine. Others may not. But just like electing officials based only on the strength in their hand-grip and their apparent ability to protect our realm from fen-stalking descendants of Cain (I can't possibly be the only one who does this, can I?), you may be surprised by the kind of politician they turn out to be.
Drum-roll, please:
This blog should next feature...
Nota bene: Anyone voting for Option #5 should be aware that this blog, unlike certain other democracies I could name, does not subscribe to such silly notions as habeas corpus. By voting, you hereby relinquish your right not to be tossed unceremoniously into the dank nethers of my island stronghold's deepest oubliette, where there are guaranteed to be no ancient, withered husks of men who know any forgotten secrets about any kind of fabulous treasure. There are spiders down there. Only spiders.
Now, in keeping with the overarching character of this blog (i.e. the bland, lukewarm gruel of mediocrity), the candidates have been cast in particularly uninteresting terms. This is on purpose. Some of them may, in fact, turn out to be more savory than you imagine. Others may not. But just like electing officials based only on the strength in their hand-grip and their apparent ability to protect our realm from fen-stalking descendants of Cain (I can't possibly be the only one who does this, can I?), you may be surprised by the kind of politician they turn out to be.
Drum-roll, please:
This blog should next feature...
- A political statement, full of quasi-ignorant bombast
- A serial journal of literary exploration
- A not-very-stunning confession regarding the arts
- A work of unpolished creative writing
- Nothing. Your shitty blog should die, and you with it.
Nota bene: Anyone voting for Option #5 should be aware that this blog, unlike certain other democracies I could name, does not subscribe to such silly notions as habeas corpus. By voting, you hereby relinquish your right not to be tossed unceremoniously into the dank nethers of my island stronghold's deepest oubliette, where there are guaranteed to be no ancient, withered husks of men who know any forgotten secrets about any kind of fabulous treasure. There are spiders down there. Only spiders.
Saturday, December 12, 2009
Why Bother?
"After sleeping through a hundred million centuries we have finally opened our eyes on a sumptuous planet, sparkling with color, bountiful with life. Within decades we must close our eyes again. Isn't it a noble, an enlightened way of spending our brief time in the sun, to work at understanding the universe and how we have come to wake up in it? This is how I answer when I am asked — as I am surprisingly often — why I bother to get up in the mornings."
— Richard Dawkins
— Richard Dawkins
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