"Mrs. Dalloway" by Virginia Woolf

Though I must have read Woolf in college (can't imagine completing a dual English/Women's Studies major otherwise), surprisingly the only piece I've referenced on this blog is her essay, "A Room of One's Own." I knew her mostly as "that feminist writer who drowned herself," which is poor tribute.

I'd like to think I have a healthy skepticism of the canon, particularly the idea that writers of previous generations had some mysterious skills missing in modern writers. Yet reading Moby Dick earlier this year, and now Mrs. Dalloway, has suggested to me that there's a reason these texts endure. They assume the reader is intelligent and thoughtful; that the reader is willing to work for a literary reward. They're books that provoke discussion and rereads. Like Moby Dick, Mrs. Dalloway is not an easy read, but I felt something gained in the effort.

At its core, Mrs. Dalloway is a simple story. It follows one day in the life of Clarissa Dalloway, an upper-crust woman living in London in the 1920s, as she prepares to host a party that night. Clarissa's life intersects with a number of people, including Peter Walsh, a friend from her youth recently returned from India who is still in love with Clarissa; and Septimus Smith, a suicidal WW1 veteran.

Woolf structures her novel in a stream-of-consciousness style that reminded me of Ellman's Ducks, Newburyport. Both novels flip our expectations of narrative. In a traditional novel, the focus is on the physical reality--who's talking, what's happening, what's visible--with occasional glimpses into the characters' interior realities. Conversely, in these novels, the characters' interior is made primary, with the tangible taking the backseat to reflections, memories, anxieties, and questions. Ducks, Newburyport follows only its protagonist, but Woolf instead jumps into the minds of dozens of characters with abandon--not only significant characters like Clarissa, Peter, and Septimus, but even minor passing characters. The effect is disorienting but expansive and allows Woolf to explore just how little we understand of others' thoughts.

One of Woolf's great tools for this effect is the semicolon, an underrated punctuation mark (I think I've been prejudiced by Vonnegut's curmudgeonly warning that "All [semicolons] do it show you've been to college"). Ellman's novel is one giant sentence--a powerful effect, but one that dilutes the individual power of the semicolon when the entire structure is reliant on it. Woolf, instead, uses semicolons liberally but intentionally, a way of emphasizing how disparate elements combine to frame our thoughts and emotions. Take this sentence--one of my favorites--from Clarissa's point of view very early in the novel:

In people's eyes, in the swing, tramp, and trudge; in the bellow and the uproar; the carriages, motor cars, omnibuses, vans, sandwich men shuffling and swinging; brass bands; barrel organs; in the triumph and the jingle and the strange high singing of some aeroplane overhead was what she loved; life; London; this moment of June. (4)

In the semicolons, you see Clarissa's joy at London--and it's not just one element of London, but her existence within a busy and happening London that makes her think, "this is life! I'm a part of it!"*

Colons are assertive and absolute; they know the truth. Semicolons are reflective and connective; they suggest relationships and inter-connectedness. Woolf's novel is predicated on this inter-connectedness, and the semicolons are an essential tool in conveying that message.

The least obvious connection, at first glance, is between Clarissa and Septimus, who never meet, though Clarissa hears about his suicide during her party. Septimus is suffering some sort of PTSD following his time in World War I and is appalled by what he perceives as his lack of feeling, particularly over the death of his friend Evans. Throughout the novel, Septimus' wife Rezia tries to get Septimus medical help, but the doctors are dismissive and reductive. After experiencing a lovely moment with his wife, Septimus dies by suicide after throwing himself out a window--attempting to preserve that ephemeral happiness--rather than be subject to the doctor's misguided attempts to "cure" him through rest (in other words, nothingness).

Unlike Septimus, Clarissa is not suicidal, and she experiences a range of emotions. Yet she feels a kindship with Septimus--"She felt somehow very like him"--and she feels "glad that he had done it; thrown it away." Woolf tells us Septimus "made [Clarissa] feel the beauty; made her feel the fun" (186). She sees the beauty in the world evoked in that early thought about London and realizes the importance of claiming her place within it.

There's so much within Mrs. Dalloway I haven't touched on at all, particularly the love between Clarissa and Peter, and the love between Clarissa and her childhood friend Sally. It's another book that makes me eager to take a college English class again.**

*A needless aside, but reading this sentence immediately made me think of my time at Vanderbilt as an undergraduate. I'd be walking through the quad on my way to class; it would be spring, the sky a perfect cloudless blue. I'd feel my backpack on my back. I'd see people walking by, and I'd think "they know I belong here." And though I couldn't write it nearly so well, that moment could be perfectly evoked by my version of that final part of Woolf's sentence--"was what she loved; life; [Nashville]; this moment in [April]."

**This didn't fit naturally above, but Mrs. Dalloway is now part of a series of novels I've read recently that take place in or around the 1920s: Their Eyes Were Watching God, Nick, and The Great Gatsby (which I just finished teaching). It's not surprising that Nick, the only modern book of the four, takes an absurdly grim picture of WW1--and life in general. Smith thinks people struggling thrash on the floor and make bold pronouncements. Though none of the books are uplifting novels, the three written during the time period have a more nuanced view of human nature, recognizing the ways in which happiness and sadness, hope and despair, coexist--or ebb and flow--against a society that suggests we behave "normally."

"Their Eyes Were Watching God" by Zora Neale Hurston

In a fit of “I must do something new!” I've decided to ditch The Scarlet Letter (which I’ve taught in my honors class for nine years) for Their Eyes Were Watching God. I wish I had thoughtful reasons for deciding to teach a book I haven’t read in years (probably since college), but instead I picked it because it’s written by a Black woman and is sufficiently within the canon to be accepted by my administration. I’m already embarrassed at my ignorance.

On the down side, I’m certain my students won’t like TEWWG any more than Scarlet Letter. Hurston’s prose is more accessible than Hawthorne’s archaic formality, but her colloquial dialogue will undoubtedly be harder. Both books are about women finding their autonomy against men seeking control—a theme I appreciate but for which the boys will show little interest.

On the plus side, TEWWG should pair well with The Great Gatsby, both because of their similar time periods and their commentary on different versions of the American Dream.

TEWWG follows Janie--a Black woman in Florida during the early 1900s--through childhood and then three marriages: first to cold Logan, then to controlling Jody, and finally to devoted Tea Cake. The novel's central focus is Janie's self-awakening and growth.

