War & Peace

War & Peace is the novel everyone wants to say they read, but nobody really wants to read. At 1,317 pages it is incredibly overwhelming. It hurts my wrist to hold. I reads for an hour and hardly made a dent in it. There were times I looked longingly from it to my stack of easier and more entertaining books to be read. Still, I persevered because it really is a masterpiece. Over the years, I have made several false starts on War & Peace. I think I started it three times before, only to give up after the first few chapters. This time, before I began reading I did two things:

1) I firmly resolved that come what may, I would FINISH it this time.
2) I looked up strategies for reading the novel.

Among a myriad of suggestions online, I found two that helped me immensely. First, I learned that there are five main characters and if you keep track of them, you will be able to enjoy the novel. Second, I found a family tree with these five main characters. I printed it out, laminated it, and made it into a bookmark. I used this as a reference as I read the novel and it was very helpful.

Now, you might be thinking, "that's a lot of work for a novel!" and yes, it was a bit like preparing for a class. Was it worth it? Absolutely!

At its heart, War & Peace is about characters who are trying to find the meaning to life. What will make us happy? Where is God? Is it more satisfying to live for ourselves or to live for others? How can we overcome heartbreak and disillusionment? Ultimately, what will really satisfy the cravings of our souls? The five main characters wrestle with these questions and answers are given, but getting to those answers will cost you some time, much of which will be spent on the field of battle during the French invasion of Russia.

There are hundreds of things I could write about this novel, but no one would read them and I don't have time, so I'll end this review with my favorite quote from the novel, which in many ways sums up the idea that I found most beautiful in the novel:

"We imagine that when we are thrown out of our familiar rut all is lost, but that is only when something new and good can begin. While there is life there is happiness. There is much, much before us" (1204).

Shirley

When Charlotte Brontë tells you that what you’re about to read is the equivalent of “cold lentils and vinegar without oil,” you should heed her warning. Exhausting, tedious, sometimes interesting - Shirley is one of those novels where, when you finally reach the conclusion, you happily shut the book and say to yourself, “I’m glad I read this, but thank goodness it’s over!”

Caroline and Shirley are the two alternating pole stars around which this novel revolves. Caroline has inner intensity and a sort of philosophical quietude and purity that renders her Madonna-esque. Shirley, when finally introduced, is as strong and fiery as any Brontë character you could wish for. She’s what modern female readers will gravitate towards – independent, immovable, and free to laugh at the pettiness of the pre-Victorian conventionalities that surround her because she has money and land and can do whatever she wants.

Interesting as Caroline and Shirley were, this novel needed an unforgiving editor to slash and cut the tiresome parts away. The prose often meandered into philosophical paths which most will not want to follow. The industrial angle is illuminating, but hardly gripping. Biblical allusions and Greek mythological references commingle, sending one into a fog of extended metaphors from which there is a very real fear that one will never again emerge. How different from the tightly woven prose of Jane Eyre, from which there is not a single sentence that could be cut that would improve the entire novel.

If you make it through Shirley, you will probably find that it was worth the struggle, but don't expect those "cold lentils and vinegar without oil" to go down without a fight.

The Secret History of Jane Eyre

While not agreeing with everything this author theorizes, I enjoyed The Secret History of Jane Eyre. It was a quick read and the biographical snippets of Charlotte Bronte’s life were interesting, though I do feel like Pfordresher unfairly focused on the darker aspects of her character.

There are some intriguing analogies between Charlotte Bronte’s life and her most famous novel, but Pfordresher overreaches himself at times. While Bronte certainly did draw on the people around her to build her characters, Pfordresher underemphasizes that key player in every writer’s life: imagination.

There were times where Pfordresher needed to offer more evidence. For instance, he states that Charlotte’s damning portrayal of her school, Cowan Bridge, was justified according to sources and that it was much worse than she portrayed in Jane Eyre (assuming she used Cowan Bridge as the model for Lowood), but then he doesn’t cite any of those sources.

There was a lot of discussion of Charlotte’s juvenilia. It seems obvious that her later works grew out of her early writings; the time spent analyzing the connections mostly seemed irrelevant.

I don’t believe Jane Eyre was as completely autobiographical as Pfordresher claims, but I appreciated the connections he made between her life and her novel. I was surprised that he didn’t spend more time discussing Villette and relating it to Jane Eyre, as it is certainly the most autobiographical of Bronte’s works.

Overall, this was a worthwhile read, but it wasn’t as revelatory as the captivating title lead me to believe.

The Country of the Pointed Firs

It is hard to articulate why I loved this book so much. It’s not really a novel, more a loose series of character sketches. The main characters are mostly unmarried and widowed women whose dispositions have been shaped and sculpted by the rough winds of life. They are as beautiful and solid as the rocky Maine shoreline. This is one of those books you read with your heart. You feel every nuance, everything that’s not said, and every small joy and great disappointment of each character.

The characters in this book reminded me of those found in L.M. Montgomery’s stories, but they were more somber and mature. William, especially, reminded me of Matthew Cutburt: the quiet dignity, the shyness, and the patience – it was like reading an alternate storyline for Matthew.

The only thing that threw me was the narrator. I could never quite figure out who she was, why she was there, or what her real purpose was. Yet, I think in leaving the narrator undeveloped, Jewett allows her reader to effectually become the narrator. Her experience is our experience. Her observations ours. There is no distance. In reading The Country of the Pointed Firs we live for a season on the coast of Maine. We develop relationships and sympathize with a host of folks who are in the autumn of their lives. We conclude, like our narrator, that “in the life of each of us … there is a place remote and islanded, and given to endless regret or secret happiness; we are each the uncompanioned hermit and recluse of an hour or a day; we understand our fellows of the cell to whatever age of history they may belong” (89).