I’ve read snippets debating whether or not TEWWG is a “feminist novel” (interestingly, a similar debate follows Scarlet Letter). As in most great literature, the answer is not clear cut. Janie’s life is defined entirely by her relationship with men. She has no substantive female friendships. Heck, I think the novel might fail the Bechdel test! Over the course of the novel, Janie learns to exert autonomy, though that autonomy is in the service of men. She abandons Logan, but only to go off with Jody. When Jody dies, she subverts her community’s expectations, but only to be with Tea Cake. Her fawning devotion to Tea Cake is almost cringe-inducing. When he steals her money and holds a party without her, she only chastises him for not inviting her. Later there’s a particularly awful scene where Tea Cake beats Janie to prove his control to a potential suitor.

Then again, Janie is a character whose growth is in learning not to settle—in demanding access to the love and autonomy she desires. Who am I to criticize because she finds those qualities in a man? With the exception of the scene above, the relationship between Janie and Tea Cake is largely one of equals, perhaps not so much by modern standards, but in the sense that both partners have their needs met; both partners feel heard and valued. At the end of the novel, Tea Cake develops rabies after being bit by a dog while saving Janie, and Janie is forced to shoot and kill him to protect herself. Though she's upset to have lost Tea Cake, she doesn't fall into self-recrimination or depression. She knows her actions were justified, and she returns to her former town with her head held high, wearing her favorite comfy overalls.

Thus, I think the best answer to the novel's relationship to feminist ideals is "it's complicated," which I like. There will be more to talk about!

In addition to debate over Hurston's feminism, there's been discussion about the novel's place in African-American literature. Though I've considerably upped the number of books I'm reading by and/or about people of color, I've realized how many are still centered on racism and discrimination. While those are important topics, I know it's important to see a diversity of experience. TEWWG is entirely about Black Americans--and a segment of Black America. There are almost no white characters, and while issues surrounding racism such as economic opportunity are present, it's not the primary focus of the novel. In that way, I think the book serves as an important complement to other canonical African-American works. 

I frequently listened to audiobooks when I lived in Philadelphia but have long fell out of the habit. Given its reliance on dialect, Hurston's novel was a good choice with which to return. The narrator did an excellent job of distinguishing between the many characters, but my only complaint is that her performance of Janie suggested Janie was always on the verge of belly laughs or hysterical crying. The plaintive tone she often adopted in intense moments undermined some of Janie's strength.

I'm nervous about teaching the novel next year. I fear I won't be able to surmount my students' disinterest. But at least we won't spend a quarter languishing over sin and adultery.

"Moby Dick" by Herman Melville

I've done it. I've conquered the "white whale," the endlessly-metaphor-ready novel of English literature. And like Ahab (of course, because we're all Ahab), the path was long and treacherous, with high hopes, fits and starts, and (okay, the simile's not particularly apt) an entirely benign conclusion.

I started Moby Dick a few years ago, inspired by an educator's event at the Contemporary Arts Center on an exhibit inspired by the novel. One artist had drawn an illustration over each page of the book. "I'll read a page each day!" I had decided. I think I imagined I'd write some sort of response too. Though I did occasionally make annotations, the page-a-day petered out almost immediately. Still, I made some progress over the years, picking it up here and there. This year, realizing I had perhaps 100 pages left, I decided it was time to resolvedly confront the Leviathan.

It's funny how hard the book is. It shouldn't be. I've read significantly longer books. The prose is archaic by today's standards, but it's not more challenging than the prose of Melville's contemporary, Nathaniel Hawthorne (whose The Scarlet Letter I teach), and it's certainly easier than the more opaque post-modernist writers. It's simplest to blame the challenge of reading on the novel's structure, its frequent departures from the primary narrative. After all, Melville dedicates more pages to arguing that whales are fish than he does on the final chase of Moby Dick--but, then again, I love non-traditional books. Or perhaps it's the awareness that there's meaning that's just above your head, a sense that the teacher would laugh at you the next day when you innocently asserted the novel was "about a whale." But I'm an English teacher!

Probably it's a combination of all of the above, in conjunction with Moby Dick's vaunted position in the English canon. It's a book I found frustrating, boring, and tedious but also fascinating, funny, and compelling. I'm glad I read it.

Reading what I've written so far, it's clear that reading Moby Dick is more about the reader's journey (oh, the metaphors!) than the novel itself. Still, Moby Dick is, nominally, about the monomaniacal Captain Ahab's pursuit of the white whale, Moby Dick, who cost Ahab his leg. It's narrated by Ishmael, whose character frames the opening of the novel before dropping out completely. In fact, though Ishmael continues to narrate and is present during the final chase, he doesn't insert himself back in until the epilogue, after everyone else on the whaling ship Pequod has met their watery doom. The linear narrative plays only a minor role in the novel, however. Instead, the reader learns a lot about whale anatomy. About the heavenly feel of spermaceti. About Biblical references to whales. About other ships the Pequod encounters. About how easy it is to weave the word "unctuous" into prose. 

And we also learn about human purpose and fate, about our drive even in the face of insurmountable odds. I just finished teaching The Road to my juniors, and a student remarked that McCarthy's message seems similar to F. Scott Fitzgerald's closing line of The Great Gatsby (which we studied in the fall): "So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past." It's the same final message we get in Moby Dick, maybe the American message, or maybe simply the message of humanity. 

Come for the spermaceti. Stay for the message about us all.

"The Hobbit" by J.R.R. Tolkien

Though I read (and enjoyed) the Lord of the Rings trilogy back in high school, I never got around to reading The Hobbit. My husband and I rented the new movie a few weeks back, and though I wasn't especially impressed (I fell asleep, though I'll chalk that up to not being in the mood rather than the movie itself), I did want to try the book.

As most everyone knows, The Hobbit is aimed at children, which gives it a different tone from LOTR. In fact, perhaps this is one of the reasons the movie didn't work as much for me--Peter Jackson is trying to continue the epic seriousness of the LOTR movies with a story that just doesn't match it. Instead, The Hobbit is much goofier as Bilbo and the dwarves fight imbecile trolls or Bilbo plays around with his invisibility ring. (An aside on that--in the LOTR movies, the ring is a heavy burden for Frodo; he wears it reluctantly, and it takes a huge psychological toll on him as he carries it. That doesn't seem to be the case in The Hobbit. Bilbo wears the ring frequently, for long periods of time, with no ill effect. Is that an issue of the movies changing things? [I don't remember the LOTR books well enough.] Or does the ring's power change later on with the rise of Sauron?)

Even the quest at the heart of The Hobbit has little weight. Bilbo and the dwarves aren't trying to save the world--they're trying to steal the dwarves' treasure back from the dragon Smaug. Though I suppose things in the end are for the best (no surprise, the dragon is killed, and eventually all the evil goblins are too, though that's never the original purpose), you could argue the troop's actions largely cause more harm than good (and the good that does happen isn't really because of them). And of course, there's nothing wrong with telling this kind of story--I guess it was just unexpected, given the narrative in the LOTR.

And speaking of unexpected: the dragon's death. I just didn't get it. Bilbo and the dwarves set out to recapture their treasure--and presumably slay the dragon. They arrive at the dragon's mountain, they find the treasure, and then they hole up, deciding what to do. You figure the epic battle and dragon slayage will come soon. But, then, the dragon flies out to attack a village of men and some random guy (who, literally, Tolkien introduces in parentheses with "Bard was his name.") shoots an arrow and kills Smaug. It takes maybe one paragraph. And Bilbo and the dwarves aren't even there! What? You can't just kill the big evil so easily!

I suppose, once more, the issue may be more of my expectations being subverted than an actual criticism, but I just didn't know what to do with it. The dwarves are more stupid than heroic, though in contrast, Bilbo does appear all the more stronger.

So I didn't dislike the book, but it wasn't what I expected, and I imagine it's also vastly different than the movies Jackson is putting out.

"The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn" by Mark Twain

This has been an all-classics summer as I've been reading through the new books I'll be teaching this year. Some I had never read before (like Red Badge of Courage) and some I'd read but barely remembered (like The Scarlet Letter). A few I debated on (deciding, for example, against reading The Great Gatsby now because I reread it only a few years ago), and I was on the fence about Huck Finn since I don't think I've read it since college. I chose to reread and thoroughly enjoyed it, but I was also surprised by just how familiar the entire book was to me. Heck, I remembered it better, even though it's been probably nine years since I read it, than I now remember Red Badge of Courage, which I finished a couple weeks ago.

My excellent recall is probably due to Huck Finn's memorable storyline and iconic narrator. We all can't help but love Huck Finn who, despite his awful upbringing, is at heart a decent and loyal boy. Of course, we love him all the more because he is convinced of his own wickedness yet struggles mightily to do the right thing. When he tricks Jim for fun and sees how hurt Jim is by his actions, he apologizes and changes his ways. He's even able to evolve beyond the social mores of his time and choose to assist Jim in his escape from slavery. Nonetheless, Huck wouldn't be any fun if he were all "heart of gold." He's also inventive and intelligent, reminding me of Odysseus in his skill (most of the time anyway) in lying.

The book is best when it focuses on Jim and Huck's travels, including the indelible American image of the small raft on the Mississippi river. When the "king" and "duke" join the caravan, the book is more humorous, but it also shifts away from Huck and Jim's central relationship and largely ignores the fact that Jim is separated from his family and running for his life.

This leads to the almost intolerable last quarter of the book, when Jim is captured and Huck is reunited with Tom Sawyer. Though Huck is for freeing Jim and escaping quickly, he allows Tom to talk him into a complicated and convoluted plan created solely for Tom's amusement. Though I think this is probably true to life--as a teacher, I often see students who are good and decent on their own but turn into asses with their friends--it's also frustrating as a reader. Huck and Tom not only put Jim, but Tom's Aunt Sally and Uncle Silas, though hell, and though Huck sees the pointlessness of it all, he doesn't really seem to consider the pain he's inflicting. Because the book's a comedy, their actions are in the end largely innocuous--Tom isn't seriously hurt; Aunt Sally and Uncle Silas forgive; Jim is deus ex machina-ed out of slavery--but that doesn't change the fact that we lose some of that good side of Huck we'd come to love.

Nonetheless, Huck Finn is an excellent adventure story in its own right and so clearly has a central place in American history, making is one of those rare high school required reading books that I think teenagers will actually enjoy.

"The Scarlet Letter" by Nathaniel Hawthorne

When I mentioned reading The Scarlet Letter to a friend, she immediately responded with, "Ugh, I do not feel bad for Hester at all." I was a little taken aback. Is that a common reaction? That Hester's "sin" of having sex with a man she loves is so bad that we feel her and her daughter entirely deserving of being shunned and reviled by her community for years? I found nothing to judge in Hester and her actions. She accepts the town's judgment of her and devotes her life to her daughter, Pearl, and doing good in the community. So what if she doesn't really repent of her crime? Maybe there was nothing to repent of, you Puritans!

Now, if you're looking for an unsympathetic character, I'd go with Hester's partner in "crime," the Rev. Dimmesdale. I don't fault him for sleeping with Hester, and perhaps not even for keeping it a secret, but I do find fault in his grandiose sense of self-worth. He berates himself for years over his crime, moaning to his congregation that his faults are the blackest of those there. And, you know, maybe his sin just wasn't all that bad? Maybe God just doesn't care that much about it. At the same time, he drinks in the adoration of his congregation. It seems Hawthorne is trying to portray him as worse off than Hester for living a lie--suggesting that the congregation's praise only makes his sin feel worse--but I think he rather likes being an adored sinner. Dimmesdale does come to peace and some redemption at the end by confessing his actions in front of the town. But then he also conveniently dies, relieving him from having to face the consequences, which I think are far, far harder to live through than the confession itself. Hester deals with that for her whole life.

The secondary characters are somewhat odd. First, there's Pearl herself, who is constantly referred to as an elf, or devil, or sprite because she's not a quiet, static, obedient little girl. She's also frequently associated with the Scarlet Letter itself, an ostentatious badge of shame upon Hester. Yet Pearl doesn't seem to have a real personality. Hawthorne avoids the suggestion that any oddness, perhaps, arises from being raised, from birth, ostracized from the community. And I certainly don't buy this "Dimmesdale dies and his kiss changes her" crap. What is this, Hawthorne, Beauty and the Beast?

Then there's Mr. Chillingworth (what a fabulous name), Hester's husband who devotes his life to seeking revenge upon Dimmesdale. But why? I can understand a man might be angry his wife slept with another man, but we're not given any special motivation for Chillingworth. He's an empty, evil vessel and seems completely unnecessary for the story.

But, Hawthorne isn't interested in these characters as much as I am. He's much more focused on the nature of guilt, sin, and revenge and the way in which these negative traits consume an individual (e.g. Chillingworth literally starts looking evil once he begins his campaign against Dimmesdale). I find guilt and sin largely dull, as were some sections of the novel. Nonetheless, I mostly appreciated the text, and I'm sure I enjoyed it significantly more than I must have in high school.

"The Crucible" by Arthur Miller

In four years of blogging, this is the first play I've read and reviewed. Like most people, I imagine, I just find it weird to sit down and read a play solo. But, I'm teaching The Crucible this fall, so a rereading of this high school staple was necessary.