Ramona

This was an interesting, overdramatic, and occasionally entertaining read. First published in 1884, when contextualized with other 19th century social reform novels, I can appreciate what Helen Hunt Jackson was trying to do: bring awareness to the sad plight of the California Indians. In many ways, I think she was successful. I learned a great deal about the injustices that occurred to the Indians at both the hands of the Mexicans, and the Americans. 

The narrative flowed well and Hunt's writing was lovely. Her characters were fraught with more emotion than sense though. The most interesting character was probably the Señora Morena. She was awful, but she was complex. As for Ramona, I started to get irritated with her half-glass-full mentality just as much as I became annoyed by Allesandro's bleak fatalism. Those two really were a match made in heaven. 

I don't even know what to say about the deeply Oedipal relationship between Señora Morena and her son, Felipe, whose lack of cojones was truly appalling. 

"Felipe bowed his head in his mother's lap. She laid her hands on his hair, and stroked it with passionate tenderness. 'My Felipe!' she said. 'It was a cruel fate to rob me of you at the last!'
'Mother! mother' he cried in anguish. 'I am yours, -- wholly, devotedly yours! Why do you torture me thus?'" 

And I'll just leave you with that ... 

I actually enjoyed this novel quite a bit, but certain characters are so obviously marked out for suffering, that it was hard not to criticize it as I read. I can honestly say the ending surprised me, which is hard to do in a didactic novel. It's definitely worth reading, just be prepared for some melodrama. 

The Cellist of Sarajevo

Isn't it disappointing when you've been looking forward to reading a book only to discover it's not that good once you finally read it? 

Despite having The Cellist of Sarajevo on my "To Be Read" list for several years, I had no idea that this story was based on a real person until I googled the book. After a mortar attack killed 22 people waiting for food in a downtown Sarajevo marketplace in 1992, the cellist, Vedran Smailović, became famous for playing Albinoni's Adagio in G Minor (a fittingly haunting and lamentable piece of music) for twenty-two days straight at the site of the attack. He did this under the threat of snipers. He would also play in ruined buildings around Sarajevo and during funerals. 

I won't go so far as to say there is nothing to be gained from reading this book. It was easy enough to follow and I did learn a bit about the Siege of Sarajevo, but getting through it was a slog because the writing had the unmistakable tang of a creative writer desperate to compose something meaningful & over-conscious of his craft. The phrase, “the men on the hills” seemed to appear on every page and there was too much pontificating on death and war. The unceasing silent soliloquies of the three main characters were meant to be thought provoking, but they were so artlessly done that they fell as flat as their own undeveloped characters. Overall, this is a short book that never seems to end. The real story of the Cellist of Sarajevo, Vedran Smailović, is incredibly inspiring. The fictional account is not.

The death knell of this book really rang though when I read that Smailović, who survived the siege and is now living in Ireland, felt incredibly angry when he found out about it. He said, "How is it possible? They steal my name and identity. Nobody can take the rights to that from me. It's quite clear that it is me in the book ... I expect damages for what they have done, an apology and compensation." I was surprised that Galloway undertook to write about Smailović without asking permission. I find it very disrespectful. He has capitalized on Smailović's story; a story Smailović should have been allowed to tell in his own time and way, if that is what he wanted to do. 

This article gives a good rundown of the controversy. It was written ten years ago though and I can't find any information about how things were finally resolved. I'm guessing they never were. 

Jane of Lantern Hill

Every time I read a new L.M. Montgomery book I’m amazed at her seemingly infinite powers of characterization. Montgomery’s female characters may all spring from the same well of youthful optimism, but they are always unique individuals.

Jane of Lantern Hill begins on a cold day in Toronto. Jane lives with her hard-as-steel grandmother, crusty Aunt, and her mother, who is quite pretty and about as substantial as a butterfly wing. Smothered by her surroundings, Jane is always hoping that someone will let her do something useful. She is the type of girl who would rather have an old doll to take care of than a brand new one to display. Jane’s life is turned upside down when she finds out that the father she thought was dead is actually alive and living on Prince Edward Island. Her world changes forever when he writes that he wants her to come stay with him for the summer.

Why do I love Jane so much? Probably because I’m more of a Jane than an Anne Shirley, whom I love, but whose bright popularity and inability to stop talking are a bit foreign to my own personality. Jane is my kindred spirit. She’s quiet, but undaunted by those who would poison her with their cynicism. Jane sees the joy in taking care of a home, in houses with lights glowing from the windows, in geraniums in her windowsill, and special quilts tucked up on all the beds. She loves her garden and vows to bake the perfect pie. Of course, in an old maid such as myself, these attributes seem, well, old maidenly, but in a young girl there is a sweetness and wonder in all her accomplishments on Lantern Hill.

“There was a tangle of sunbeams on the bare white floor. They could see the maple wood through the east window, the gulf and the pond and the dunes through the north, the harbor through the west. Winds of the salt seas were blowing in. Swallows were swooping through the evening air. Everything she looked at belonged to dad and her. She was mistress of this house . . . her right there was none to dispute.”

It’s pure L.M. Montgomery magic. Lest you think Jane is just a homebody, she does have her fair share of adventures. I won’t ruin those for you though because I’m certain you need to read this for yourself!

Find the book here: Amazon