What I was most struck by is just what great drama The Crucible, a retelling of the Salem Witch trials, makes. I mean, I was angry reading it! I wanted to spit at that smug Abby and knock Danforth senseless. I tensed in frustration as Proctor desperately tries to save his wife's life. And, I even shed a tear at John Proctor and Elizabeth's last conversation as John refuses to save himself by lying and admitting to being a witch. If a play can stir that much emotion read silently, I can only imagine the scenes on stage.

Like the other great play I've taught at the high school level, Inherit the Wind, there's not a ton of depth to The Crucible. Don't get me wrong--there's excellent characterization, clear conflict, and compelling themes, but most of what it is is on the surface. In terms of a text to read, that doesn't bother me, though I have found it can be challenging to pull much from the simpler plays in the classroom. We'll see how it goes this fall, though given my male students' frequent desire to play Juliet, at the very least I do think teenage boys will be clamoring to cry witch as a hysteric teenage girl.

"A Farewell to Arms" by Ernest Hemingway

After the rather unpleasant experience of reading A Red Badge of Courage, I wasn't looking forward to A Farewell to Arms. No matter that they're in different wars (Civil War vs. WWI), have different protagonists (a young untested soldier vs. an American ambulance driver with the Italian forces), and focus on different events (bravery in battle vs. ...well, I'm not sure in the case of Farewell), I went a bit reluctantly into Hemingway's novel. In the end, of course, all war books are not the same, and I appreciated Farewell immensely more.

The best part of A Farewell to Arms is Hemingway's sparse and unsentimental style, which could come off dull but instead seems an apt reflection of the inner thoughts of the protagonist, Henry. Much of his life is routine, and he thinks in that manner, only occasionally pausing to reflect on his life or the people in it. Like the young protagonist of A Red Badge of Courage, Henry is ambivalent about war. He feels a sense of duty in doing his job correctly, but the fighting doesn't inflame his passions or mean much to him. Unlike the youth in Red Badge, though, Henry feels no guilt in this. He's more interested in being good to his friends and in being with Catherine, an English nurse with whom he's fallen in love.

The back flap of my novel seems to describe A Farewell to Arms as a love story, but although Henry and Catherine's relationship is central to the novel, it's hard to describe the book as a romance (at least in the way that most of us think of the term). One of the reasons is because Henry thinks of his relationship matter-of-factly through most of the book, which is perhaps realistic in the situation but not especially heartstrings-pulling. Another reason, for me, is because Catherine is such a flat character. Though we know she initially pursues her flirtation with Henry in order to overcome the death of a fiance, she so quickly subsumes her life into Henry's that it's hard to think of her as a full-bodied person. In my review of Hemingway's For Whom the Bell Tolls, I lamented that the love interest Maria is "frail and delicate, ...and it is only through her relationship with Robert that she feels whole again. She gives herself to Robert fully and desires nothing else but to provide for his needs." The same is true of Catherine, who dedicates herself solely to Henry, eventually becoming a somewhat cloying partner who fails to recognize Henry's need (and, hey, perhaps her own need? c'mon) for some kind of purpose and independence.

The ending of the novel is almost surprising, especially in contrast to the end of Red Badge. At the end of Crane's work, the youth believes he has become a man and grown from his experience in war. Even the cynical Catch-22 ends with hope. In contrast, A Farewell to Arms ends with no such lesson. Henry has survived war, and people have died, and nothing is different.

Though I had problems with Catherine, Hemingway's writing style is enough to make A Farewell to Arms compelling, and it does make an interesting study in contrast with Red Badge.

"The Red Badge of Courage" by Stephen Crane

Somehow I was never assigned this classic text in high school or college, so this was a first reading for me. I was happily surprised by the short length, though I must have been channeling my inner sulky teenager as I read, because the book felt interminable. Now that I've finished, I can look back with more interest in Crane's work, but man, I do empathize with the generations of teenagers who have slogged through it (I'm a teacher, so note to other teachers: just because a book features a teenage protagonist and is about war does not mean teenagers will like it).

The Red Badge of Courage takes places over several days in the Civil War, and is related from the point of view of Henry (who is more often called the "youth"), a young and untested soldier. Prior to their first real engagement, Henry worries that he will turn cowardly and run in the battle. He later does so and feels ashamed and concerned that others will discover him. However, in later battles, he fights brazenly in an almost crazed manner and decides, in the end, that he has become a man.

To be fair, the exploration of Henry's mental state throughout the battles is well-done. As many critics have noted, Red Badge of Courage was one of the first works to complicate the mythology of war as glorious and soldiers as selflessly courageous and heroic. Instead, Henry goes through a barrage of emotions, from fear to shame to arrogance to self-reflection. Henry doesn't fight because he loves his country or he hates his enemy; instead, when he does fight, he does so for more complicated reasons: fear at being branded a coward; anger at a colonel who calls them "pack mules;" unreasoned group enthusiasm.

I read somewhere that Red Badge was the first anti-war novel, and I'm not sure whether or not I agree. At the end, Henry comes to some peace within himself, believing that he has finally become a man. When I first read the ending, I was angry, thinking Crane equated war with being a man. But, others have argued that the ending is ironic, as Henry's arrogance shows he hasn't really changed or grown. Furthermore, the novel ends with the line, "He had been an animal blistered and sweating in the heat and pain of war. He turned now with a lover’s thirst to images of tranquil skies, fresh meadows, cool brooks—an existence of soft and eternal peace." Perhaps his turning away from war suggests that war is animalistic and that being at peace with nature is truly human. Truthfully, I'm not sure yet of which interpretation I support.

There are some interesting things going on in Crane's work, but I found myself skimming and falling asleep while reading. Maybe war books just aren't for me (comforting thought, since A Farewell to Arms is next--blech).

"The Power and the Glory" by Graham Greene

I'd never heard of The Power and the Glory before it was given to me by a friend. Written in 1940, the novel takes place in Mexico during a time in which Catholicism has been outlawed and priests are being hunted and killed. The book follows one priest as he attempts to escape while trying to reconcile his failures as a man of God.

In The Power and the Glory, the setting is elaborately rendered, with the heat, stench, and oppressiveness of the Mexican rainy season weighing down constantly (oddly, the atmosphere reminded me of The Great Gatsby). The unnamed "whiskey priest" is fully described, particularly his ambivalent attitude toward his vocation. The reader can feel his pain, fear, and fleeting hope through each plodding (not in a "boring plot" way but in an "inexorable march towards a dreaded fate" kind of way) moment of the novel.

The whiskey priest is tortured by the knowledge that his only solace is in duties (praying, serving the sacrament) he can no longer perform, both because they are outlawed and because the priest is unable to repent of his sins. There's of course something very human in a man who hates and yet cannot abandon his transgressions (his child; his drinking), which perhaps is what makes the whiskey priest so relatable.

After reading the novel, I was left with one central issue. (but first, a related tangent) I don't believe in God, and my husband does. For him, there's comfort in knowing that there's something greater than himself and that there's a purpose to existence. On the other hand, I find a lack of God far more reassuring. If there's no Plan and Purpose in life, then we can live life more fully and freely, unconstrained by arbitrary rules of what we "should" do. The novel, to me, seems to describe the danger and pain of (a certain type of) religious belief. In The Power and the Glory, the whiskey priest is tormented by his failure. He's failed to perform his duties as a priest; he's failed to abide by religious rules. Then what's the point of his Catholicism? He's miserable with his unworthiness, which gets him no where.

This point is made especially clear in the end when the whiskey priest is executed after finally (willingly) being caught by the police. His death is juxtaposed with a woman reading an obviously mythologized story of Juan, a saint who contently prays the night before he's executed and exclaims, "Hail, Christ the King" as he's killed. In contrast, the whiskey priest stays up that night in fear, drinking, and when he wakes, it is "with a huge feeling of hope which suddenly and completely left him at the first sight of the prison yard.... He felt only an immense disappointment because he had to go to God empty-handed, with nothing done at all" (210). What is the point of a religion which only highlights and reinforces humans' unavoidable inadequacies?

On the other hand, the priest's greatest sense of comfort comes when he spends the night in filthy jail, pushed up close to all kinds of people. He's repelled by the pious and judgmental Catholic woman and instead sees beauty in the world around him. Damning the people with him, even the couple having sex, for their sins seems pointless. Compassion, instead, is the only obvious answer. Even in such a place, none of the "brutes" turns him in for reward money once they learn he is a priest.

Though to me the novel is a call for a care for human life and possibilities over dogma, perhaps Green is instead advocating for religion focused not on damnation but on love (something many denominations today certainly do).

"Catch-22" by Joseph Heller

Though audiobooks obviously take me longer to "read" than traditional novels, I still typically finish one or so a month. I've been listening to Catch-22 since mid-March, which means this one took me three months to finish. Oops. It was life craziness, not the book, that caused the lengthy timeline, but in some ways I'm glad it took the time it did as that meant I got to savor the novel for a long while.

Even people not familiar with Heller's work typically know what a catch-22 is: an inescapable paradox that today would perhaps be phrased simply as "FML." In the novel, the term refers to the predicament of Yossarian, a bombadier in World War 2, who desperately wants to escape further flight duty in order to avoid being killed. The "catch-22" is simple:
- Any pilot who is crazy cannot fly.
- Any pilot who does not want to fly must ask to be grounded.
- Any pilot who asks to be grounded is sane, and thus must fly.
It's bureaucracy at its best, and though most of us will never serve in war, I think we can all identify with daily absurdities inherent in the idea of catch-22.

The novel is probably best known for its structure. It's non-linear, and even though Yossarian is the protagonist, the presence of a third-person omniscient narrator means that a reader follows multiple characters. The story is more a series of vignettes than a traditional narrative, and the majority of the book is comprised of dialogue between the characters.

This roundabout dialogue is one of the book's highlights, as it draws attention to the maddening nature of communication and the trivial and mundane state of much of our existence. Take this exchange between the downtrodden and timid chaplain and Colonel Cathcart:

“Haven’t you got anything humorous that stays away from waters and valleys and God? I’d like to keep away from the subject of religion altogether if we can."

The chaplain was apologetic. “I’m sorry, sir, but I’m afraid all the prayers I know are rather somber in tone and make at least some passing reference to God.”

“Then let’s get some new ones.”

Intelligence, common sense, and human decency are constantly squashed for greed and self-interest. Nonetheless, most of the novel maintains a humorous tone, and the characters' constant exasperation is more funny than saddening.

In the last part of the novel, however, Heller's tone takes an abrupt turn. Many of Yossarian's friends die in succession, and Yossarian wanders through Italy facing cruelty at every turn. Though we might have laughed when a whore beat Orr over the head with a shoe early in the novel, there's no way to laugh when Aarfy rapes and kills a maid. Though the first part of the novel clearly establishes the absurdity of war, this part cements the real depravity of war and human nature.

Given that turn, and perhaps familiar with cynics like Golding (Lord of the Flies) and Orwell (1984), I was surprised that Catch-22 ends with a thoroughly hopeful conclusion. Heller seems to be arguing that life is shitty and frustrating, but that you choose whether to be defined and shaped by that.

I've had a lot of success with listening to classic novels on audiobook, and I would highly recommend this audio version. The narrator, Jay O. Sanders, did an excellent job with an enormous range of characters' voices (though whenever he did a Southern accent he ended up sounding like a parody of George W. Bush, which made me giggle). The dialogue is definitely enhanced by hearing tone (rising annoyance; calm patronization).

As a last thought, though the books are remarkably different, I kept thinking of The Things They Carried while listening. Perhaps because I think both achieve Truth--particularly about something as mythologized as war--through fiction.

"In Cold Blood" by Truman Capote

When I reviewed Behind the Beautiful Forevers last week, I suggested that Boo's nonfiction novel, despite its compelling subject matter, didn't quite work for me. It lacked the style of a novel and the real-life intimacy of nonfiction. So, it was quite a different experience reading a "master" (In Cold Blood is often credited as the first "nonfiction novel") at work.

And In Cold Blood is certainly masterful. Capote's account of the brutal Kansas murders of four members of the Clutter family by two men, Dick and Perry, is utterly can't-put-it-down suspenseful, despite knowing the family's and killers' ends from the beginning.

Capote is especially adept at creating mood. The ominous feeling of the first few chapters, as the reader follows the Clutter family, their neighbors, and the killers in the day leading up to the murder, is nearly palpable. Though the reader knows the family will die, it takes time before the reason for the murder comes to light, which adds even more mystery to the first part of the book. Surprisingly, given the obsession with lurid and gory details today, the specifics of the murders are told rather sparsely, something I appreciated. The book is all the more stronger for focusing more on the individuals themselves and less on those terrible few hours.

Once the crime is known, In Cold Blood focuses mostly on the killers themselves, Dick and Perry. They're both interesting characters, entirely unremorseful for their crimes. Though Perry comes off the more sympathetic of the two (perhaps even too sympathetic, as it becomes hard to see him as a murderer), he's also clearly the more disturbed, from his abusive childhood to his paranoid tendencies. By the end, there's no clear answer. On the one hand, I supported their death penalty conviction. These men knew what they were doing and chose to do it--and there's no evidence they could or would reform. But, at the same time, they were mentally damaged young men, and there's some sadness in that.

Capote retains a detached, neutral tone without, relying on other people (community members, police, Dick and Perry) to tell the story. Nonetheless, the rich details that make everything so real are clearly Capote's--a result of his writer's touch and his meticulous reporting.

In Cold Blood was fascinating and is one of the best nonfiction pieces I've read. Even though the book is now approaching its fiftieth anniversary, time hasn't worn down it at all.

"The Ghost Stories of Edith Wharton" by Edith Wharton

I don't know that I've ever read a ghost story before--watching Are You Afraid of the Dark? on Nickelodeon during my childhood was probably as close as I got--so reading a collection of ghost stories by Wharton is rather out of my normal tastes.  I feared they would be so terribly old-fashioned that I wouldn't be able to enjoy them. After all, even Wharton herself notes in the preface, "But since I first dabbled in the creating of ghost stories, I have made the depressing discovery that the faculty required for their enjoyment has become almost atrophied in modern man" (1). There's a sense that the modern era, with its electricity and phones and television, is not a place that ghosts can haunt. I was surprised, then, to still find the stories delightfully creepy and ominous. They're not "jump in your seat" scary, but Wharton does an excellent job of creating just the right atmosphere ideal for enjoying these tales.

Wharton was writing in a semi-modern area (e.g. the characters use electricity and drive cars), as the stories were originally published between 1910 and 1937, but she does have use of an important requirement for most ghost stories: the creepy, slightly decrepit, house. Unlike most homes today, houses in that era--especially the grand homes of Wharton's pieces--have history and personality, which are essential to creating the ghostly atmosphere. When this setting is combined with unusual servants, as it is in "Mr. Jones," the effect is perfect. In that story, a woman comes to inhabit an old home in the family, but is confronted with constant demands from the aged caretaker, Mr. Jones, who never appears.

Another of Wharton's skills is her ability to take the reader inside the mind of each protagonist as he or she slowly must come to terms with the unearthliness around him or her, as Charlotte must when her husband continues to receive troubling letters addressed to him in "Pomegranate Seed." In fact, women living alone or losing their husbands was a common theme, as it appears also in "Afterward" and "All Souls'."

Many of the stories were enjoyable. The poor Anne and her dead dogs in "Kerfol" were quite ghastly. I also quite liked the only one that didn't really involve the supernatural in any way, 'The Looking Glass," which depicts a middle-aged woman struggling to accept her loss of beauty.

I went in to the collection quite skeptical, planning to read only a few stories, but I picked up steam as I went along and finished the second half of the book rather quickly. I'm a fan of scary movies (but not the trash torture porn of Saw and the like), and I think Wharton's atmosphere and characterization is enough to appeal to any fan willing to savor the build up and leave tantalized with an unfinished ending.

"The Left Hand of Darkness" by Ursula LeGuin

Reading Walton's Among Others inspired me to try some classic sci-fi, and LeGuin's well-known The Left Hand of Darkness seemed to be a good place to start (gotta give the love to the women sci-fi writers!). I was worried the novel would be dry or dated, as it was written over forty years ago, so I found myself pleasantly surprised at how engaging it is.

The novel follows Genly Ai, the first Envoy to the planet called Gethen, or Winter. He has been living on the planet as a representative of the Ekumen, a sort of interplanetary alliance, and has not been having much success. Winter's inhabitants live in an Arctic landscape, to which Genly is poorly suited, and he has made little inroads with the Karhidish king, whom he is trying to convince to align with the Ekumen.

The first half of the novel is a bit slow. Genly engages in vague politicking around Karhide and complains about their unusual customs and habits. Though he feels he has an ally in Lord Estraven, he's never certain, and I didn't feel especially connected or interested in Genly. However, about halfway through, the novel plunges into action. After Lord Estraven is declared a traitor and exiled by the Karhidish king, Genly travels to another country, Orgota, in hopes of forming an alliance with them. He fares even worse there and is abruptly thrown into a prison labor camp. Suddenly, a somewhat slow political novel becomes a daring escape tale when Estraven rescues Genly from the camp and they begin an 800-mile journey over ice back to Karhide.

Though the first half of the novel is necessary set-up, it's the second half that makes the whole piece worthwhile, as a strong friendship forms between Genly and Estraven. This relationship is all the more important because of the singular unique trait of the people of Winter: they do not have gender (at least, not as we see it). Most of the time, Gethenians are essentially neuter (or, more accurately, "potentials"), not having sex organs or traits associated with men or women. However, during part of each month (much like a woman's period), each Gethenian goes into kemmer and adopts male or female sex parts in response to another individual in kemmer. In this phase, the "female" Gethenian can become pregnant and have children. However, after the child is born and weaned, that same Gethenian could take on male characteristics in kemmer and sire a child. Though Genly has difficulty with many aspects of Gethenian culture, it's this inability to classify individuals by gender that is the most challenging. And even though I'd like to think we've come further in being comfortable with gender ambiguity since then, it's a challenging part of the novel for the reader too. After all, Genly refers to the people he meets as "he," and as an investigator writes, "The very use of the pronoun [he] in my thoughts leads me continually to forget that the Karhider I am with is not a man, but a manwoman" (69).

Traveling and becoming close with Estraven forces Genly (and the reader) to accept Estraven as a person, not a woman or a man. Writes the same investigator, "The First Mobile, if one is sent, must be warned that unless he is very self-assured, or senile, his pride will suffer. A man wants his virility regarded, a woman wants her femininity appreciated, however indirect and subtle the indications of regard and appreciation. On Winter they will not exist. One is respected and judged only as a human being. It is an appalling experience" (69).

What I love about classic sci-fi and fantasy, in particular, is the detail and thought put into the worldbuilding. In that regard, The Left Hand of Darkness reminded me of Dune, though I felt for the characters much more here.

LeGuin challenges us to reevaluate the way we judge and assume based on gender, but her book is not heavy-handed about it. She seems to suggest (in a real and not a kid's cartoon kind of way) that true friendships and understanding can happen if there is a willingness to put aside one's prejudices and, at times, pride.

"A Tale of Two Cities" by Charles Dickens

A Tale of Two Cities has been immortalized by its opening ("It was the best of times...") and closing lines ("It is a far, far better thing that I do..."), and when I began reading the book for the second or third time, I doubted Dickens' renowned words would have much effect on me. So, I was surprised that by the time I reached Carton's famous last words, I was teary and emotional, overwhelmed despite my intentions otherwise.

Dickens' story of the excesses of the French Revolution comes down firmly against the revolutionaries, though it is sympathetic in the plight and exploitation of the people by the aristocrats. I would have preferred some nuance here, but Dickens is so skillful in his description and in evoking emotions of outrage (both against the rich and the mob of the people) that the novel works anyway.

For me, the greatest weakness of Dickens' story is the simplicity of his characters, who are mostly one-dimensional: either noble, true, and innocent or bitter, ruthless, and unforgiving. This dichotomy is most present in his female characters of Lucie Manette and Madame Defarge. Lucie is young, pretty and pure, and because of that, she is beloved by everyone--and I found her annoying. Like Les Miserables' Cosette, Lucie has no real personality yet is the axis on which all the other characters turn. Evil is always more interesting, and so is Madame Defarge, even though she's no less a flat character. Defarge's constant knitting serves as one of the most indelible images from the novel, and her single-minded pursuit of revenge forces the narrative forward. However, even when her backstory is revealed, she is made no more sympathetic, which is a shame.

The male characters are somewhat better, though Darnay is for the most part a mirror of his wife Lucie, and Mr. Lorry benefits only from his age and kindliness. Sydney Carton, the hero of the story, is the only real exception, as he's a man with true good and bad inside him.

Listening to the novel at a leisurely pace was a perfect way to re-enter a story I was already familiar with. Narrator Simon Prebble does an excellent job with the male and female voices and keeps the pace moving appropriately.

I enjoyed A Tale of Two Cities when I first read it as a highschooler, and it was no less enjoyable this time around.

"On the Road" by Jack Kerouac

Summary: Kerouac's classic semi-autobiographical tale of traveling the open road with friends.

Musings: I'm so glad I chose to read On the Road via audiobook.  The narrator, Will Patton, does a perfect job of capturing the characters' voices and that essential "beat generation" tone associated with Kerouac and his friends.  The protagonist, Sal (i.e. Kerouac), has an easy-going but enthusiastic drawl.  He's never a leader in the book, but he's always up for whatever adventure is thrown at him.  The real star of the novel (and where Patton's skill shines) is Sal's friend Dean Moriarty, a "mad" man who says "Yes!" to everything and leaves women (and children) alone in his wake.  Through Patton, Dean's insane desire to capture and experience all that life has to offer is portrayed through a rushed, breathless exuberance.

Dean's without a doubt a polarizing figure. To most people, including myself, Dean is infuriating.  He does what he wants with little concern about others, and though his frenzy is somewhat endearing early on, it becomes more and more concerning as multiple wives and children get left behind for whatever adventure he desires.  Yet there's something earnest and true in Dean, and his freedom from responsibility is infectious.  It's not surprising that people like Sal drop everything to follow him.

In many ways On the Road is a love story with America itself, as Sal's repeated trips east and west (and, in the last part of the book, south to Mexico) allow him to experience a broad swath of the country and its people.  Based on Kerouac's experiences in the '40s, Sal's journey is one where hitchhiking is easy, the women are beautiful, alcohol is cheap, and money (though there's never much of it) always seems to work out.  For this reason, the book does feel so essentially American in its tone.  In it, I saw the desire in generations of young adults to find adventure, independence, eternal youth, and life's meaning through traveling.  Nowadays college students and grads backpack through Europe, but the yearning is the same.

So while typically I'm cynical of 20-somethings who want to "find themselves," I found it hard to be cynical about Kerouac's novel (well, okay, a bit cynical when he idealizes Mexico and its 15-year-old prostitutes).  He's so sincere in his desire to experience and his prose is so lyrical that even I--a mature, stable adult if ever there was one--felt moved.

I can see why On the Road is such a classic and has enticed so many people to explore and look beyond the banality of "responsible" life.

***This book qualifies for the Back to the Classics Challenge (20th century classic category).

"Jane Eyre" by Charlotte Bronte

Summary: Jane Eyre, an orphan, lives with her hateful Aunt Reed and her snotty children. When Jane finally reaches her breaking point with her Aunt and responds to the abuse, her aunt decides to send Jane to boarding school.  Although Jane has a difficult time at first, she eventually excels.  After many years she seeks work as a governess and is installed at Thornfield Hall where she meets Mr. Rochester.  As romance starts to develop, so too do the secrets of Thornfield.

Musings: I read Jane Eyre in high school but had retained only the barest outline of events, and it was truly a delight to reread (listen) to the novel.  Jane Eyre is the perfect protagonist.  Bright, confident, and spirited, she rebels against the dormant lifestyle expected of women in that day.  Instead, she seeks intellectual and physical engagement.  Her relationship with Mr. Rochester blooms not because of physical attraction or novelty but because he equals and respects her intellectually. With him, Jane does not need to hide or restrain any part of her personality. 

Going in I expected Bronte's style be along the lines of Austen, whom I enjoy but do find long-winded.  I was happily surprised that Bronte's novel felt much different to me, moving along at a good pace despite some extraordinarily long conversations.  I did occasionally grow impatient in the latter part of the novel during Jane's time with the Rivers, but that may be because I was so anxious for the ending (which I remembered) to come.  Yet I do think Jane's time with St. John Rivers (an aside: the narrator of my audio book pronounced his name as "Sin-gen"--is this normal?) is important in order to juxtapose Jane's personality and life with him against that of her time with Mr. Rochester.

My audiobook version was read by Susan Erickson, who did an excellent job capturing Jane's composed personality and Mr. Rochester's fiery temperament.  I loved the way she voiced Jane and Mr. Rochester's repartee.

Rereading Jane Eyre was thoroughly enjoyable.  Because I listened on audiobook, it took me over a month to finish it, but I'm glad that meant it lasted longer.

***This book qualifies for the Back to the Classics Challenge (19th century classic category).

"Brave New World" by Aldous Huxley

Summary: Bernard is a bit different in a world where social castes are determined before one is even born and social conditioning ensures stability and order.  He likes Lenina, and although "everybody belongs to everybody else" and multiple sexual partners are encouraged, he finds himself nervous to approach her.  He does eventually ask for a date, and they visit the reservation, a place separate and unconditioned, where they meet John, a "savage" born to a mother from Bernard's world.  This encounter leads to questions about the nature of happiness and stability.

Musings: I've done one of the most terrible jobs I think I've ever done summarizing the book above, but I think it's hard to describe the world of Brave New World accurately.  Although it takes place in a somewhat typical dystopian setting, the novel is especially compelling because of the way in which Huxley makes all of the world's structures logical--though still terrifying.  Happiness, or perhaps more accurately, contentedness, is the goal of Brave New World's society, and such happiness is created through the elimination of want and desire.  It's a world of immediate gratification, where everyone is given anything he/she wants at a moment's notice and any desire that can't be granted is conditioned away at a young age.  The concept that the world will be stable when everyone has what he/she wants is unassailable, and it makes some of the more outrageous practices in the novel, such as the lack of love relationships and the encouragement of promiscuity, also reasonable.

Brave New World really has two protagonists: Bernard and John.  Neither is content, and although Bernard seems the weaker of the two (he bemoans his alienation from others but also eagerly milks his later popularity), John "the savage" is really no better.  He demonizes Bernard and Lenina's existence and sees self-deprivation as a way to pureness, but he helps no one, including himself.

Huxley has created a world with no "good" options--the mindless acceptance of the majority of the people is obviously not desirable, but the "savage" land John comes from is given little attention and is not particularly praised either.  The lack of options is especially evident in the treatment of women.  In Bernard's world, bodies are simply objects for sexual consumption, but this seems especially true of women.  Women are described in terms of their physical attractiveness and are "had" by any man who wants.  On the other hand, John divides women completely into virgins and whores and uses their existence only as a means for his own self-deprivation.

I've read Brave New World a number of times now, and I still find it a compelling piece.  This time I did get a bit bored about half-way through, but I put it to the side and enjoyed finishing it a week or two later.  Even today I think it offers relevant commentary about the price of happiness and the pleasure of discontent.

***This book qualifies for the Back to the Classics Challenge (reread from high school/college category).

"The Stranger" by Albert Camus

Summary: Meursault's mother has just died.  He goes swimming with Marie.  While at the beach with friends, with the sun in his eyes, he shoots and kills a man.  He goes to prison and is sentenced to death.

Musings: My summary above has "spoiled" the book, but I really know of no way to provide an overview to The Stranger that would effectively convey the book's essence.  This is my second or third time reading the novel (I know I read it in high school, but I'm not sure if I also read it in college), and I'll admit my reason for choosing it was rather lazy: I'm one book short of completing the Books of the Century challenge, and The Stranger allowed me to finish the challenge easily, since it's so short.

The Stranger is really a "classroom" book, by which I mean I think it is best understood and explored in a critical literary environment.  It's an absurdist novel that is focused on the way in which individuals are molded--and, when resistant, judged--by arbitrary standards of society.  Meursault is a character focused on physical, not emotional needs, and he goes through life accordingly.  During his mother's wake, he thinks primarily of being sleepy or dizzy.  When he kills "the Arab," he does so not out of anger or anything else, but because the sun is in his eyes and has made him uncomfortable.  As a reader, we find him odd and his lack of attachment disturbing, but our judgment of him is turned on its head during his trial.

In the trial, the prosecutor attacks Meursault for failing to cry or show emotional distress at his mother's funeral.  His shooting of the Arab is all but forgotten, and he is condemned solely because he did not act in the expected manner of a bereaved son--a point that, of course, has nothing to do with the shooting.  Here the reader reacts against society and its judgment of Meursault, but it is too late: the jury sentences him to death.

Before the trial and later while waiting execution, Meursault is repeatedly exhorted by others to express remorse and turn to God.  Meursault refuses, and in the end comes into his own sort of peace as he "opened [him]self to the gentle indifference of the world" (122).  The others say Meursault will only find peace in God, but instead he finds peace in knowing that he does not matter and the world does not care.  I too found this reassuring--it means there is no set plan, set fate, or set "way" we should lead our lives.  This freedom gives each person who recognizes it the ability to truly live as he/she sees fit, though it's clear from the book that society tries hard to destroy this freedom.

As it's been years since I read the book for an assigned class, I don't know how standard my interpretation is, but I liked analyzing and thinking about the short but powerful novel.

***This book qualifies for the Books of the Century Reading Challenge.

"A Room of One's Own" by Virginia Woolf

Summary: Woolf's essay on "women and fiction," in which she argues that in order for women to create, they need an income of five hundred pounds a year and a room in which they can write.

Musings: I somehow never was exposed to Woolf's classic essay before, and I regret that, though I think this reading came at a perfect time in my life.  I'm not a terribly observant reader of most books, and I had to force myself to highlight, comment, and reflect when reading assigned works in college.  However, as I read A Room of One's Own for the first time, I cursed the fact that I was reading a library copy.  I was dying to mark lines and jot down my thoughts as I read.  I turned over particular sentences in my head, read them aloud to my husband, and reread whole sections.  I had to pull out a notepad in order to copy down all the gems I wanted to remember.  In short, this fabulous feminist essay not only exposes the state of women in 1928, when Woolf was writing, but it also sheds significant light on the fight for equality between the sexes today.

Woolf's primary purpose in the essay is to address the lack of women writers throughout history and to understand what is necessary for a person to create fiction.  One of her most potent arguments is that a person must have financial security in order to create. She notes, "Intellectual freedom depends upon material things.  Poetry depends upon intellectual freedom.  And women have always been poor, not for two hundred years merely, but from the beginning of time.  Women have had less intellectual freedom than the sons of Athenian slaves.  Women, then, have not had a dog's chance of writing poetry" (106).  But it is not only the lack of financial means that have kept women from writing.  Woolf argues that is is also the lack of history of women's writing from which to draw on and the lack of social support.  Even for poor men, the world says, "Write if you choose; it makes no difference to me," but to women, "the world said with a guffaw, Write?  What's the good of your writing?" (52).  Woolf recognizes the popular conception that truly great writers produce regardless of circumstance, but she breaks down that false ideal easily.

A Room of One's Own is set during an interesting point in history, a time in which women had recently won the right to vote and were increasingly allowed access to wider range of educational and vocational opportunities.  But, greater equality also results in a stronger backlash.  Life is difficult, Woolf says, and self-confidence can come most easily by asserting one's superiority over another.  So even as women were given more rights, their work and abilities were also being increasingly disparaged.  Woolf argues, "Possibly when the professor insisted a little too emphatically upon the inferiority of women, he was concerned not with their inferiority, but with his own superiority.  That was what he was protecting rather hot-headedly and with too much emphasis, because it was a jewel to him of the rarest price. ...  How can we generate this imponderable quality [of self-confidence], which is yet so invaluable, most quickly?  By thinking that other people are inferior to oneself" (34-35).

As I mentioned above, many of Woolf's arguments still hold sway today.  Women still make, on average, less than men, and it is a lack of financial freedom that hampers greater equality.  Although there are many more opportunities for women artists, there are still many arenas in which women lack a history and support network, and as a result, women are underrepresented.  Even Woolf's discussion of the way in which women in literature are only depicted in relationship to men is still evident in many popular stories (just see the continued use of the "Bechdel test").

I had read the introduction to my edition of the essay first, which was a mistake, because it made me think Woolf's piece would be difficult and indecipherable, when in fact I found it especially accessible and pointed.  A Room of One's Own is certainly a piece I want to return to, and I also hope to try some of Woolf's fiction in the near future.

***This book qualifies for the GLBT Reading Challenge 2010 and the Books of the Century Challenge.